Author's note: Thank you everyone who have read and reviewed! I apologize for the misuse of capitalized letters ...


2.

How to Handle Being Forced to do Servantly Duties

A number of colourful fruits are lying before him, needing to be chopped. By him.

And that is certainly not a duty that he, the Great Uther Pendragon, the Man Who Conquered Camelot, will lower himself to do. Ever. Which he informs the head cook (quite loudly) much to her displeasure.

"My," the hefty woman sighs and shakes her head at him. "You complain just as much as Merlin when he first became servant – even more I must say! Not to speak ill of him, of course," she adds quickly, slightly abashed. "He's such a sweet and kind boy. I'm glad King Arthur finally came to his senses and married him."

All of a sudden Uther's throat goes dry like parched paper and the fruits are completely forgotten. Because. The cook just said...

"… M-m-married?"

And no, that is not an awkwardly high-pitched or wavering voice.

The woman stares at him oddly. "You don't remember, George? Oh, you truly hit your head didn't you! King Arthur and Lord Merlin married four years ago! How could you forget? Maybe you really should have Gaius take a look at your head."

Uther is shocked, horrified, appalled and rather apprehensive on the whole. Which is entirely natural when hearing that your son has married without telling you beforehand and that people wants your head to be examined constantly by a man with a dangerous eyebrow. "No, no," he gasps. "Not Gaius."

And then, suddenly, he realizes who exactly the kitchen staff is talking about.

Oh god, no, not that idiot servant with a pea of a brain and the giant ears, that one that kept nearly killing himself all the time because of the tripping over everything and drinking poisoned goblets! No, no, this just can't be happening! My son can't have married that fool! No, this is utter craziness

"The wedding was splendid!" squeals one of the maidservants, cutting through Uther's thoughts sharply. "Ooh, it was so, so pretty, I was like, oh my gosh, I've never seen anything like it! Remember the fireworks and the doves…"

"And then the baby!" agrees another. "You remember when the news came?"

"Yes! That was just, just, awww so cute …!" The rest of the sentence fades into unreal words similar to sounds like ashfghhk and the girl's facial expression matches it perfectly.

Feeling a bit scared (not that he would ever admit to feeling fear), Uther inches toward the door armed with a very sharp kitchen knife. Perhaps he should cut his way out of the kitchens and flee the castle and the city and then throw himself on the knife to finish it all off.

There are wide happy smiles and murmurs of agreement from everybody in the room, except Uther, who's torn: should he be angry at the laundress' outspokenness talking of the royal family like that? Or maybe he should be shocked at how Arthur's affair with a (former) servant-boy is a well-known secret in Camelot, and that nobody is surprised at the King marrying the boy? Should he complain about so little work being done and there being too much talking nonsense?

And what baby are they talking about?

Maybe he shouldn't be shocked or surprised at all. After all, he himself had had inklings about what was going on when he was (fully and logically) alive that Arthur was oddly close to his servant. Close in manners that simply weren't appropriate, especially between master and servants but there'd been just something about that boy, something Uther couldn't quite put his finger on... And his presence certainly helped to keep Arthur's temper in check and the Prince alive, yes - the boy had always been extremely loyal even if the servant was insolent, had no sense of proper conduct and ended up in the stocks more times than any royal servant in history before him …

Albeit Uther had never dreamed it would come to this.

Maybe he should just throw himself out of the nearest window and be done with it – what does it dignity matter in a situation such as this?

Oh, wait, it does matter. He's Uther Pendragon, former King of Camelot, and he is not the kind of man who ever would cast away all self-esteem and pride and fling himself through a window, even in a moment of uttermost despair. Nay, that will not do. He shall have to deal with this situation in a becoming manner. Like a King would. No throwing himself out of windows or running around screaming like a madman - he doesn't want people to gossip about him calling him crazy!

Furthermore, since he's logically dead, he might not be able to die again, even if at the moment he's very much alive though he's simultaneously certain that, yes, he is dead.

I was sure being dead meant resting in peace, Uther reflects sourly. Being sent back to Camelot kinds of ruins it.

The cook continues to speak excitedly: "They're such a sweet couple, they match each other perfectly."

"Evidently," one of the male servants says with a secretive grin and leans in, and Uther barely manages to contain an annoyed growl. How can the servants gossip this much and still be effective? If they didn't gossip at all, then they could get twice as much done! How come he hadn't noticed this before?!

"How so?" one of the maids asks curiously.

"Well, I've heard that there's another one on the way …" The man's eyes twinkle.

"Already?" the cook exclaims. "My, they certainly aren't wasting any time. The Princess is barely five months old!"

For a moment there, Uther forgets to breathe and his skin adopts a very pale hue.

The Princess?

What Princess?

Has his son, already … But, if he's married to the servant-boy …! And what about that baby?!

