Chapter Text
They are in Arthur’s rooms, safely tucked away from the rest of the castle, when Merlin casually leans forward in the low burn of the fire and lights a candle with a flick of his hand – an action that would have damned him days ago and that still sends a strike of fear and apprehension through Arthur’s stomach. There is the fear and the magic, and the fear of the magic, and then there is the way Merlin’s jaw looks in the firelight.
Merlin bends over the candle, flame painting his skin, and Arthur cannot help but be struck by the firm lines of his face – how the muscles of his neck cord lazily into his jaw, which hinges below sharp cheekbones.
It is like, now that Arthur knows about the magic, the mask of Merlin the boy has slipped, and behind it Arthur can see the man. He just keeps noticing Merlin, in ways that have previously eluded him.
Arthur will be sitting in council, head held at just the right degree to show that he is listening and not nodding off, and his gaze will stray from the lecturing lord to Merlin standing at ill-attention behind him and think, I’ve seen his fingers shoot fire. He’ll be setting into a feast at the high table, with Merlin fumbling plates and table settings and threatening to spill the wine before him, and think, he can take out seven men with a single blow. Merlin will be preparing him for a bath and his gaze will slide to Arthur’s face and Arthur will think, his eyes glow golden when he casts, just like they do in the firelight in the very heart of winter when I have ordered him to stay with me into the night.
Arthur does not know what to do with it – this new Merlin – who seems suddenly sturdier, firmer, like something of him has slipped into place now that Arthur knows about the magic and now Arthur does not know how he never knew it was missing. There is a rhythm to Merlin’s movements that Arthur never noticed, a practiced way he has of holding himself as though he is preparing, always, to throw himself into the fight.
It had happened weeks ago, Merlin and Arthur, riding out to the forest for a light bit of hunting (at Arthur's insistence), and the bandits laying in wait for them. There had been the usual crash and crush, and then the moment where Arthur had not gotten his sword up in time – had just been rising on his horse, raising his sword from its last blow, and realizing that it was just about to be the end of it. That he would not get his blade up, and the bandit’s blade would come down, and he would be struck down in the forest, days and weeks and years before ever even becoming king.
Only he wasn’t. Only Merlin was there. There had been that terrifying moment of finality – where Arthur had braced himself for the close of this life and whatever it is that comes after, and then there had been a string of strange, twisting syllables, and a shooting rush of wind, and the bandit about to take Arthur down was simply no longer there.
Arthur had blinked, dumbstruck, still very much caught by the hand of his own death, and then there had been a yell, and more words, and more wind, and, to Arthur’s utter shock, one burning billow of flame, and then Arthur’s knightly training had kicked in and he had raised his sword to take down the next attacker.
He and Merlin had fought, side-by-side and back-to-back, until the last man went down. Then Arthur had turned to Merlin, there in the forest with the men lying around them, and he had made him explain.
There had been yelling and accusations and perhaps some begging (though Arthur did not know his own voice could sound like that) and finally it had come out. Magic. Merlin had magic. And he used it to protect Arthur – to guide him along the path to the throne and see him king. Arthur could not stand it. Could not understand it. Nearly did not believe it.
But then Merlin had done something complicated with a nearby tree, making the leaves catch and turn and eventually fall, and Arthur had to admit that it was true. Magic. Arthur did not trust it and he did not like it, but it was true. There had been more questions and more answers and then they had returned to the castle in uneasy silence, after Merlin had made Arthur swear that he wasn’t leading him back to a cell. Arthur had sworn, and then he had promised, and now he does not know what to do with it – this newly magical Merlin, who keeps lighting fires in his room.
The trouble, Arthur thinks, as Merlin turns a page of some thick book, absentmindedly conducting the candle to burn a little higher, is that, now that he knows how to look for it, it appears that Merlin is using magic all the time.
Arthur has seen him in the stables, charming apples to ripen for the horses. He has seen him in the armoury, clearly not sharpening anything but presenting Arthur’s sword with a razor's edge. He has even seen him in the training yard, in full view of the knights and nobles who come to watch them, pushing little eddies of wind into the dirt to raise patterns into the air.
