Author's notes: Oh, look, an update! It's been awhile, sorry about that.

And now this fic is balancing between very crack and not-quite-crack!-but-rather-serious. I'm not sure what the end result will be, really…Just wait and see, I guess. Also I am thinking more of a plot now and connecting the pieces.

OH MY GOD, THERE IS A PLOT.

(what have I done?)

10.

How to Handle Becoming the Errand Boy (and other issues)

"Well met, Lord Emrys. It has been too long," Alator greets them by the gates. The druid leader or High Priest or something of some clan or another (Uther hasn't caught all the details yet) is accompanied by five others, all of them robed in grey and brown. They positively reek of magic.

The warlock smiles and greets them politely but then rolls his eyes, sighing, "Just call me Merlin, Alator, I've told you before."

"Very well, Lord Merlin." – as this there's a distinct frown remaining on the warlock's face (which Uther cannot really comprehend because why wouldn't he want to be called Lord? Such a thought is simply above his understanding). - "This is my apprentice, Finna."

Both Merlin and Arthur shake her hand. "Hello! Very nice to meet you. So you're going to be a Priestess then?" the warlock asks curiously.

"One day, hopefully, I will have the honour," the woman replies. "Alator has taught me much."

"Let's hope it will continue so!" Arthur says and leads them toward the citadel. "Come, we have much to discuss."

Had this been on his first day here, Uther would have gaped like a fish at seeing his son shake hands with and praise a sorceress, and welcoming a druid into his halls and discuss treaties with them. Now, however, he just stares absently ahead and wonders about dinner (he hopes there's wine to be had) and worries a bit – not that he'd admit such a thing out loud! – about having to return to the servants' quarters tonight and face the wrath of two certain servants there.

(He knew he should've stuck to the inn, even if the innkeeper would have his head for not affording it.)

Then, less than a day later, there's another council meeting urgently called upon. More news of the Vortigen/King Lot-situation has arrived with a messenger falcon sent by King Bayard of Mercia. Uther's in the middle of chopping vegetables and nearly cutting off his own fingers when word reaches him.

As he rushes out of the steamy room, the cook's irritated cries follow him through the corridors all the way to the Council Hall. "Oi!" she shouts, though Uther ignores her and her ladle swishing to and fro dangerously, like a knight's sword in battle. "No slacking off, no matter how big and important you may be in His Highness' eyes!"

He reaches the large mahogany doors and pushes them open just in time to find many others have assembled in similar fashion; that is, in a great hurry, their cloaks askew and hair ruffled, and breath short from running. Even a couple of the knights seem winded, albeit that might be because they're also in full armour clammed with dirt meaning they've just come from the training field.

Uther is startled to see the druids from earlier there. No chairs are brought out for them: instead, they magick up five of their own seemingly from thin air. A couple of the Lords nearby flinch in bewilderment, but there are no cries of axes and fires and nooses. They aren't placed around the Table but near a tall pillar, so they have a clear view of the room and the King and Consort's seats, though both are as of yet unfilled.

A few other chairs are empty, including that of Lord Agravaine. Ack! Not only is he such a dark-tempered traitor that Uther will never trust, but he's a slacker too!

Arthur arrives less than a minute after Uther has found his seat (brushing off any surprised glance sent his way). The King stands regal and calm but there's a definite tension around his eyes and mouth, and Uther doesn't like it. Merlin isn't with him, for some reason, and for a brief second there's a weird surge in the bottom of Uther's gut, like, like – worry!

Yes, worry. And it's a dark feeling spreading like blood from an open wound. Then he quickly composes himself. Surely, nothing is wrong. The boy is a Royal Consort, with other duties. And he's carrying Arthur's baby; he may just be resting, yes, he needs to rest and there's absolutely nothing wrong and no reason for Uther to feel uneasy for his son-in-law.

The thought hits him then. Son-in-law. He's really starting to accept the boy as his son-in-law.

… oh.

"We have a situation, sire," one of the women at the Table says. She is dressed in a sort of uniform Uther would associate with a spy in the Royal service. "Vortigern's army has been spotted crossing the south border. There are all sorts of rumours, but my underlings and I have seen them with our own eyes. They come heavily armed and with machines of war: they aren't seeking a treaty, catching my drift, sire."

There are a couple of enraged murmurs but they quickly die down as the King raises a hand sternly.