The servants speak no ill of their King or his consort, no words of infidelity. In fact one of them is giggling behind her hand right now in a manner which Uther would never do himself nor allow anyone to do (it's completely unbecoming) if he could, and whispering with her friend about how cute the royal couple is and how lucky they are and how their child is so sweet.

Their child, not the King's and some unknown woman's - but theirs. THEIRS.

Then, if the child is of his son's blood and yet, the servants speak of the very male royal consort as being the bearer of it, that can only mean one thing: magic.

Magic has somehow given his son a child without any sacrifices or grief involved, and Uther doesn't know whether to become overcome with joy, or anger and pure jealousy. Shock starts catching up with him, and faintly he hears the laundress ask if he's all right.

He's about to snap at her, telling her to go back to work, when, finally, the former King of Camelot comes to a startling conclusion:

Oh my god - I have a grandchild, and I might soon have more!

And so Uther Pendragon, son of Constantine Pendragon, former King of Camelot, promptly passes out. It's all very justified given the circumstances.

"Oh, George," the cook sighs when Uther no longer can hear. "Not this again. Gaius will not be pleased."


He wakes up in some very familiar chambers.

Very, eerily, familiar chambers.

Honestly, they never change. They look like they did thirty years ago when he'd broken his leg after an unfortunate fall off his horse. (That one hadn't his fault, naturally. The stable boy was an idiot, and then that mare had distracted his steed – it had nothing to do with his skills as a rider at time, and that a young Igraine had been present in the courtyard at the time had been nothing but coincidence).

Back then a very much younger Gaius had, under the supervision of his master who was court physician of Camelot at the time, patched up the Prince-not-yet-King. Over the years, many things had changed: Gaius had certainly aged but also grown very wise and a trusted ally and Uther had always valued him dearly. But. There are some things he still hasn't gotten used to and never will.

One trait has always been there and even Uther Pendragon, with the most shielded of hearts, may sometimes (read: almost always) find the infamous Eyebrow Glare somewhat intimidating.

To be trapped by it now gives him a strange feeling of déjà vu.

"This is the third time this week," Gaius states and Uther frowns – he can't recall that, but then again, by the start of this week he was dead; certainly dead and not this state of not-quite-dead.

"First the fall down the stairs, then the incident in the armoury and now this. Was it the heat in the kitchens?"

How very typical that he's been trapped in the body of such a stupid, clumsy servant that does not match his intellect at all!

"No," Uther says, scowl deepening when his voice sounds far too bright; not at all as powerful and authoritative it should. He gives it another try, bringing more force into the words. Unfortunately, the pitch continues to be at fault. "Of course not!"

A King does not pass out because of some stupid heat.

Unfortunately, the words don't have the desired effect. Gaius just looks at him oddly before walking over to the working bench, which is littered with potions and parchments. "Physically there's nothing majorly wrong with you. You hit your arm when you fell but the bruising will fade. You're lucky you didn't break something or even had a concussion. But, George, no more incidents this week, please. I'm busy enough as it is."

Uther finds himself tongue-tied. He can't give orders. He can't tell people off. He can't have them sent to the stocks when they act like idiots. He can't have them sent to the dungeons when they bother him. He can't …

There's so much he can't do anymore! What can he do?

For now he settles with crossing his arms and glaring at the physician with all might he can muster. Again, not with the desired effect.

"I must see to Merlin now," Gaius continues, naturally referring to his ward only by name; Uther isn't surprised, even if he frowns since it's not proper even if the physician is the boy's guardian. "I suspect … and so soon. Well. I'm sure the castle is already full of rumours, it's better to confirm them before they run wild."

The words hang in the air and Uther's face flushes knowing exactly what his old friend is implying. He feels slightly lightheaded.

If I pass out again I'm going to strangle someone with my bare hands!


Being a servant is positively the toughest task Uther has ever faced – more bothersome than conquering two (or was it three?) of the Eleven Kingdoms to create Camelot.

Who knew the corridors could feel so long, the piles of dirty clothing so endless, and the muddy floors so many and enormous?

Not that he does much of the scrubbing or the carrying or – well, anything really.

Mostly he busies himself with standing around and watching work progress. Even if it means people tend to glare at him angrily – that's easy to ignore, or he can always glare back and bark at them to keep working as they should. (Though they have trouble listening to him and doing what they're told.)

Hesitant as he is to admit it, having enchanted brooms to keep the corridors dust-free is a quite good idea, even if he'd yelled a bit when first stumbling onto one, nearly falling flat on his face - the stupid broom had just kept sweeping! They are certainly much more effective than the human part of staff.

Even if they're magic.

Oh god, his beloved castle halls are filled with magic brooms.

Also, there's the chatter which the servants perpetually emit. Oh, by the gods, Uther swears he might soon go mad with this endless prattling and talking and gossiping, left, right and centre - all around and all the time; mostly about nonsense, like if Sir Lamorack is most likely to win that tournament in five weeks (lest Arthur does it, of course) and what is the best cut of a wedding dress, while the rest is about things that the staff shouldn't even have heard. Like what positions does the King prefer when -

No. He'll stop it right there.

