Autumn passes quickly this year, the cold moving in sooner than usual, and there's a brief rush to ensure that sufficient stock is brought in before ruined by frost. Arthur's days are mostly filled with patrol, as harvest is when raiders and bandits are at their boldest. Aside from that, there is also the usual disputes to be settled in court, claims of being shorted on tithes and food shares, which always appear with greater frequency before winter. And of course, Father expects him to take count of the castle's stock as well. The weather might no longer be fair enough for regular riding parties or hunts, but he doesn't want for occupation.

It'd surprised, amused, and also rather touched him when he returned from court one day to find Merlin sitting at his desk, peering over the reports. Apparently, Sir Lionel quite firmly believed in educating his sons equally, including how to run an estate, and had even allowed them to manage Silverpine for a time. Arthur had shooed him away with halfhearted scolding about a castle being vastly different from a minor holding, but when he found a scrap of parchment tucked in his notes, covered in Merlin's rapid scrawl, well...he didn't throw it away.

He doesn't see a great deal of Merlin during the harvest festivals, Mabon or Samhain. Not to say that Merlin doesn't perform his duties admirably, because he does. It's almost disturbing. When he asked to be dismissed early, Arthur hadn't been able to find an excuse to keep him there, and a part of him knots up unpleasantly at the idea of Merlin going to pass the time with some girl or anyone else.

It isn't until winter's fully settled in and Yule is fast approaching that he remembers what Merlin had told him months before. Do you think I can observe the festivals of the Old Religion here? Vigil. Merlin has begged off his duties not to go get drunk with the rest of the servants or his friends, but to sit vigil.

Staring out the windows at the fresh layer of snow blanketing Camelot, he wonders how on earth anyone could stand to be outside for any extended amount of time.

He doesn't ask Merlin himself, obviously; when the young man asks permission to leave, Arthur grants it without protest. It's passing strange, to attend the Yule feast without his manservant's quiet remarks at his shoulder, making pointed jabs at the other nobles wintering in Camelot and the admittedly ludicrous pageantry of it all. Morgana does well to make up the lack, however. Since her return from the Druids, she's gained a new sort of gravity, an abiding surety of herself she hadn't possessed before. Arthur's glad of it, seeing her truly happy.

"Forgive me, Father, but I believe I've overindulged," he says, forcing a slur into his words. "Might I retire for the night?"

Father waves him off, half in his cups as well and laughing with it.

He makes a show of stumbling out of his chair and walking an uneven line from the hall, but once out of sight of the revelers, Arthur straightens up and makes for his chambers at a brisk pace. Drawing on his warmest attire, he draws on a heavy woolen cloak and leaves as quickly as he'd came, making his way out of the castle and into the upper city, making directly for the de Galis townhouse.

"Arthur." Leon actually rubs a hand over his eyes as if he's not entirely sure the prince stands before him. "What are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

"No, not at all. Is Merlin about?" Arthur sighs in relief at the warmth inside the townhouse, pushing his hood back off his head.

Leon snorts and leads him back into the kitchens, where it is warmest, and he points out the rear window. Barely visible through the frosted glass in the dark, a tall, lean figure appears to be clearing away the snow from beneath the small quickbeam tree in the far corner of the garden. "Just like every year. Stubborn little wretch. Care for some perry cider? By chance there's some left."

"Just a measure. How long has he done this?" Arthur wonders, jerking his chin towards the window.

A bit of rummaging turns up a bottle which still sloshes when moved. Leon hums thoughtfully, tilting his head as he pours a measure of still warm cider into a glass and hands it over. "Well, he didn't start until we came to Camelot for my squiring, and it was a few months after that, so since he was...two-and-ten?"

Arthur nearly drops his cup. Two-and-ten? He'd barely been a squire at that age.

Not noticing his prince's shocked expression, Leon goes on, exasperation and fondness layering his tone. "The warmer months weren't so bad, save for the damn insects, but in autumn and winter, he'd sit out there in the cold for hours, refuse to come inside. Father used to have to pick him up and carry him in so he didn't freeze to death. I think he's acclimated himself to it by now, though I still worry. Not that it does any good. Little villain is far too stubborn for his own good sometimes."

"Where did he even get the idea?" Arthur wonders, shaking his head. It doesn't occur to most young boys to sit vigil overnight in frigid weather, especially not during celebrations.

Leon shrugs. "Can't say. Perhaps in one of his books." He glances out the window. "If you wish to speak to him, sire, you'd best do it now. Once he settles in, he stays put."

"Right." Arthur gathers his cloak around him and heads out through the kitchen door into the garden. Lady Evaine's carefully tended herbs and vegetables are all reduced to brittle husks of themselves, coated over with frost. Snow crunches softly underfoot as he crosses between the sections of plants towards the lone quickbeam.