"What of the messenger sent to King Lot a fortnight ago?" sir Caradoc – Uther recalls him from his own rule; a good, steady man, if a bit impulsive – asks concernedly. "Has any word been returned?"

"Not yet, but we must remain hopeful," the King replies.

They had done – in a manner of speaking – what sir Gwaine so brazenly had suggested. Well, they hadn't sent dragons upon Lot first thing, but offered a deal, wherein Lot in order to be spared from such a horrifying attack (nothing short of a Dragonlord could fell two Dragons and only a fool would dare to anger said creatures or any man governing them), he would have to withdraw his support from Vortigen. This would effectively bring him under Camelot's protection. While they then would be responsible for his kingdom's well-being, they could use his people on their side if Vortigen truly planned an attack.

"Something must be done! Muster the army!" sir Lamorak cries.

"They have not yet begun an attack. We have had no reports of villages being attacked or farms burned," young sir Bedivere tunes in rather softly, with much deliberation in his tone. "There is still a chance of a nonviolent end. We should try to negotiate before drawing the sword."

"Vortigern will never accept any terms. Maybe not even surrender! He'll burn Camelot down to its foundations before then," insists another; and an argument involving nearly everyone around the Table quickly springs to life. People are shouting to and fro and casting glares and only a few people sit back in silence without drawing heat to their eyes or voice; the High Priest of the Druids, (a bit surprisingly) Lord Agravaine and the King himself, who merely sighs and drags a hand through his rather messy hair.

Uther is another matter. Finally, he's had it. He musters his most powerful voice. How he wishes he were in his true body! Then his words would have full effect.

"ENOUGH! SILENCE!" he roars, slamming a hand down onto the table. And grimaces in pain directly thereafter. Owww! That hurts! Why did I do that!?

It's pretty effective anyway.

"Thank you," Arthur says, sending him a thankful look. "Bickering like this will lead us nowhere. Sir Leon, what is the situation of our troops?"

The man must have known this question would be asked one day or another in the near future. "At the moment, we've got most of our trained Knights in Camelot at your disposal. The only ones indisposed are sir Brinnan and the other ambassadors, sir Bruin because of his broken leg, and sir Aelfric who left the city eight days ago for his estate in the north. He has some two hundred men there we could summon. In total, with all the guards and soldiers in the kingdom: six thousand three hundred thereabouts. We should consider our neighbouring allies," sir Leon adds, "they will undoubtedly be affected by any war between Camelot and Vortigern."

"We must send a falcon to Queen Annis!"

"And to Queen Mithian of Nemeth," sir Kay adds. "Her armies are strong and she is a trustworthy ally."

Uther startles a bit. Queen Mithian? Last he knew she was just this little girl of twelve! Her father, King Rodor, must have passed away recently. Time sure flies … !

"Especially if you're dead." That blasted dragon pokes the words into his head so suddenly he nearly falls off his chair, and Uther scowls darkly in annoyance. He quickly smooths it over thought before anyone can notice and remark on it, or take offence.

"Get out!"

"Hey, is Agravaine there?"

"Yes. But he was awfully late to the meeting. And he is unusually quiet," Uther adds thoughtfully. Otherwise that Lord had an awful lot of things to say, but not today apparently. His silence was of the dark kind, of someone who knew things they wouldn't tell, and Uther has an instinctive dislike toward such silence, being King and therefore needing to know as much as possible.

No, Agravaine surely is up to no good. He must be questioned – and what better way to press him a bit than now, when everyone is intently staring and listening to each other, desperately seeking advice?

So, as soon as the moment allows, he turns to the man and says promptly, "And what is your opinion of this, Lord Agravaine? Surely you must have some."

If anything it might rile him up, causing him to slip and therefore reveal him before the Table who he really is! Again Uther curses his ill luck to be in the body of a servant. In a Lord or Knight's body he might be able to accuse the man with less proof, but now he has nothing but suspicions and the words of a dragon, and in court that will not reach very far, especially as Lord Agravaine now has a fairly powerful position.

But no. The man speaks with a pleasant well-oiled voice, face betraying nothing. "We should proceed with His Highness' plans."

He'll need to come up with something subtle to reveal this man's true intentions.

Hours later, the meeting is finally over, after much bickering, deliberation, awkward silence and whatnot. It has been a long, stressful day. His son's face is unusually ashen and his shoulders heavy, and Uther, understandably, does not like this at all.