He can't concentrate with all this noise going on. It's been only an hour or so but already he's getting a steady headache and he tells the servants as much, ordering one of them to go down to Gaius and fetch him some remedy for it.

"Do it yourself," the young man huffs, affronted, and Uther glares at him.

"You will not address me in such a manner! Have you any idea who I really am?!"

The servant looks at him oddly. Uther definitely won't have it.

"I am Uth-"

Again he's interrupted in the most untimely manner before he can explain that he is no servant, truly, he is the not-quite-dead King Uther Pendragon and he will not take orders from a mere boy who doesn't know his place and certainly not fetch his own medicine like a commoner!

"Oh, hello George!" a vaguely familiar, tanned woman says with a smile. She's slightly oddly dressed: not like the servants, the fabric is far too fine. Yet she couldn't possibly be a noble Lady - he'd have recognized her if that were case, surely! Though there's something about her ..

"There you are, I've looked everywhere for you! We need your help." She bites her lip worriedly. "Richard's still terribly ill, so you need to take his place. He was meant to follow King Arthur and Merlin on their picnic, since Gilli would like the assistance, he's still new and it won't be that much work actually, just be around, you know."

Uther stares at her stupidly. No, not stupidly. Of course not. He simply stares at her waiting for an explanation like any man in his position would.

"…Who?"

"You don't …? Of course you don't remember," the woman shakes her head at him. "He's the King's manservant. King Arthur's, I mean. Please say yes?"

The former King groans. This can't be happening ...


It is happening.

Just how the woman managed to persuade him remains somewhat of a mystery. But while he somewhat regrets his decision, the truly wants to see more of his son – his beloved grown-up son. Even if it means having to pretend being a servant and do a servant's duties such as taking care of the horses.

The picnic makes Uther feel decidedly awkward. Terribly, terribly awkward. It's even worse than the goblin incident when he was forced to stay hidden in his chambers for a week because of the lack of hair – indeed, now he'd very much prefer to go back to Camelot (without a single hair on his head, if need be) and forget about all this craziness or better yet, die in a certain (as in no-coming-back-alive) way and no longer be a (clumsy stupid) servant that even the knights seem to pity. Honestly, the knights! They should not act patronizing to the King as if he were an unfortunate child! No, no, Uther does not like it.

There are a number of other things as well that are slightly bothering him.

First off all, his son (who's grown up so much all of a sudden – his little boy is no longer a boy!) has no qualms whatsoever about showing affections toward that servant boy – no, he's not a servant any longer, nor a boy. He's not even classed as a commoner anymore! (What's the world come to?) He's a young man with magic. MAGIC. Yes, capitalized. Because it needs to be.

For the former King might have a slight panic attack and a strong urge to shout "GUARDS!" when the very magical young man first appeared in the courtyard, walking by Arthur's side. The very magical young man returns those affections openly, kissing and speaking sweet words and sending those long meaningful gazes that make Uther uncomfortable to witness. The pair banters and talks casually about magic and other such things like dragons, unicorns and alliances with druids (!), as well as courtly and private affairs.

Uther might feel a bit skittish. Just a little. Not that he'd admit it, of course. A King isn't skittish, no matter the situation. Even if the former servant has magic and there's probably magic in Camelot's daily court business now and there's also a small but prominent bulge on the man's stomach.

Arthur speaks sweetly with the magical young man - Royal Consort, according to the castle staff who had all stared at Uther oddly when he'd subtly or, well, not so subtly, asked what position "Gaius' troublesome, foolhardy ward" now had - and the magical young –

No. Merlin. It's probably best to refer to him by his name or else Uther's head might burst with this insanity.

The magical – Merlin kisses Arthur's cheek as the young King helps him off the horse, while Uther holds the reins. His knuckles are steadily turning sharply white. Nobody pays him any especial heed to notice.

"The glade is just up ahead. It's perfect," Arthur announces proudly. Taking the basket in one hand (why is no servant rushing out to help him? Uther mentally rages. How come are all servants so inefficient when they're needed?!), the young King takes his son, a blonde three-years-old, by the other, and Merlin follows, picking up a little dark-haired girl and resting her on his hip, smiling broadly.

The three knights – all of which are unknown to Uther – are on their heels, and though they are armed their poses indicate they are relaxed and, somehow, almost a part of this family, not set aside from it.

Uther can't stop staring. Because, oh god, oh god it's real now, those are his grandchildren, his flesh and blood; his son is a father now and he's married to a magical man.

"But, Arthur, it's so close to the ledge of that cliff. It's not safe for the little ones," Merlin says, wrinkling his nose in displeasure as they walk deeper into the clearing which ends on a cliff facing Camelot. The view from there is utterly magnificent. Uther would've noticed that as well if he wasn't so distracted by trying to keep calm and not run around screaming like a loon at the strange world unfolding around him.

