The castle grounds spread out before Uther's eyes as he leans one elbow against the cool, rough stone of the window ledge. He rests his face in the palm of his callused hand, confident no one can see him, hidden in the shadows of his chambers. His eyes are slightly tired, rimmed with a soft circle of grey, as if he didn't sleep too well the night before. His free hand rests on the sword hilt, fingers mindlessly caressing the worn pommel so familiar after years and years of use.

To the far right, if he was looking, Uther could see the early sunlight glint off the lake in streaks of pale white, rippling on the gently weaving water. Straight ahead, if he was looking, Uther could see the small bustling bodies going about their business at the market, buying supplies, selling wares, talking, laughing, living daily life. But Uther's eyes see none of these things, because they are fixed on the moving body of his son, even from this high up he can see the sweat darkening his tunic. It is uncommonly warm for this early in spring, and it promises to be a hot summer. A vague notion comes to his mind, something about sending someone down to the reservoirs beneath the castle to check on their water supply, but he pushes the thought away.

His focus remains on the boy below, the boy who handles his sword like nothing he has witnessed before, the boy who will be King one day. The boy who has grown into a man and Uther doesn't quite know when that happened. His eyes follow the smooth motions of the sword, fighting invisible enemies, concentration etched in sharp lines on the boy's face. Just the thought of those movements makes Uther's shoulder twinge, but he ignores it. He sees the boy lower the sword and turn toward a bench where someone is cleaning his armor. A voice is raised and words drift up to Uther's window but he is too far to understand their meaning. The servant rises to his feet and walks toward the boy, water skin in hand. He must have said something before handing it over because the boy shoves him gently against the shoulder, causing the servant to stumble back a little. He laughs, throwing his head in his neck as Uther has seen him do many times before, but not recently in his presence.

The thought settles heavily in his stomach and he wonders what happened to cause this. What happened that he needs to watch unwatched, listen unheard, to see his son relax, smile and hear him laugh with a servant but not with his own father. Not for the first time does he wonder if he did right by him. But Arthur will be King one day, and he needs to be ready.

Arthur.

If only his mother was still here, she would know how to tell him-

Uther sighs, pushes himself away from the window and rolls his stiff shoulder. He is mildly surprised to see his bed has been made and breakfast awaits him on the table. He never heard the maid enter or leave.

Uther has to laugh, softly, at himself while shaking his head minutely, when his scribe pulls him out of his melancholy mood by insisting with Milord are you sure you are all right?, twice and then even suggesting someone fetch Gaius. He waves a lazy hand that is at once dismissal and signal for him to carry on drawing up the new tax increase decree.

And yet the thoughtfulness is still with him in the evening when a breeze blows in through the open windows and he sends someone to summon Morgana and Arthur to dine with him. They enter soon after Uther has ordered a boy to the kitchens to inform the cook of his plans. Morgana comes in with her maid, Gwen he believes her name is, and Arthur with his servant. His order for them to depart, leave us, is met by four raised eyebrows, but the two of them go in silence, leaving Uther, Morgana and Arthur alone. It isn't until after dinner, when Morgana and Arthur walk through the heavy wooden doors, that Uther realizes the sight of his son without that serving boy is a very rare one. It is as if the image is somehow off balance, as if seeing one without the other is not quite right and the thought leaves Uther with a heavy feeling pressing behind his breastbone that he can't quite place.

He rubs his temples, then his eyes, waves a hand with a decanter of wine away and wishes he could just mount his horse and ride out to the lake, the way he had done with Ygraine before Arthur was born, to watch the sun set and the moon rise and the stars blink their hello's. But he has papers to sign and documents to read and Gaius to visit for more potions against aches and pains that seem to increase with the growing distance between himself and his youth.

Spring gives them a little more respite to the heat in the form of a strange, irritable wind and Uther watches the days pass through a veil of tedious boredom until news of an old friend nearing, brings a little life to the castle. The impeding presence of the daughter gives Uther a tingle of foreboding but he is impressed with the quiet decorum and gracious gallantry Arthur displays when King Ulridien and princess Elvira pass through Camelot. His son proves his worries to be unfounded and he feels a pride that warms his heart. Arthur grows closer and closer to the man he will need to become. He reminds himself he should tell Arthur this, while he lifts his goblet to toast the peace between the Kingdoms, and then the thought is forgotten.

There is nothing unusual about his son returning from a hunting trip with his manservant. Or at least, there shouldn't be. Yet it seems the balance has shifted again. Uther frowns at the ridiculous thought, elbows on the battlements, wine swirling in the goblet dangling between his loose fingers. The wind has changed again, bringing a more oppressing heat with it, keeping its earlier promise of a hot and drawn out summer. The action of Arthur tossing his reigns at the servant is nothing peculiar, the tilt of his head as he watches him lead the two horses to the stable, is.

Uther asks himself if he has ever cared about someone outside of his own circle. He is King, he is ruler, he is the most important man in the land. Others are here to serve. Knights with their sword arm and their lives, council members with their minds, servants with their hands, feet and occasionally knees. Uther can't think of one who he would regard with the look on his son's face. Is it so wrong for Arthur to have someone behind him, someone he can rely on? Someone who has obviously risked his own life to protect the prince? Uther knows that is what one should expect from subjects, but that doesn't mean it always comes to pass. And yet. It seems odd for anyone to serve with such dedication, such selflessness. Loyalty is a given in a Knight swearing allegiance to the crown and Camelot. But a servant? What gain is there to be found for him? There is no honor, no glory in what he does, apart from payment for a job done. Everyone wants something in return. What does this boy want from his son? What does he expect in return for such devotion?

Uther decides to keep a closer eye on this boy, that seems to have wormed his way into the life of the future King of Camelot so easily.

Fire, Merlin thinks, oddly, is very much like water. It can be friendly on a cold, cold evening just like water can be the best thing on a hot day. But water can destroy, the way they all witnessed when the river left its banks and drowned the West side of Ealdor, and with it the old couple who lived nearest. In that same way, fire can be ruthless. It can tear the roofs off houses, it can curl the edges of armor, it can blister and boil. He watches the flames and wonders vaguely, if Arthur was here, would he let it happen?

Merlin doesn't look at Gaius, knows his face will be wet and drawn. He doesn't look at Gwen, because she will weep silently, for fear of being found out. He looks at Uther, whose eyes are fixed somewhere above Merlin's head. Would he look at Arthur, if he had been there and done nothing?

Part of him has always known, this is how it would end. Living in Camelot, doing magic under the King's very nose, it was only a matter of time. It is fate or some other cruel personification of destiny that the time of his revelation coincides with Arthur's week long border patrol. Merlin finds some comfort, in Uther's hurry. Because maybe-, maybe.

The fire is becoming hot, the smoke stinging his eyes. Merlin would laugh, if he didn't think it would choke him. So easy, it would be so easy to loosen the bonds around his wrists, to stretch out a palm and send Uther to the same oblivion he condemned so many innocents to. What stops him now? What worse fate than this can there be? His skin is beginning to itch, and he knows this is only the beginning. What, truly, does he owe this man, this tyrant who Camelot could miss like another angry dragon? He only sees one face, he only thinks one name and when the flames come too near to keep his eyes open, when the heat is a suffocating terror he can no longer ignore, Merlin hopes.

Gwen can't suppress a cry, when Merlin's head falls to his chest.

'Better this way,' Gaius tells her, a hand on her head as he pulls her into his shoulder. His voice rasps through a throat that sounds like it will never breathe freely again. 'No pain if he's unconscious.'