The head of curly hair barely pokes above the thick fur that covers his bed. The moon is setting and the window is cracked open, and the sounds of what Arthur thinks of as 'morning garrison' waft slowly inside, along with the smell of bread and animals and soldiers.
Ostentatious, really, his rooms, but they are what's expected of him. He doesn't care, doesn't think about what the other commanders think, but when he was given the rooms and the accoutrements that came with them when he was promoted he made the correct sounds, said the correct words, and then promptly didn't use most of what he was awarded with his position. Save the red cloak and the desk and the scrolls. More often than not he'd find himself sleeping in the chair at his desk, waking to a bent and painful back, his arm asleep, his hair in whorls from the leather that had caught at his skin and curls.
The bed was just something that was there, something that hadn't been in his army life at all until now. Something that was rich and fine and something he associated with Rome's great commanders and generals, of which he was now one.
The curls under the fur disappear as the bearer of them slips further down the bed. The bed that Arthur now associates with something way different than power or command or position.
He bites his lip and turns to the open window, the dawn breaking and 'morning garrison' getting louder and he crosses the room, his black tunic and broken in leathers soft and part of him -
like the bed is becoming, now that it's not just him in it.