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Camelot in winter smells of ice and the branches that snap beneath it, cold and clean. It cracks his lungs as Merlin watches from the parapet.
Arthur clumping muddy back from battle to his chambers smells of horse and horse shit, clotted blood, sweat left to simmer for hours in a metal drum shaped like a man. Grease, swallowed bile, and the boots, sweet lord of the forest, the boots, what's been squelching in there....
Rank, wet air in his face when he leans down to unbuckle Arthur's gorget and it's the first time Merlin can breathe properly all day.