Arthur Pendragon could sense magic.
Always had been able to, as far back as he could remember. It was probably due to the circumstances of his birth, being magic and all, but there was little use worrying about it. He wasn't dead yet, despite what Merlin thought.
Of course, he hadn't known he was sensing magic as a child, only that his nursemaid - a kind, plump woman named Breha - made him think of gooseberries and dewy morning glades she would sometimes take him to. It wasn't until his father had her burned at the stake that reality sunk it.
And for a traumatised, four year-old little boy, that meant not telling his father so he didn't end up like Breha with her sweet-berries-and-dew. So he grew up and grew up quick, becoming the perfect little golden prince so Uther would never have him killed for his not-magic.
Arthur didn't talk about it to Gaius even. For all the physician was warm candlelight in a dark night and the soft brush of linen, he would just drug Arthur and say nothing was wrong. Like he did with Morgana, his not-quite-sister and father's ward.
She was all lightning in a snowstorm and herbs long forgotten that made his nose itch. He saw her scared, lost look after a nightmare and wished there was something he could do. But what could he? Arthur was only eight when the dreams started getting bad.
Vince the stablehand that was like sun-heated hay and a horse's soft muzzle was executed when he was nine. Marie, maid, with her evening breeze and sweet cream when he was ten. Henry, worn leather and charcoal. Ben, dust and old pages. Clara, soap bubbles and lavender. Ryan, bitter twang of iron and green apples. Yvon, all sage and sunsets…
The list went on and on, not all of them pleasant-feeling.
Like the dark man that tried to kill him at age seven with his howl of a wounded predator and icy gales. Or the lady who'd tried to seduce him when he was a boy on the cusp of manhood. She was sharp claws and acid in the back of the throat.
His father's troll wife, oddly enough, was like roasting meat and fresh bread where he'd expected overripe fruit and clammy tunnels.
Mordred was a tangy, excotic spice and crackling fire that sharpened into a bitter, noxious thing of hemlock and infernos. Lancelot was damp earth and leaves floating too long in a river when he came back. Morgana… Arthur didn't even know how to describe her changed flavor outside of bad and wrong.
And it wasn't just people.
The Great Dragon was grinding stones and embers in the night sky, Anhora and his unicorns were frosted flowers and the clean not-smell of baby animals. The bridgekeeper was deep roots and a fox's yip, his king the crash of ocean waves and the cry of an eagle. The few Sidhe Arthur crossed were all sparkling jewels and deep shadows.
All of them had something about them that screamed "Not Human!" that he felt like a heavy cape around his shoulders. But no one gave him that feeling more than his supposedly worthless manservant. Merlin.
He was a warm-water spring bubbling about and faerie laughter. He was the forest after rain and a campfire after a long day of traveling. Basil and yarrow that made him sneeze and snugly wrapped bandages. Roars of victory and pain and thunder and flash floods and molten metal molded into a vague sword shape, never cooling. Crystals and wind in the long grass and creaking trees and a bountiful fall harvest. And so, so much gold.
Merlin's presence settled around him like no one else's did. It was a hug. It was a shield. It was a cape and crown and an army ready to fulfill his every whim.
But mostly?
It was like a child's giggling laughter, still innocent, still bright despite it all. A perfect reminder of what Arthur wanted to accomplish.