"You'd better sit down, Ar- sire. You're awfully pale."

"Thank you for your concern, George, but I'm fine," Arthur says, sighing tiredly and rubbing his temples. "It's … been a trying day, is all. Could you go to my chambers and check on Merlin? He might be sleeping and don't wake him if that's the case. Just, make sure he's all right. And don't tell him about how we squabbled during the meeting. He hates it when that happens and calls us all overgrown children."

"Of course," Uther nods briefly, but wondering how you check on a person you don't know and should he barge into the royal chambers or sneak inside and peek or announce himself and should he speak and at all and why does Arthur sound worried? Nothing is wrong, surely? Or perhaps he is just weary. And, right, no mention of the council meeting. And he must remember to knock in case the Consort is sleeping, even at this hour. "Right away."

Of course when he gets there Uther totally forgets to knock and walks right into the room unannounced.

There's a figure slumped on the thick rug before the fireplace. Uther blinks, surprised at seeing it there (and glad he didn't step in too far and stumble on it!) and it takes a moment to recognize the silhouette in the dim red lights. The warlock is more or less lying on the furs, wrapped in a blanket, staring into the flames of the hearth. The room is very calm and quiet and inviting, considering the cold chaos Uther's just left behind.

"How'd the meeting go? Don't tell me you started some argument or another. Was Gwaine there? Probably was late, though."

The voice is tired but making an effort to not sound so; the chirpiness sounds awfully false. Is he ill? Uther wonders. Maybe he ought to call for Gaius.

He clears his throat. "Are you well?"

Merlin visibly startles, twisting his head around. "Oh! Sorry, George, I thought you were Arthur. He never knocks either."

Oh. Um. Right. Awkwardly, Uther fumbles for something to say. Arthur had just told him to check on his Consort, but never really specified what to do or say or if he should just turn back round or anything really.

No knocking, must run in the family – can't say that of course. "Right. My s– Arthur – the King – erm, he sent me," he explains, biting his tongue on the stumble. "To. Check on you?" he finishes a bit uncertainly.

"Oh, I'm fine," the warlock responds at once, waving a hand dismissively; more at the question itself that at Uther. It reminds the old man of how Arthur would always tell Gaius that 'It's only a scratch!' whenever he'd been brought to the physician (sometimes carried by force) after getting injured in training or battle, and Uther frowns. He doesn't like the sound of that.

Then the warlock smiles, warmly and kindly. "Don't just stand there, George! Come on, take a seat." Merlin gestures at one of the fur-covered, richly carved chairs pulled near the blazing fireplace.

A question immediately comes to mind. "Why are you lying there instead of sitting on one of the chairs? Surely it cannot be comfortable." And he's the Consort now, not some servant anymore – it's simply not becoming of a member of the Royal Household to be lying on the floor! "Err, sire."

"Don't 'sire' me, please, I get enough of that every day. Gods, Gwaine still won't quit with that though all the other knights have understood by now not to call me that – and it's been years now! – it's the downside of marrying Arthur, I guess. And, well, lying like this is more comfortable," Merlin says, shifting a little. "I tried to lie on the bed but it was too soft. And sitting just hurts even more."

"Oh!" He suddenly remembers what Igraine used to say when she was carrying Arthur, so long, long ago. "Is it your back? Or your ankles?"

"Umm, a bit of both," the warlock admits. "Gaius gave me this salve but it's not near effective enough. Ugh, none of the others were this bad! Gaius reckons I'm bigger this time. It's very annoying." He scrunches up his nose, the childish action making him look even younger for a moment than his twenty-something years (Uther isn't sure of his age really and has never asked – maybe he should ask Gaius when opportunity arises?).

"You said Arthur sent you? Did you come from the council meeting? I wanted to go, but was napping when word came and he wouldn't wake me, the prat!, so he left a note. Then my back started hurting and, well," Merlin says, sighing and looking away. "I must sound rather pathetic."

Pathetic? Wherever did he get that idea? Bewildered, Uther tries to come up with something to say, a contradiction, maybe even something comforting, like he would when Igraine spoke in such a tone, so long ago – she's the only one who would do that in his presence and whom he would have to comfort, except Arthur of course. But the warlock is essentially a stranger, and he doesn't want to offend him or cause him to use magic on him.

"I've seen you in a lot of moods," he says, thinking about that row with Arthur when greeting Queen Annis. He had made the very ground tremble and the air darken without uttering a single word! "Believe me; that's very far from pathetic."