"All right, we'll settle here then. Don't worry, love. The knights will help us keep an eye on them."

"Of course we will," intones one of them, the dark-haired one with the in Uther's opinion ridiculous beard, smiling kindly but without any sort of propriety and Uther wonders wherever from this knight is, possessing such manners. "Don't worry, they'll be perfectly safe, trust me."

Apart from the royal couple and the knights, there's also a young man in druidic-looking robes, with auburn hair dusting his forehead and ridiculous ears and a kind of far-away gaze. He's … vaguely familiar.

Wait. That's the boy who fought against him in the Open Tournament!

He's got a real magic look about him, Uther fumes, and then he realizes; Oh crap, I met a sorcerer all those years ago and didn't have them beheaded! Damn it, this truly must be sorcery!

The man steps up to them and offers, "I can put up some protective wards, so they don't wander off."

This seems to soothe Merlin immensely. "Oh! Thank you, Gilli," he says, a hand absently resting on his stomach. "I totally forgot about that! What would I do without you?"

Arthur chuckles. "Every lifesaver needs a lifesaver of their own it would seem. Oh, look what a treat the cook made!"

He presents a sugary blueberry tart that makes even Uther's mouth water by just looking at it from afar.

"My favourite!" exclaims Merlin eagerly.

Meanwhile Gilli, smiling gently, walks toward the cliff edge and as the sorcererdoes his spellwork accompanied by intricate hand movements and a glowing ring on his finger Uther stares at him aghast, blood cold like ice at the sight.

And Arthur isn't even reacting at the magic being used to close to them. There isn't a raised eyebrow and he doesn't look over his shoulder or anything. He just. Sits there all calm and is currently leaning in to kiss Merlin again and there's a sorcerer doing magic just like that.

JUST LIKE THAT.

What's happened to the glorious Camelot that I've built? Uther mentally whines. The Purge seems have been entirely for nothing!

They decide to settle in the cooling shadow between two large trees, in a spot where you can still turn and see the white city through the foliage. The sun is sharp and the few clouds above are white and crisp, so the shadow gives a welcome cover from the heat; it is a very fine day. The clearing itself is quite beautiful, with bluebells growing in the fresh green grass, and the wind sings softly in the trees; but Uther takes no note of this. He's too preoccupied with staring at the scene before him. Silently, unnervingly staring.

Arthur spreads a red blanket on the ground and discards his long, fine cloak. (Oh, that poor cloak! Cloaks are made to be worn so you look majestic and powerful in them! Have I taught the boy nothing?!) Underneath, his clothes are simple – not those of a king.

Were his bearing not so powerful, one could have mistaken him for a commoner; something Uther would've ensured would never happen to him or his son. Royalty are made to be recognized!

The King makes a bit of a fuss bringing out pillows for his (magical) husband to sit on, in a truly gentlemanly manner of course, ignoring Merlin rolling his eyes in an exasperated manner even if the warlock eventually takes seat, the little Princess settling contently in his lap. Food is being taken out next: also simple things, fruits and sweet honeyed bread and watered wine, nothing extravagant.

"Now, do not run off, James," Arthur reminds the little Prince firmly. "When you play you must be careful, understand?"

At least he knows something about naming – Uther lets out a sigh of relief. He's not sure what he'd done if his grandchild had been named something like Melvin or Harry. (What he doesn't know is that the name was Merlin's idea because the warlock absolutely refused to call his son Gwaine Jr., Leon II or Little Lance, and never Uther II: the whole magical community of Albion would shudder with horror at the mere thought. But maybe it's best that the former King of Camelot doesn't know about that, for now.)

The boy nods eagerly. "Yes, father. Can I play with Uncle Lance and Uncle Percy now?"

"What about me?" cuts in the third knight with a pout on his face. Yes, a pout, which is completely undignified for a knight and –

Wait. 'Uncles'?

"Oh, why am I even surprised?" Uther mutters darkly to himself and the horses next to him. The horses don't reply (thankfully). He still has some trouble with fastening the reins to the posts that have been set up for this purpose; it's been many years since he's been forced to do this himself, after all, that's a servant's work. It's completely justified.

"I want to play with you too but you never like playing hide and seek because you never win," Prince James explains rapidly, as very excited children have a tendency to do. His speech isn't that clear yet; his r:s sounds more like l:s. It's really kind of adorable, except Uther does not acknowledge adorableness even when it comes to his grandchildren - and oh my god, THAT'S HIS LITTLE GRANDCHILD!

Maybe reality hasn't sunk in completely yet.

"So I thought you don't like playing hide and seek with me."

"Of course I want to play hide and seek!" the knight exclaims, then glances hesitantly at the boy's parents who are watching the exchange in amusement. "If you'd allow all three of us, sires?"

