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Frigid air ached in his lungs, burning all the way down as Merlin huddled deeper into his coat. It was a frost-cracked, star-struck night. The moon's crescent smirked, low and fat on the horizon, and every breath escaped him in a cloud of steam. A north wind sliced through Camelot, whipping around the street corners. It was as sharp as any blade, and he flinched from it as the braziers guttered and danced.
Anyone with an ounce of common sense would be safe indoors, stoking the fires high and curling up in a nice, warm bed. Gaius had, at least, sounded apologetic when he'd sent him out gathering frostwort: a delicate flower of potent properties that only bloomed on nights such as this.
He had filled Merlin's pockets with roasted chestnuts, now long gone, and promised to stoke the fire high for him. Still, that didn't change the fact that he was numb to the bone, and his poky little room in Gaius tower was a long way from the hearth. It would be warm only in comparison, and he grimly resolved to put on every piece of clothing he owned before he climbed under his blankets.
The cobbles of the courtyard had turned treacherous, each rounded stone capped with ice. He had to pick his way across, and more than once he almost slipped to smash himself on the unforgiving ground. Not that he would feel it, numb as he was. He could see the glow of candles from Arthur's chambers, and a flicker of a frown crossed his brow. He'd handed off his duties to George. Even Arthur couldn't argue that his comfort trumped the medical needs of the populace. Still, he would have expected him to be in bed by now.
His ears ached and his face felt stiff. Even his eyelashes were strangely brittle. He winced and swore his way up the castle steps, gasping gratefully as the stone edifice sheltered him from the clutching fingers of the wretched wind. The soldiers on guard were huddled in the cradle of the arch, and they both shot him sympathetic looks as he stamped his feet and chafed his palms together before giving up and sticking his fingers under his armpits.
'The prince requests your presence in his chambers.'
George at least managed to sound apologetic as he emerged from the shadows, his hand held out to take the bag of herbs from Merlin's possession. 'I'll see that these get to Gaius.'
'Thanks,' Merlin managed, wincing as the word slurred through his lifeless lips. 'Any idea what he wants?'
'I'm afraid not. He has been tended for the night but he seemed – out of sorts.'
Merlin managed a grunt. He didn't much relish the idea of Arthur in a mood. His body wasn't the only thing frozen stiff. His mind felt like an icy river, glassy and motionless. The few thoughts he did have moved achingly slow in his thick skull. More than anything, he wanted to climb into a nest of blankets and stay there until spring. Instead, he bullied himself up the sweeping staircase towards the royal chambers, grumbling as he went.
The castle may be out of the wind, but the masonry was tomb-cold. The torches, candles and braziers were small pools of fleeting warmth in the long corridors. Merlin flitted from one to the next, lingering as long as he dared in their brief respite. It meant by the time he arrived at Arthur's chamber door, he had only been shown a brief flavour of what it was to be warm: enough to set the shivers marching through his so fiercely that every breath stuttered.
His fingers felt sausage-thick around the latch as he shouldered his way inside, shutting the door in his wake and trying not to whine in relief as warm air folded around him like a cocoon. The fire had been stoked high and tended for what must have been hours. Arthur's chambers were not as grand as the King's, but nor were they modest. In the winter they sprouted extra rugs on the flagstones and additional blankets on the bed: all the comforts a prince would require. Merlin was almost sick with envy.
'Took you long enough.' Arthur complained, rising from where he was sat in his fur-draped chair. He wore a long sleep tunic and a pair of plain breeches. His feet were unshod, with only thick socks to protect his toes as he strode towards Merlin. Firm hands grabbed his shoulders, bullying him and shoving him every closer to the hearth before practically man-handling him down onto the rug in front of the roaring blaze.
'I had to get –'
'Frostwort. I know. George was very thorough in informing as to me why you were not attending your duties.'
There was a heavy dose of reproach in Arthur's words, but his heart didn't seem to be in it. If he meant to chastise Merlin for leaving George to deliver the bad news, then he missed his mark. It was enough to make Merlin consider him from beneath his thawing lashes, reading all the little signs he suspected Arthur didn't want him to see.
A couple of years as his man-servant meant that Merlin had swiftly learned to look beneath Arthur's words. His lips often said one thing while his expression said another. His actions often embellished the truth, rather than contradicted it. Now, he saw how that brow was furrowed with more concern than genuine annoyance, and how Arthur was looking him over like he was a horse at market, more than a little bit critical of what he was seeing.
'What?' he managed defensively, stretching out his hands towards the flames as a fresh shiver rumbled through him from head to foot.
'Did you go out in that?' He gestured to Merlin in general, indicating his outfit.
'Yeah,' he replied, dragging out the word. 'They're my clothes?'
Arthur made an angry noise in the back of his throat: a brief pulse of sound before he turned to the table, pouring himself some wine. A moment later, he hunkered down at Merlin's side, gripping his wrist and pressing something into his palm. Merlin blinked stupidly at the metal cup and the rich, red drink steaming softly within its confines.
