"Dear God, one summer in Wales and he comes back looking like a vagabond."

The amusement in Ygraine's voice is so thick not even the clinking of silverware and crockery can hide it. "It isn't that bad, Uther. I think it rather suits him," she adds, and he turns to give her a look of utter betrayal. She finishes laying out the table for supper and sidles over to pat his back lightly, though she's still smiling. "At least he's home, dear."

Home, yes, but Uther has the most dreadful suspicion the damage has already been done. He had agreed to Arthur spending a summer in Wales with Leon and the rest of his friends because he'd thought it would be good for the boy—some time away from the city, a bit of freedom with his mates, a free run before he started thinking about uni. He hadn't thought there would be harm in it. The de Galises are a good family, and Uther has worked with Lionel since their own university years; Arthur and Leon had grown up almost in each other's pockets.

And still, somehow, Arthur looks as though he's forgotten the purpose of a razor and scissors, he hasn't attended a single dinner party, and he's even suggested that perhaps the company could find a way to do business with Ouroboros. Ouroboros. A magical organization.

"Can you imagine how that would look to investors? Collaborating with a band of chanting, wand-waving certifieds," Uther groans, scrubbing a hand over his forehead.

Ygraine arches one fair brow at him. "Need I remind you that both your sister and your nieces are 'chanting, wand-waving certifieds'?"

He doesn't dignify that with a response. Vivienne has always been the odd one out of the Pendragon family, and it's hardly a shock that her daughters would come out much the same. True, it makes for some very interesting holiday reunions, but he doesn't invite company investors to sit down for roast duck with him at Christmas.

"Just picture the board meetings," he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Have you ever seen the Ambrose man? He looks like a bloody caveman." He had the highly dubious pleasure of meeting the head of Ouroboros exactly once, two years ago, when the company had been looking to expand into Denbighshire, and Balinor Ambrose had been leading the voice of opposition, refusing to let Pen Y Draig buy out the property, claiming conservation laws and other such nonsense. He could do very well never seeing the man again for the rest of his natural life.

Ygraine gives his back another comforting pat, her traitorous lips still curling up. "Stop thinking about it so hard. He's a teenager. Now, come sit down. Dinner's ready."

Uther nods and steps away from the windows, taking his seat as Ygraine goes to shout out the kitchen window for Arthur. He'll put it out of his mind. No doubt she's right, and it'll soon prove to be a passing thing, a bit of youthful folly.

It'll be fine.

It is most assuredly not fine.

The day after Arthur's return home, Uther emerges from his study at the sound of his son's loud and vehement shouting just in time to see Arthur come staggering out of the bathroom, clutching a sodden towel around himself and swearing with some impressive creativity. Belatedly, he realises that he had neglected to tell the housekeeper that Arthur was home, which meant she'd likely just started the laundry downstairs and sent Arthur fleeing from an abruptly-frigid shower.

The words on the tip of his tongue—maybe an apology, maybe a teasing remark about taking a chill, maybe a scolding about dripping all over the hardwood—shrivel up and die a swift death. "What the hell is that?" he demands instead.

"Huh?" Arthur turns to look at him, still shivering a little, that godawful hair of his all plastered down so he can only half-see past it. "What's what?"

Uther strides down the hallway, takes him by the shoulders, and turns him sharply back around. "This. What the hell is this?" he repeats, tapping a finger against the bare skin of Arthur's shoulder.

"Sharpie marker?"

"Arthur!"

The boy turns back to face him, swiping his hair out of his eyes with one hand so Uther can receive the full measure of his belligerent glare. "You and Mum both have tattoos, it's not that bad."

It is. Uther had received his one and only tattoo during his military years, which is entirely different situation and not one up for discussion. And he does not feel like explaining that the blue phoenix perched on Ygraine's left hip is the reason Arthur was conceived in the first place. And he supposes it isn't the tattoo itself that is the problem, as it's at least in a place nearly always covered, but rather what it is—a dragon-head triskele. A sorcerer's symbol. A bloody spellthrower's tattoo.

"I hope you realise that's permanent," is all he can think to say, because God in Heaven, why?

"Wow, I had no idea," Arthur drawls, marching back into the bathroom and slamming the door.

It's worse than he thought.

And yet, as it just so happens, it can get worse.

Uther is driving home, squinting out the windscreen and cursing this absolute bastard rain; he's supposed to be on a flight to Dublin right now, but seeing as how all the flights have been cancelled, he'll be conducting the rest of the merger on conference call from his study. He already knows Ygraine won't be home, as she always arranges to go and visit Vivienne and her girls whenever he's out of London; with any luck, Arthur will be home, and maybe they can have a conversation about his son's…well, everything. Perhaps even convince him to visit the barber.

As the garage door rattles open, Uther finds himself leaning forward against the steering wheel and squinting through the windscreen yet again, this time in disbelief because that motorcycle most assuredly does not belong parked in their garage. He accelerates slowly forward, waiting for the door to rattle down before he gets out of the Jag, walking around to stare at the intruder.

The motorcycle is sleek and black, like some crouched big cat of chrome and steel. A coiled white dragon is detailed on the sides, matching the patterned helmet left on the seat.