"Certainly, Gwaine, just don't stray too far," Arthur assures. "Stay within hearing range."

"And don't do anything I wouldn't do!" adds Merlin firmly, giving the knight a warning look.

The knight, in turn, looks completely innocent like a kicked puppy. "Have you so little faith in your best friend, Your Highness?"

"I think it's better to let that question go unanswered, sir Gwaine."

The knight pouts some more, but the other two knights nod in confirmation. One of them, the tallest one, offers to start counting causing the little Prince to jump up and down in excitement.

Abruptly the Royal Consort and Warlock stops them, waving his arms almost panickedly. "Wait! James, lace your shoes properly!"

Grumbling quietly the boy trots back to the blanket slightly defiantly but settles down to lace his shoes firmly so they won't fall off by his running around. Once done, he stands triumphant and impatient: "Can we go playing now, pleease?"

"Do you have your jacket?" Merlin adds sounding worried and Arthur lays a gentle hand on the warlock's elbow, as if to soothe him.

"Yes, mother."

The young King grins at the child's eagerness. "All right, off you go then."

"Yay! Uncle Percy, hide and seek, now!"

"Right away, sire!" is the obedient response though the man is grinning like a loon. Which is completely undignified for a knight. Knights don't abandon their duties to run about and play hide and seek with four-year-olds!

In the background, Merlin chuckles. "One thing is clear: he's truly a Pendragon, ordering his uncles about like that!"


Somewhere around mid-day, as Uther is very incredibly reluctantly brushing down the horses, he hears it – a voice.

"Uther."

He drops the brush with a faint thud in the grass.

What was that? Startled he looks around. No one is turned his way; the knights have just returned looking completely exhausted, as the Royal Consort announces that it's time to eat, and the little Prince runs into his father's arms laughing, eagerly telling about how awesome it is playing with Uncle Leon and that Uncle Gwaine's promised to show him how to fight with a sword later. Their conversation fades into the background however and Uther cannot hear Arthur berating the knight for such a stupid promise because there's no way he's going to let the four year old boy get anywhere close to a sword.

No, there's another voice, much closer, like it was right next to his ear. Or right inside his ear.

"Uther, I know you can hear me," it growls. It sounds rather annoyed.

What the-?

Wait. That voice, it's vaguely familiar … as if he's heard it before, long ago, in another life or something poetic like that. Not that Uther would read any poetry, that just isn't him. They are calling him by his real name too, not George! But surely he'd not be acquainted with people talkingin his head.

"Uther Pendragon, answer me you stupid man!"

"And how do you propose I do that?!" Uther shouts, causing the gathered family across the clearing to glance at him curiously.

"Are you all right?" asks the one with the large, bared, muscled arms.

What's he supposed to answer? 'Don't mind me, I'm just trying to talk with voices in my head.' No, he'd not let himself be subjected to more weird glances!

"Err. Yes. I was just … thinking out loud."

The knight nods hesitantly. "… All right then. Just … call if there's anything wrong, yeah." He draws back to the royal family and Uther turns his back to them, hoping they don't think he's completely insane (yet).

Gritting his teeth he tries projecting his thoughts like words, without actually speaking them, and it's rather difficult especially since he wants to yell very loudly at the voice to stop annoying him.

"What. Do. You. Want?"

"So it is you. Oh darn. I'd kind of hoped you'd be dead." The voice is sounding less than pleased.

Uther barely suppresses a sigh. "Believe me, so did I. Just – who the bloody hell are you and what are you doing in my head?"

"Believe it or now, I'm here to help. Advice you, if you will. It seems you have one more job before your mortal Destiny is over; including helping my Dragonlord and his King. I think you know who they are. You should definitely. I mean, you can't be that out of date … right? Oh, wait ... maybe."

Dragonlord! That could only mean …

"You're a dragon!"

"Yes, I am quite aware of that," the voice states dryly.

Uther is boiling with fury and confusion. "You're supposed to be dead! I had your kind eradicated! Arthur had the last one of you slain! I ordered-"

"Really," chuckles the voice, "you think that ridding one kingdom, out of all the kingdoms in the world, of my ancient race, would get rid of all dragons in existence? Have you any idea how vast this world is and how broad the sky is? You are truly ignorant, Uther Pendragon."

Damn that stupid … stupid destiny! This is so wholly unfair. Not only is he trapped in a stupid, clumsy servant's body upon his return to Camelot and the craziness that surely will unfold, no, he's got some destiny to fulfill as well and he's going to be advised by a dragon.

What has he ever done to deserve this cruel fate?!