'Drink it,' Arthur ordered, like a prat. 'It'll warm you up. If I send you off to Gaius' now, you'll wake up with a cold and be no use to anyone.'
Merlin hid his grin behind the rim as he lifted it to his lips, obligingly taking a sip and closing his eyes as the hot drink warmed him from his belly outwards. It was a blessing. He felt like he was slowly coming back to life, and he savoured the rich flavour of spiced wine.
It was not the first time that they had shared a drink in front of the fire. It had happened more and more, these past few months, as Arthur sought to work through the latest challenges of the court. Merlin didn't flatter himself in believing he wished for his advice, though he offered it anyway. Sometimes Arthur even listened.
This was different, though. Arthur didn't seem to be lost in the latest diplomatic entanglement or plotting how to get the best out of a new batch of knights. Instead, he was watching Merlin as he sipped from his own cup, his expression calm but for the hint of worry that clouded his gaze. More than once, he parted his lips as if to say something, but each time he swallowed his words back.
'Thanks,' Merlin managed when the cup was almost empty. His voice sounded rough to his own ears. Now that he was warming up, he felt heavy and lethargic. He loathed the idea of stepping outside of the haven of Arthur's rooms and into the frigid hallways with all his heart. 'I needed that. It was colder out there than I thought.'
'Did you actually think before you went wandering off into the woods in the middle of one of the coldest nights of the year?' Arthur looked at him sharply, his eyebrows raised. 'You didn't even take a cloak. It's not like there aren't plenty going spare.'
'It would have been more trouble than its worth in the woods. They get tangled on things!'
'Gloves, then!' Arthur gestured to his fingers, which had turned bright pink as the heat came back to them. 'You must have some!'
'Not... really?' Merlin pulled a face. Gloves were something that every member of the court had, fine things of leather and nubuck, elegant and lined with fleece. Gaius had a knitted pair with no fingers to help ease the ache the cold brought to his knuckles without limiting his dexterity. They were old and tatty, falling to pieces, and his need was far greater than Merlin's. 'It's all right, Arthur. I'm fine. I'm all warmed up now. See?'
Arthur managed to convey with a mere look how much he disbelieved Merlin's claim. 'You're still shivering.'
Merlin pursed his lips, not quite able to stifle the way his body had stirred itself into a fine, all-over tremble. It was as if it had been reminded of heat and was now lodging its protests that it had been made to suffer.
'Stay there.' Arthur commanded, setting his empty cup aside and getting to his feet. 'You can go when your nose has returned to a normal colour. It's practically glowing.'
He moved with the same steady grace as always as he padded across the room, leaning over his desk and reaching for his quill. Gods alone knew what kind of paperwork he had to be doing at this time of night, but Merlin didn't argue. Instead, he drew his knees up to his chest, draping his forearms over their peaks and propping his chin atop them.
He watched Arthur through drooping lashes, admiring the way the firelight played across his skin and struck sunlight through his hair. The sleep tunic he wore was hardly the sturdiest garment. It clung to his shoulders and hung open at the laces, revealing strong collar bones and the golden hair that gleamed, downy, upon Arthur's chest. It was nothing Merlin hadn't seen before when he helped Arthur with his bath, and yet there was something almost coy about the sight: artless and appealing.
Merlin huffed, shoving those thoughts down as he had numerous times in the past. Arthur may be a prat, but there was no denying that he was easy on the eyes: a classic golden prince – Camelot's pride and joy.
It was all most people ever saw: a valiant knight who would one day be their king, with all the arrogance that went with such expectation. They never witnessed Arthur's uncertainty or regret, nor his well-hidden compassion. Arthur had been trained all his life to see caring as a weakness, yet it had not made him hard or cold. Instead, he showed his care in stealthy, subtle ways, like plying a freezing manservant with warmed wine.
The thought made Merlin smile, warmed more by Arthur's action than the alcohol slipping softly through his veins. He barely noticed his eyes drifting shut, nor the deepening lethargy sweeping over him. At some, dim point, he thought he sensed a hand on his shoulder, something urging him to lie down on the thick rug before the hearth. Someone murmured something, but he hadn't the strength to do more than grumble in response. A weight settled over him, and the smell of clean wool filled his nose.
There was a moment of breathless hesitation before a warm hand rested in his hair, ruffling it with exceptional care. The bit of Merlin that clung onto the waking world by its fingertips knew that it was Arthur. If he so much as twitched, Arthur would flee like a deer bolting from a hunter. Instead, he kept his breathing slow and steady, hovering on the cusp of blissful oblivion as a whisper reached his ears, so achingly tender that he could almost believe it was nothing but a hopeful, desperate dream.
'Goodnight, Merlin.'
A week later, there was a large bundle for Merlin sitting on the workbench in the healing rooms. A fine, long coat made of dark-dyed wool, and a pair of hide gloves lined with rabbit fur.
He wasn't sure what warmed him more: the garments designed to keep winter's worst bite at bay, or the subtle, crooked smile that tilted Arthur's lips the first time he saw Merlin wearing them.