The small patch of grass beneath the tree is the only clear bit of ground in the garden as Merlin is busily sweeping aside the snow, his back to Arthur. "Leon, I've already told you, I'm not—"

"Yes, well, I'm not Leon," Arthur cuts him off with a smirk.

Merlin nearly slips on the frosted grass as he whirls around. "Arthur! What are you doing here?" His eyes narrow suspiciously, and he props his hands on his hips. "You said that I was dismissed for the night. If you've come up with some ridiculous chore, I swear..."

Arthur holds up both hands to show them empty and harmless, chuckling. "No, no, nothing like that," he reassures with a smile, quickly tucking his hands back into his cloak. Even with his gloves on, it's frigid cold. He tries to imagine sitting outside like this and shivers at the very thought. "You told me once that you sit vigil during the longest night. I came to see if you truly would do it in this weather. I see you are."

Setting aside the rake he'd been using to clear the snow, Merlin levels a flat, unimpressed look at him. "I don't care to be mocked, Arthur. Not in this," he warns in a low, solemn voice.

"I'm not," Arthur replies quickly. "I'm not, truly." He surveys the patch of dead, frosted grass before the tree's gnarled roots. "So, this is it, then? You sit out here...how long? The rest of the night?"

Still regarding him warily, Merlin nods. "Until the bells ring come dawn."

"Why?"

Another stretch of long silence, the two of them staring at each other, but finally, Merlin replies in a softer voice, "For those who are made to live in fear. For those who have already lost their lives. In Silverpine...it is different because I am free. And here, I am not. Not truly. Betimes, it is hard, and this...this is what I have." With that, he walks over and kneels down on the ground, sitting back on his heels.

Arthur exhales slowly, then eyes up the exposed patch of frozen ground beneath the quickbeam. Taking a deep breath, he steps over and kneels beside Merlin, shivering as the cold immediately leaches into his legs.

Merlin stares at him. "What are you doing?"

"Embroidery, Merlin. What does it look like I am doing?"

"You're not sitting out here with me."

"Mm, but I am."

"Arthur."

He arches his eyebrows at the younger man. "I understand that vigils are normally kept in silence, yes? I know it comes difficult to you, but I'm certain you can manage it." Sighing, he draws his cloak tighter around him, suppressing a shiver. He's very likely mad for doing this, but he isn't about to back out now. He's put himself on this path, and he'll see it through. "Merlin, just...tell me, what do you do? When you sit out here on your own, in the cold and the dark, what do you do?"

Merlin sighs as well, sounding exasperated, but he's given up arguing, at the least. "Meditate, I suppose. Reflect on my mistakes, try to understand. Pray." He shrugs one shoulder.

"Very well, then." Arthur draws up his hood, tucks his hands beneath his arms, and sits back on his heels decisively. He can feel Merlin staring holes into the side of his head, but he refuses to move. He means to do this, damn it. After a span of heartbeats, he hears the rustle of cloth as Merlin settles his weight beside him, his breathing turning slow and measured.

Faintly, Arthur can hear the sounds of revelry and merrymaking going on elsewhere in the upper city, perhaps even from the lower town as well. He knows the guard shift has changed when he hears rounds of bawdy, drunken laughter moving from the castle and down towards the lower town, no doubt making directly for the tavern or the Pavilion. Or both. Arthur wonders what Dara does on Yule, if he only serves certain patrons or opens the doors to all.

His knees are aching. He shifts his weight, trying to find a more comfortable patch of ground. He wonders how Merlin stands it, unmoving as he is, if his wounds ache in the cold. His own bitten shoulder feels stiff as anything, a dull ache spreading down his upper arm and into his chest. Now we match, Merlin had said when Arthur had seen the horrific burn on his chest, making light of it. He wonders if the scar hurts, if his ribs ache underneath it. If it does, the young man shows no sign of it. He seems to have gone so deep inside himself he hardly appears alive; only the rhythmic rise of vapor from his breath gives sign that he breathes at all.

Somewhere, in the distance, he hears the horologist crying the hour. It's later than he'd thought. He tips his head back to gaze at the night sky through the tree's naked branches, glittering diamonds scattered across a field of endless black velvet. He thinks about the empty spaces between the stars and grows dizzy, turning his gaze back down to the frosted garden before him.

Pray, Merlin had said. Arthur doesn't know the gods of the Old Religion, surely there are many, but he does know at least one, or technically, three: the Triple Goddess. The Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. They are who Merlin calls on, and he'd even heard Leon invoke them from time to time. There's never been much worship in his upbringing, though some could argue his adulation of his father might pass for a twisted form of it. He's not entirely sure how it goes, what it is he's supposed to do. But surely, if they are goddesses, they can forgive him his inadequacy. He feels that at the very least he ought to try.