"I've got to run – well, fly is more of a correct term – before Kilgarrah catches me," says the dragon cheerily. "He'd be most displeased to find out about this. Something about 'interfering with things you cannot comprehend', he probably still thinks I'm an immature hatchling… But we'll catch up, yes? I'll be back in Camelot shortly. I'm out scouting, you see, and you ought to understand how important that is. Anyhow, remember, don't tell anyone about this, alright? Especially not the druids or other magic folks living in Camelot. They'd be quite upset, given the Purge and everything. Or, most likely, they won't believe you're actually Uther Pendragon and take you to Gaius for an examination of the head."

Then the voice leaves accompanied by the flutter of wings and then, blessed silence. Uther breathes out heavily through his nose, attempting to compose himself. Must not burst and start yelling. That'd be most undignified. Must not burst.

On top of all, the stupid dragon is also completely right. No one would believe it if George the dimwitted servant who jokes about brass (Uther would never do such a thing and wouldn't have believed that anyone could be so dull, but the castle staff have remarked at his sudden lack of brass jokes), suddenly claims to be the deceased King of Camelot.

He is not a very big fan of Destiny right now. No, not at all. If he gets his hands on that dragon he'll wring its stupid neck-

"Why don't you join us, George?" Merlin suddenly asks looking up, addressing him like an equal – which isn't right or maybe it is because Uther was the King of Camelot and now is a servant, and Merlin's gone the other way around, from servant to King and – oh well, does it even matter?

He shakes his head trying to clear it, to get rid of the traces of dragons and destiny and focus on the warlock's question. What was the question?

"Come on," agrees Arthur. "Please, have a seat."

It's an order from a King; he cannot refuse even if he would prefer to turn tail and run and forget all about dragons and newly crowned kings and reincarnations. He walks across the field slowly and carefully as if he took a single misstep he'd trigger a hunter's trap.

As soon as he's crossed the thin threshold and is standing by the edge of the blanket, a heap of cookies are thrust into his hands before he can protest.

"Hello! I'm Prince James," announces the child who's given them (as if Uther wasn't already aware). "I'm going to be King one day and I'll be the best king ever."

It's been awhile since he was around such a small child - or any child at all - Uther quietly admits and he feels slightly awkward. Hopefully the boy won't start clinging to him or ask awkward questions or … anything of the sort. Though he must say the boy really looks like Arthur did at his age, except for the eyes, they're a more sapphire shade of blue. Thank god the boy hasn't inherited those giant ears!

"I am sure you will," he says and adds, remembering the boy still has a title, being his grandchild and all; "Sire."

"I'm going to make free cookies a law!"

"That sounds very nice, sire," Uther replies dutifully albeit he has his doubts who would appreciate such a thing. "It would be greatly appreciated among the people, I'm certain."

The boy swirls around to stare at his father. "See! He likes it! It's a great law," he exclaims triumphantly.

"We've had this discussion before, James," Arthur replies sternly. "You may pass laws once you're King, but now you are still a Prince and a little one at that. Now stop bothering poor George."

The Prince pouts. "That's not fair. Mama, tell papa it's not fair!"

"It may not be fair, but it's the way things are," Merlin replies calmly. "Sit down and eat, my little Prince."

The boy looks to be near the point of screaming, but then sir Gwaine steps up offering his piece of the blueberry tart and the Prince immediately calms, claiming and wolfing down the sweet cake in a heartbeat.

The Princess (whose name Uther yet doesn't know, much to his displeasure) is just a few months old and she clings possessively to Merlin, refusing to be put down, causing the adults to chuckle warmly.

"She's truly inherited your possessive trait, love," Arthur remarks.

"You're not the one to say that," the royal consort responds. "You're even worse! I'm happy as long as she doesn't turn out to be as much as a prat as you."

The King tries looking serious but Uther can see he's biting back a smile. "I am not a prat."

A prat? They're still using that silly word? Uther rolls his eyes. Heavens, that got old ages ago!

"Yes, you are. A prat and a dollophead."

"What's a dollophead?" Prince James asks curiously, turning to his fathers while chewing on a piece of honeyed bread. Or is it 'fathers'? Now Uther starts growing slightly confused. Well. His son and son's husband are fathers. Even if one of them also technically is the mother. Oh, curse this! The youth have always troubled him; they always do things that make no sense and always break all the rules at every opportunity!

"Would you like a description?" Merlin asks playfully.

The child nods eagerly.

"Two words: King Arthur."

"Merlin!" cries the young King, without heat or ire. A huge grin is plastered on his face. "You're being a very bad influence."

The glare the warlock sends his husband could possibly burn down castles and forests and mountains within three seconds flat and Uther winces, pitying his son for being at the receiving end. At least the eyes aren't glowing gold (at the moment) or a demonic red (albeit it's very close) or any other suspicious colour (yet). The tone is dangerously sweet like a honey-covered beehive about to be let loose. It's rather painful also from this angle and Uther slowly inches backwards.

"'Bad influence'? 'Bad influence'? What about when you completely trashed sir Bedivere last month – right in front of James – and the man had to be taken Gaius for acute treatment and wasn't let out for three days?"