"Thanks." The warlock chuckles a little, then winces. "Oh! It kicked again." And he reaches out (perhaps on instinct) and grabs Uther's hand and guides it to his belly. Uther barely dares to breathe.

"There it goes again. They're very lively."

Oh, oh god, that's his grandchild in there!

His grandchild!

Oh!

Uther's eyes are gleaming. "He's very strong."

"D'you also think it's going to be a boy?" Merlin asks, remarking at the pronoun. "Arthur thinks so too. I don't know … Gaius thinks there might be more than one! Since I'm so round and all now. Oh god, I'm getting all fat!"

Uther's chest wrenches in rapid panic. Oh no, no, don't start crying! Please, I can't handle it! No crying!

"No, no, I think you look, um, lovely. Yes," he says quickly, hoping to stop any eventual angry tears. "Nothing to worry about at all."

How did he get into this situation again?

Right – Arthur.

"I have seen far worse," he adds, hoping to soothe the warlock some. He'd seen him angry, after all, and if emotions can spark his magic then he might be in some serious danger right now. Sitting right next to him would mean him taking the brunt of any outburst, physical or magical, and he'd prefer to stay free of both. He's incredibly tense now and wonders if he should pat Merlin's back (would it even be welcomed?) or turn tail and flee – err, retreat hastily.

And honestly, he has. Seen worse, that is.

"Really? Gaius says it oughtn't be too bad. That I should be used to it, it's my third after all. But d'you think that he's ever tried to imagine carrying around, I don't know, a squirming wyvern for nine months? And then it gains several pounds a week and starts kicking your kidneys really painfully … I bet he hasn't! Well, the first two months aren't that bad. Relatively. Except the illness and dizziness, and that time I got all sick when that Lord what's-his-face was visiting when I was carrying James, god, that was so embarrassing; we didn't even know I was pregnant then! That's how we found out, you know; Gaius examined me that evening. We realized we'd have an heir by me throwing up all over a visiting dignitary!"

Has he spoken to Arthur of any of this? Or does he complain every night? But, the manner of which the words are spilling from his lips - it's like he's been longing for days and weeks to reveal it all.

He seems to balance so carefully between downtrodden and joyful that Uther doesn't dare mention the council meeting, or how everyone had shouted at each other and the news of Vortigern's army crossing the borders, or the impending doom. Besides, when he'd left no clear decisions had been made, and Arthur would probably like to tell Merlin in person of if all.

"… were overjoyed of course, though shocked! Arthur just proceeded to grab me and spin me around there in Gaius' chambers when the news had sunk in. Of course, dancing me around like that, I just threw up all over Arthur too. Gwaine laughed his backside off, of course. Lancelot had to help Arthur out of his fine decorated armour – did I mention that the Lord visiting that night also gifted him with a piece of armour entirely made of gold? I enchanted it so he could wear it without it bearing him down – it weighed a ton before I spelled it – and it held hundreds of lacings and stuff and took forever to get off. And then some poor fellow had to polish it! And Percival carried me to mine and Arthur's rooms but I couldn't sleep, how could I just go to sleep when I'd just found out that I'm pregnant?! I was so shocked and happy. You'd have seen Arthur's face! Before I got sick on him, that is. He was a bit grumpier after that, my poor Arthur. The dignitary was also all levels of furious and left in a hurry forgetting, like, half of his servant and guard (a lot of them were drunk and asleep under the tables at that point) – and I think nobody would ever forget that night. Politics the next month or two were a disaster. 'Course, it helped when we delegated Leon's duties so he'd help out there and train less with the knights – that helped Arthur a great deal. Then there was soon time for another feast to celebrate the coming baby, and that was a rather awkward reunion…"

Vaguely Uther becomes aware that he's not removed his hand from the warlock's belly yet, so he starts drawing away carefully, which causes the young man to halt in mid-word.

"Oh god, sorry!" Merlin says, pausing to draw breath, "I'm boring you to death and you probably need to get back to Arthur. Just tell him I'm fine. Except Gaius' salves don't work and that potion just made me sick. A massage would be nice. Tell him that. What did they decide, anyway? What was the news? He wouldn't tell me," he finishes in a slight whine.