I don't know if you can hear me, if you would listen to a Pendragon, and I suppose you'd be right not to. But I wish to confess to you anyways. I'm sorry. I have done wrong by you and your people. I've killed those who have done me no harm. I've profaned your sacred places. I'm sorry. I know that isn't good enough. I cannot undo what's been done, but I can learn from it. I'm trying to. I swear I am. I was wrong before, I see it now, and I'm trying, even though I am still sometimes afraid. Maiden, grant me mercy. Mother, give me strength. Crone, help me be wise. I will understand if you cannot forgive me, but at least have mercy on me. And I will try to be good.

The words come to him from nowhere, and yet they feel right, and though it might well be his own imagination, a sense of mystery passes over him like the brush of some vast, intangible wing, a presence that is as old as the sky above him and the earth below him. Arthur resolves to offer up his own suffering as penance, though it is hardly enough for all he has done. Hours of abject, frigid misery has done well to disperse any romantic illusions he might've had about his purpose for doing this; he had made his offer in pride and vanity. He couldn't hope to match Merlin's discipline, not in this. But he could suffer and endure. That much he could do.

The night wears on hour by hour, and he grows colder, so cold he begins trembling violently. Curling his arms tightly around himself, he hunches over and huddles in on himself as best he can. His bones ache down to the marrow. All his joints lock and stiffen but for his jaws, which he couldn't keep from chattering. Unwilling to move his hands from the scarce warmth they have tucked up under his arms, he uses his chin to work a fold of his cloak between his teeth to quiet the noise.

Eventually, the cold goes away.

There's a great clamour from all parts of the city when the first golden rays of dawn streak the eastern horizon, and from the tower, the bells give a single clear toll to welcome the first day of the new year. In the gardens of the de Galis townhouse, however, there's only Merlin's deep sigh of relief. He lifts his head, craning his neck first to one side, then the other, exhaling a bright plume of silvery vapor into the cold air.

All of this, Arthur sees without truly seeing. Still huddled over himself, he smiles drowsily at a clump of grass; the sparkle of frost is beautiful in the grey dawn light.

"Arthur? Arthur?" Merlin's voice is hoarse but lively. He leans over Arthur, touching his cheek with one rough, warm hand. "Oh, Maiden's mercy, what was I thinking?"

"I'm fine," Arthur insists, or tries to. His lips are numb with cold, and his mouth is full of wool. With an effort, he spits it out. "Let me sleep. I'm tired."

"You're freezing to death is what you are," Merlin replies. "Why didn't you say something, you clotpole? Come on, let's get you inside."

Firm hands slide beneath his arms, meaning to lift him, but Arthur wakes, struggling. "No. Let me. I can do it."

Merlin stares at him. After a moment, he withdraws his hands and rises to his feet.

It hurts to wake. Arthur uncurls his arms, braces his palms flat on the frozen ground, and levers himself upright. His spine crackles, and he gasps aloud. When he tries to get up, his legs don't obey his mind's order. Wordless, Merlin extends a hand to him; Arthur grasps it, and with a firm yank, Merlin pulls him up.

Every muscle protests any kind of movement, and as his sluggish blood begins moving again, it brings fresh pain like fire into his flesh. And yet, the Longest Night is over, and he's survived it. Arthur takes a deep breath, feeling it sear in his chest, and smiles as best his numb lips allow. "I did it."

Merlin gazes at him for a long moment, and Arthur's cold-sluggish mind can't make sense of the emotions playing across his blue eyes. "Yes, you did." A corner of his mouth twitches. "You did it, Arthur." He slides a firm arm around Arthur's waist and helps him stagger up into the townhouse on numb feet and nerveless legs.

Inside, kindly Clory stands waiting with thick blankets at the ready, still warm as if they've just been pressed with a hot iron. She bundles them both up and ushers them into the sitting room. In a chair by the hearth is Leon, in clean attire and looking surprisingly rested, and he helps them over to sit down on the thick rug in front of the hearth, pouring them both a measure of warm perry cider. Leon gives Arthur a long, inscrutable look, passing him the mug, but there's a trace of a smile to be seen on his face. The hand he rests on Arthur's shoulder is firm and warm, giving him a little shake before retiring to his chambers for a measure of sleep before the day began in earnest.

His hands are trembling so badly he has to hold the mug with both hands to keep from spilling it, and for a while, the agony of his thawing flesh is almost unbearable. He's only grateful that it's just the two of them and nobody else can see. He can't even imagine what Father would have to say about him sitting outside in the cold nearly the entire night. Eventually, though, the pain passes, and soon he's warm again, feeling loose-limbed and drowsy, the fire warming him from without and the perry cider from within.

Sitting beside him, Merlin straightens up, letting the blankets fall back off his shoulders. His ears and nose are red from heat; it makes him look endearingly young. Arthur blinks fuzzily, realising that it has been more than a full year and he has no idea when Merlin's natality is. "Thank you for staying," Merlin says at last. "Though I still think you're a fool for it."