"That, that was just training! An accident!" Arthur defends himself and nearly, almost squeaks and Uther has an odd urge to pat his shoulder comfortingly. He knows how it feels, at least sort of. "I didn't know James was watching! Plus Bedivere was distracted by that lad, Leon's servant (what's his name again?), and it served him right to be defeated when he wasn't focusing on more important things like using his sword to defend himself!"

The warlock's mood changes like a rapid wave, a beam of sunshine after the cold unforgiving gale. It must be mood swings, those awful things that Igraine had as well when she was carrying Arthur – if those pregnancy rumours are true (which Uther is pretty sure they are). It is rather terrifying.

"Oh, you mean Adair!" Merlin exclaims eagerly. "They've been making eyes at each other for the last few months you know. I wonder if either one planning on making on making a move yet."

"I don't know whether I'd be thankful if they did. Bedivere's mace-work is dreadful and he spends nowhere enough time practicing with the lance either. Imagine how many training sessions he'd skip due to 'sickness' if the two actually started having-"

"Not in front of Elaine!"

Arthur is wise enough to look sheepish. "Sorry, love."

To hide his snort, Uther takes a large sip of the spiced wine. Ah. Must be from Mercia; probably year 488 … a very good year, indeed. He's always liked Mercian wine.


Upon their return at the city, a servant rushes forward to announce that Aithusa – whoever that might be, probably some peasant like so many of Arthur's men nowadays – has just arrived and is waiting in the courtyard.

At the news Merlin looks ecstatic, but Arthur looks torn, a worried frown creasing his forehead. Maybe it isn't a knight. Or maybe (what if it is?!) the young King has something against said knight, given how happy Merlin seems and how the warlock with an odd sort of grace that Uther had no idea the clumsy boy possessed slides off the saddle, hurrying to the courtyard with Princess Elaine securely in his arms.

No, surely this Aithusa cannot be … with Merlin … no!

Uther has a strong sudden urge to march up to the courtyard and make sure of it himself that it isn't true. It simply cannot be.

"Oh, don't look so downtrodden, Arthur!" the warlock cries over his shoulder. "He gave me no warning earlier so I'm sure there's no bad news."

This makes Arthur brighten up and his tense shoulders relax. "I hope you're right, my love."

To his great annoyance, Uther is made to take the horses down to the stables, so he cannot follow his son and see who this Aithusa really is.

That is a duty which King Arthur later would regret giving him, when it takes the king-come-servant nearly an hour to find those bloody stables because not only as a King doesn't Uther usually go there (what are stablehands for if not to bring out horses when he needs them, and put them back when he's done?) and the castle has been slightly redecorated over the years.

And once he actually finds the stables, he has no idea where each horse should go or where to put the saddles and by now, Arthur's steed Hengroen has already tried biting him three times and he's well and bloody tired of this bloody work and loudly complaining about that. In response Hengroen only tries biting him again and the stablehands are staring openly but refusing to help, shuffling awkwardly as they hide in the corners.

In retrospect, that might be because Uther's yelling like a madman at the stupid horse and stupid destiny and stupid voices in his head.


As nightfall comes around, an exhausted Uther is making his way toward the King's chambers when he realizes that he isn't King and thus cannot go to sleep in the King's chamber. He has nowhere to go. Even if the servant who's body he's now occupying might have someplace to live, Uther had no idea where and he would rather not go to some pig's sty which must be the equivalent of a servant's house.

There's the option of going to the Chief of Staff to complain. Or possible beg (not that Uther would ever 'beg' – more like, convincing him) for some free lodging. He doesn't have a single coin on him either!

"Stupid destiny, stupid reincarnation putting me in this body-"

"George, what are you doing here? It's very late."

He swirls around to come to face with that lady again. Now she wears a deeply red dress with fine embroidery and truly looks like a lady. What's her name – Grunhilda? Genève? He should remember it by now! He's sure he knows her face from somewhere

Ah! Wasn't that Morgana's servant girl, Guinevere! Yes, that's it. But whatever is she doing dressed like that? No servant would look like that, or have such a strong bearing! No, something's changed. She was the girl who was accused of sorcery when the water was poisoned, a voice whispers in his head and he mentally curses. Sorcerers here, sorcerers there, sorcerers everywhere!

"I was –" Momentarily he halts. Should he ask her if there's anywhere appropriate for him to stay over the night? No! He can't do that! That'd be pathetic. He's Uther Pendragon, he has no need to ask servant girls for lodging – no, that'd reflect badly on him. "I was just retiring."