"I think the King could answer your questions as soon as the meeting is finished," Uther says, diplomatically. After all he doesn't want to be turned into a frog if the news will worry or anger the Consort, and, technically, he hasn't been given any orders to reveal anything by the King. So. "The meeting went … fine. There were some disagreements at first – whenever are there not? But Arthur has things well under control."

"He's getting better at that," Merlin comments absently. "At first he loathed the council meetings. He'd rather be out hunting or bashing the poor knights. It took a while, I think, for him to realize that, you know, he's the King, he can't just delegate the council to somebody else all the time. And for starters not anybody really would listen to me; I'm just a peasant who happens to be married to Arthur."

Uther frowns for a number of reasons. "He left the council duties to you and went hunting instead?"

The warlock nods vigorously, seemingly unaware of the creases forming on George's brow. "Yup. It was a good challenge though! Bit boring and very stressful, but I'm better at it too now. But it's best when we're both there. He shirked it a couple of times but we – talked," there's a slight pause here, "and Arthur admitted he was being an irresponsible prat. King and Prince aren't the same, you know?"

"Oh yes, I know," Uther agrees heartily. He had the same issues when he was first crowned. Being a Prince is a heavy duty, but it seems like a fraction in comparison to the duties of a King. "I understand exactly."

Merlin chuckles, probably not believing the sincerity behind those words (for why would he?). "George, be glad you're not a King! It's truly a pain in the arse. There are times I really miss Ealdor, my mother's cottage … harvesting the crops, baking your own bread, just going unnoticed for a bit - the simple things in life. Being a servant. It's really odd not to be a servant, even now, after nearly five years – there are mornings I wake up and wonder if I'm dreaming. Did I bash my head in that battle with Morgana? Did she put some spell on me and made me imagine all this…? I can't quite believe it. But it's real. It's real," he finishes, quietly, voice melding with the slight noises of the sparkling hearth which is slowly dying.

Without raising a hand, just murmuring some ancient words, the warlock gazes at the fireplace with golden eyes and a couple of logs from the pile float over and land in the fire, quickly bursting into flame. Uther tries his best not to shout, flinch or flee.

Even after so many weeks in this new Camelot - open displays of magic are still unnerving.

"Anyway. Arthur probably didn't send you just to keep me company. Is the meeting still going on?"

"Arthur is having some strategic discussions with several of the knights and Geoffrey," Uther offers, but adds when seeing Merlin's face fall; "but they would be short and I am sure he will return soon."

"He'd better not be late for dinner," the warlock says. "Last time that happened, he'd been out hunting again and found this boar apparently – it was a success, in a way, but they fell into a river. He, Kay and Gwaine ended up returning covered from tip to toe in mud and, of course, James had to mimic that and it was an utter nightmare to get all that dirt from his hair...! Now I'm rambling again. Could you just tell Arthur to get a move on?"

"Ah! George, there you are," one of the kitchen aides exclaims (far too brightly for his current mood) when she sees him. "You've missed two shifts now! Was the meeting that long?"

"Yes. And yes."

He doesn't mention he might, possibly, maybe have missed his second vegetable-chopping-shift on purpose. He doesn't want to become that extra ingredient in one of the cook's stews.

"Well. Now that you're here, you'd better deliver this to our guests," she says and pushes a dangerously overfilled tray of food into his hands. It's just so he manages not to drop it. "It's for the druid delegation. They're in the east wing."

Actually, it's a wonder he doesn't drop anything or spills any wine on the white castle floors on the way through the packed hallways and winding stairs. Now a magic sort of delivery system sure would come in handy! (Except, well, it would be magic, and Uther isn't very sure about the safety of that).

"George!" a voice haunts him down the hall and he turns to see old Gaius there. He groans. No. Not now! He wants to sleep now. Rest. Eat. Sleep. "George, I need your assistance to gather some herbs in the forest."

Uther glares at him. "No! I am NOT some errand-boy who –!"

"You lodged with me far longer than I first allowed," the physician reminds him with a sudden frown, "and you haven't paid me a shilling for it. Consider this payment."

"Payment?!" Uther shrieks, before he can stop himself. "For that lice-filled bed and uneatable gruel?! If anything I should be paid for having stood up with it!"

He ends up in the forest anyway, knee-deep in mud, hands covered in scratches, hunting for herbs he doesn't know the names of (and cannot really recognize either). Someone up there truly must hate him, he decides, occasionally glaring at the blue sky just in case that someone happens to be looking down and seeing his rage.