Uther heads in, half-tensed and wary, though he's fairly certain that no sensible thief would be out in this sort of weather, nor would they be so obvious as to leave their motorcycle sitting in the garage. He can hear the muffled sounds of a film playing from the den, then Arthur's faint laughter. He relaxes, only to tense up all over again. Dear God, if that boy has progressed to riding a motorcycle, Ygraine will go spare.

When he walks into the darkened den, he sees Arthur in those ridiculous pyjamas he'd been given at Christmas last year, stretched out on the sofa…and on top of a dark-haired, lanky boy. They aren't doing anything, thank God, but the other lad has one hand on Arthur's back beneath his rucked-up top, the other toying idly with the back of his shaggy hair, their socked feet propped up on the sofa arm. It is uncomfortably familiar behaviour.

He doesn't know if he moves or makes some kind of sound, but Arthur's head comes up, and he blanches. "Oh, fuck me."

"Arthur, what is going on here?" Uther asks, reaching out to flick on the overhead as Arthur hastily scrambles to his feet.

At the sudden light, the lanky boy yelps, tries to get up, and flails off the sofa, banging an elbow into the coffee table. Arthur flinches and starts to help him up, then stops, eyes flicking guiltily towards Uther.

"Who is this?" he demands. "What's going on?"

"Uh, Mr. Pendragon, sir, it's not—" the boy gabbles out as he manages to get to his feet without any further injury, clothes rumpled and hair askew.

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur hisses.

In the full light, Uther can feel his stomach sink in dismay at the sight of him, tall and rawboned with the most ridiculous ears, tattoos peeking out from beneath his ratty clothes in chains of interlinked symbols, and his stomach sinks further when he realises the boy's wearing a shirt with the Ouroboros symbol on it. A sorcerer. A damned sorcerer. Only a bloody spellthrower could have a name so stupid.

Uther rakes a hand over his hair, turning his gaze to Arthur instead; his son is uncharacteristically silent and looks half-ready to flee like a nervous animal. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "He sleeps in the guest room, and you, young man, are going to explain this to your mother and I in the morning."

"Father, it's really not—"

He holds up a hand to silence him. He is entirely too sober for this conversation, especially without Ygraine there to keep his temper in check. "Not another word. Bedrooms, the both of you. Now."

They start to shuffle out of the den like guilty children, but not before pieces fall together with a resounding snap in his mind. "Wait," Uther says, and they both stop, looking at him with wide eyes. "You said your name is Merlin? Merlin Ambrose? Balinor Ambrose's son?"

The boy's eyes stretch a little wider.

"Oh, fuck me sideways," Arthur groans.

Uther wonders what kind of sins he committed in his past life to earn this. He must've been a politician. Maybe a tax collector.

"It isn't so bad," Ygraine insists for a third time as she peers into the mirror, affixing a spray of deep red poinsettias to her pale hair, matching her crimson gown. "Come now, dear, find some Christmas spirit."

Uther grunts, pressing the side of his scotch glass to his temple, though he doesn't count on it doing much for the headache he can already feel building there. No, no, of course it isn't so bad, it's simply our only son bringing a bloody sorcerer to Christmas dinner with us, he thinks. Aloud he says, "So much for youthful folly."

A part of him had quietly hoped that Arthur's…indiscretion…with the sorcerer was part of some late teenage rebellion, but he's fairly certain that a phase wouldn't have lasted seven months already and shown no signs of ending anytime soon. And he certainly wouldn't be sitting down for dinner with an Ambrose.

Ygraine pulls the glass out of his hand, presses a kiss to his forehead, then expertly swipes away the smudge of lipstick on his brow. "Let's go," she says, and he gives a faint smile, letting her pull him to his feet and out of the study.

Downstairs, the rest of the family is already gathered together in the den. Arthur is in the armchair with that…sorcerer sitting on his lap in one of those awful, gaudy jumpers, and the boy is happily chattering away with Morgana about some nature reserve in the moors, saving pixies instead of penguins or whatever it is. Morgause sits with her usual sullen expression in the other chair; she hasn't liked Arthur—or men in general—since she was approximately twelve years old. Vivienne is sitting on the sofa with Gorlois, tucked beneath her husband's arm and looking entirely too pleased with herself. As she rightfully should. Uther has not heard the end of it since that she-dragon found out about this entire situation.

"Dinner will be ready soon, everyone," Ygraine announces as she sweeps in, and she casts a sly smile as she reaches over to touch the sorcerer's arm. "Merlin, would you be a darling and come help me in the kitchen?" The lanky boy grins and climbs up off Arthur's lap, following Ygraine out of the room, already talking in low tones to one another; left in the armchair, Arthur looks faintly alarmed at the potential disaster forming for him.

Uther can't help but to snort at that. He'll learn soon enough. Seeing as how his scotch has already been confiscated, he takes two glasses of mulled wine from the tray left on the coffee table, handing one off to Arthur. "Here, this'll help," he remarks.

Arthur smiles as he takes it from him, stirring a cinnamon stick around the glass. "Thanks."

"Still not getting a haircut I see?" Uther remarks wryly, casting an eye over him. Someone, likely Morgana or that boy, has put a pair of ridiculous antlers on his head, gaudily adorned with golden tinsel and small bells that jingle whenever he turns his head.

That earns him a sly grin. "Merlin likes it this way."

"Oh, good Lord," he sighs, and Arthur laughs.