"Ah. All right, well, I'll see you in the morning, George. By the way, I think Richard's going to stay abed for a few more days so it's best you take his place tomorrow. Merlin's got Gilli taking care of him and Arthur can be such a handful in the mornings, especially when there are council meetings … Not, not that I know about his behaviour in the mornings or, you, you know. Just what Merlin's told me. Oh, that didn't sound right…" She lets out a small awkward laugh. "You just have to bring him his breakfast and so, Gilli's so kind taking care of the rest or Merlin has the chores done by magic – you know how selfless he is and – oh, I'm getting off track now …"

Hm, that would give him an opportunity to see his son more closely. How can he say no, truly? Besides, it can't be that bad, being a manservant; it's just temporarily, for a day or a few hours.

"All right then. I shall do it."

"Thank you, George! You've spared us all so much trouble."

Then, she steps up and hugs him.

Uther stands utterly still and stiff and, oh god, the maidservant-maybe-lady is hugging him. It's brief and short and the woman smiled awkwardly when she breaks away.

"Sorry. It's just I've been helping the Chief of Staff to search for a substitute all afternoon. It's such a relief to hear you'll help out. Well, I must rush now, I have dinner with sir Lancelot. See you tomorrow, George!"

Well that had certainly been … odd.

Right, lodgings. He needs to find someplace to sleep. Yes, it's best to focus on that and not on the weird behavior of Camelot's inhabitants in general and its castle staff in particular.


For some half an hour he walk around aimlessly, letting his feet carry him around without any particular goal, until he stumbles upon the Royal Librarian's residence. By now the sky is dark and the corridors a bit cold. Surely Geoffrey is still around? The man is ancient but as stubborn as rock, he'll probably reach the one hundredth mark without issue.

Taking his chances, Uther knocks with firm authority on the dark heavy doors. The smell of candle-wax and dry parchment hits his nose violently as the doors open inwards.

"…What are you doing here?" the old man asks suspiciously. His beard must've grown by at least a foot, the former King notes. It's a wonder he doesn't keep stumbling on it.

Oh, right. He doesn't look or sound like Uther, of course the librarian doesn't know it's him! "I was seeking lodgings for the night, sir," he answers respectfully.

"Well go bother someone else!"

The doors are unceremoniously shut in his face. There's not even an offered 'Good night'.

How very rude!


"What, you've got no money?" The owner of the Rising Sun squints at him displeasedly. "No, you can't get a room for free."

Uther frowns at him darkly. "Surely-" he begins but is not allowed to finish the sentence.

"And no," continues the burly man in a strong, annoyed voice, "buttons do not count as payment!"

That's it; Uther's had enough of pleading and being nice and pretending to be pathetic.

"GIVE ME A ROOM YOU MORON OR I'LL HAVE YOU IN THE STOCKS!" he yells very, very angrily, face red and his breath sharp. "I BET YOU HAVEN'T BEEN IN THE STOCKS AND I GUARANTEE IT'LL MAKE YOU FEEL AS PATHETIC AS YOU LOOK. SO IF YOU WANT TO AVOID THAT, GIVE. ME. A. ROOM. NOW!"

The taverner's eyes widen as the whole room goes quiet, dices stilling on their tables and people pausing in the middle of a drink. Then, slowly, a few of them stands and starts backing out, food and jugs of ale still littering their tables. No one speaks a single word, glancing at one another or staring fixedly at the servant.

This, of course, does not please the burly man. "Now look what you've done, you're frightening away my costumers! Get out of my tavern - out, out, out!" He starts waving his arms wildly and dangerously and shouts for the guards.

Somewhat disheartened Uther walks out of the inn (back straight and proud: he'd rather walk out himself than get dragged out by the guards like some misbehaving drunkard), glaring at the dark star-dotted sky. The tiny blinking lights have no business looking so cheerful.

He heaves a sigh, squaring his shoulders. Where can he go? There's no way he's sleeping in the stables…!

But. There's that, or asking Gaius for a room. Stables, Gaius. Stables.


"Back again? Please, George, do not tell me you've had another incident."

"There was no accident or other such thing!" Uther says irritably. "I'm hungry and tired and sore and I need someplace to sleep."

The physician narrows his eyes at him and Uther groans; he's severely tired of that expression by now. "Have you forgotten the way to the servants' quarters?"

"Servant's quarters!" he exclaims heatedly. "I'd never retire to such a lowly, dirty place!"

The old man sends him an odd look, then sighs, and closes the door.

"I have no room for freeloaders, George. But fine. For tonight then, tonight only. There's a bed up there." Gaius gestures at the adjourning chamber.

A bed! Oh thank god.

Unfortunately, it turns out the mattress is thin and hard and lumpy and probably full of lice, and there's only a thin blanket and no pillows. And Gaius says he'll wake him early in the morning for him to get on time with his duties (to which Uther objects, he's had such a bothersome long day – he deserves a lie-in!) and there's no guarantee there'll be any breakfast. There's also the distinct smell of herbs and frog-paste irritating Uther's nose all through the night. What wouldn't he do to have back his old bed in his old room!

But when he starts complaining Gaius threatens to have him thrown out without further ado, so Uther wisely chooses to shut up.

Everything is so, so unfair.