He had been bored, he had told Arthur after training, when Arthur had demanded to know just what Merlin had thought he was doing. And then he had added that Arthur hadn’t been paying proper attention either, and Arthur, nursing the bruise on his arm and the scrape on his cheek, could not even argue with him.
He can’t argue now, either, as Merlin sets aside his book and announces that it is time for Arthur’s bath. Arthur is sore and tired and dirty from training, and they have had enough of a rest for him to get his breath back under him. Usually, Arthur himself would have prompted them to do it, striding into his room and beginning to shed his clothes before Merlin had even managed to fully shut the door, but he has been wary of this particular activity lately, for reasons he cannot quite look at, and now Merlin must prompt and poke and prod him into the bath.
Arthur goes. He hesitates and stalls, but he has just spent hours taking his men down in the dirt and being taken down by them in the dirt, and he is muddy and sore and very much wants Merlin to do that thing where he runs his fingers through Arthur’s hair to massage in the soap and Arthur pretends he hasn’t.
Arthur gets into the water slowly. It is mercifully hot on his tired skin and the initial burn is soon tempered into luxurious relief. He sinks back into the bath with an appreciative groan and does not acknowledge Merlin’s hum of approval that he has finally moved the evening along.
Arthur sits in the bath for a long time. He soaps his arms and his legs and the bits in between, and Merlin does his back and hair. With every drip of water and splash of soap, Arthur can feel himself coming undone, can feel the hours of training slough off of him with his sweat, leaving his skin pink and hot and steaming – born new.
Merlin does, in fact, run his hands through Arthur’s hair, working the soap up into a rich lather that must be rinsed out with pitcher after pitcher of water as Arthur leans back with his eyes closed and Merlin works his fingers through the tangled wet strands. With Merlin’s fingers in his hair, Arthur hardly feels like there is anything else in the world.
Arthur has been in the bath for nearly an hour when it happens. The water has grown from scalding to hot to warm and is just beginning to settle to cool when Merlin, acting as though he is doing nothing, trails a hand through the bath. The heat is immediate. A streaming current of it running from Merlin’s fingers. Now that Arthur almost knows to expect it, he has no idea how he has ever missed it. One moment the bath is warm but growing cool, the next Merlin’s magic is sliding out to swirl and eddy and rest along Arthur’s body, soaking in.
Arthur tenses. Merlin pauses. He still looks like he has done nothing wrong, as though Arthur is crazy for how he is now looking at him – shocked and wide-eyed and apprehensive.
“What?” says Merlin, and then has the gall to look questioningly while Arthur stares at him. “You throw a fit when the water goes cold and it’s such a long trek down to the kitchens. I’d call you a royal lady but I don’t think Morgana makes Gwen refresh her bath twice in one go.”
Arthur does not know what to do but continue to stare at Merlin. “It is not twice in one go!” he squawks, when he is finally able to say something. Merlin’s magic burns his skin. He is awash with it up to his chest. He can feel it shiver against every inch of him.
Merlin rolls his eyes, trails his fingers back through the water. “It is,” he says, “Sometimes three – four when you're pouting. And I make it smell like lavender.”
The last bit sends Arthur’s eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “That’s you?” he says, somehow even more shocked and appalled than at the simple realization that Merlin was using magic to refresh his bath.
Merlin nods his head. “You said you liked it once but it doesn’t grow in winter.” He shrugs. “Seemed easier than keeping a stash on hand, and you are such an infant when you don’t get your way.”
“I am not –” Arthur starts, but Merlin interrupts him with another jet of hot water. This one hits Arthur in the stomach, curling down against his skin and shocking the words right out of him.
“You are,” Merlin says, and, to his horror, Arthur realizes that he can make out the scent of lavender, wafting up from the bath water. Arthur does not know what to say to that, so he keeps quiet.
It takes him a long time to get out of the bath – so long that Merlin once more trails his fingers through the water, and Arthur avoids his eyes to keep from admitting his gratitude. Training had been long, and he had sat through council with his father the hour before it and here, in the bath, with Merlin’s magic soaking into his skin, Arthur is prepared to forget all of it.
When he rises, a while later, he keeps his back to Merlin as Merlin folds him into a towel, and strides off behind the changing screen before Merlin can notice or comment on anything.