He chuckles under his breath and looks down into his cider. His hands have finally stopped trembling. "Yes, well, you do it every year, which makes you more the fool than I, so..." Arthur leans over slightly and clinks his mug against Merlin's.

The young man snorts. "Fair enough."

Arthur's always been blessed with a hardy constitution, but this winter it fails him. The day after his vigil, his throat is sore and scratchy, and he thinks he's feverish. The day after, he knows he is, and his head feels as though its stuffed with cotton-wrapped stones. By the third day, Hunith takes one look at him and orders him to bed, for which he's actually glad of. His joints ache, and his throat is so inflamed that swallowing is agony. He sneezed once and could've wept for how much it hurt.

Merlin installs himself as Arthur's caretaker. Partially because he knows that Mother and Gaius are occupied enough treating the yearly crop of winter illnesses, and partially because he does feel the slightest bit guilty, though it's scarce his fault. He'd warned the damn fool not to sit vigil with him without having prepared for it. With the help of Sam, he moves some of his belongings from the townhouse into the antechamber of Arthur's quarters. It's easier that way, to be near to him. By all rights, he should have been living there anyways, but he'd never seen the point when he had a house.

It's not that the prince's condition ever truly worsens or betters over the next three days. Arthur's fever simply waxes and wanes, fluctuating almost from hour to hour. His cough abates quickest, but his throat becomes far more inflamed, to the point where he can manage only liquids. When it pains him too much to swallow even broth, Merlin brings him lumps of snow to hold in his mouth, letting it melt and trickle down his throat, a trick Mother had taught him.

He sits on the edge of the bed, dipping a cloth in cool water and laying it across Arthur's brow, and he gently cards his fingers back through sweaty golden hair, just scratching nails against his scalp. He's always liked it when Mother did that for him when he's ill. He stills his hand when Arthur stirs faintly, eyes half-lidded and glassy with fever.

After a few slow blinks, Arthur seems to become more lucid, eyes settling on him. "Aren't you afraid to take ill?"

"No. I'm made of sterner stock than you," Merlin teases, meaning to get a rise out of him.

"I know." Arthur nods, unwontedly solemn. "I know you are."

He sighs and smooths Arthur's hair back. "Sleep, sire. Rest." He waits until the prince's eyes close and his breathing deepens, then leans down to brush a feather-light kiss onto his temple. "Prat," he murmurs into soft hair, allowing himself to linger there for a moment before sitting back, surveying his sleeping profile.

Merlin hadn't expected Arthur to actually sit vigil with him. Not really. When Arthur had declared he would, underneath his initial disbelief and suspicion of being mocked, Merlin had felt warm down to his toes, something clenching up pleasantly in his chest, but he hadn't expected it to last. The prince had no issue with travelling roughly when needed, but why would he kneel in a frozen garden all night when there was a feast and wine and pretty maidens in a glorious, warm castle just up the hill? And yet, when he came out of that deep, calm place he went to during his vigils, Arthur had still been kneeling beside him, half-dead from cold and stubborn to the last. Despite his temporary panic and fear, he'd felt a surge of emotion so powerful it'd almost choked him, a great fluttering in his chest like birds taking flight from within his ribcage.

He's not entirely certain it's a good thing.

Arthur's fever finally breaks that night in a drenching sweat, and Merlin once against sits at his bedside, gently running a cool cloth over his limbs and murmuring soothing nonsense.

A thought flickers past, swift as a dragonfly on the wing, how easy it'd be for Merlin to lean over him and kiss him to waking like in one of the tales. He checks the thought sharply, biting it off just as he has all the other times such ideas tried to blossom in his mind, which is far more often than he would like. Even in the tales, the prince falls in love with the fair maiden, not the manservant. And the sorcerer is always the villain to be conquered, not the hero.

Arthur twitches in his sleep, whimpering restlessly. Merlin shushes him on reflex, reaching over to stroke his hair, brushing a thumb along his hairline.

"Why do you have to be so damn good?" he murmurs in quiet despair. "I could handle you being unfairly pretty, but you couldn't have just been a stupid, self-absorbed bastard? I might've stood a chance, then. But, no, you just have to be such a damnably good person." Lowering his hand, he traces a fingertip along the edge of the Questing Beast scar, just visible beneath the open collar of the prince's nightshirt, the skin smooth and waxy where the venom had eaten runnels into his flesh. He'd been willing to give his life. He still would now, if the choice was set before him. Merlin sits back and turns the slim cord on his other wrist, rolling the red crystal pendant between two fingers. He hadn't taken it off since that night. "You're a rotten cheat, Arthur Pendragon," he whispers.

Arthur only moans and turns over, burrowing further into the bedcovers.

Merlin sighs.