The next morning found Arthur up and dressed early, without Merlin’s ‘help’. He had sent word that Merlin was to help Gaius with the morning rounds, and then report to Arthur when he was finished. Merlin’s history showed that he had appalling timing of saying precisely the wrong thing at the wrong time, so it was best to keep him safely out of the way.
Merlin approached the prince’s quarters the next morning with some trepidation. He had never returned to complete his evening chores, assuming that the king and prince would want some privacy. And he had been half-right; Arthur hadn’t sent a servant after him, but coming upon Uther prowling around in Gaius’ chambers and the resulting awkward conversation/threat had left the young warlock sufficiently spooked with a bad taste in his mouth.
“So, young Pendragon,” the dragon rumbled as Arthur stopped just beyond the opening to the cave. “You have come at last.”
Arthur stepped out onto the ledge. He and the dragon regarded each other for a long moment, assessing. The dragon inclined his head slightly, an acknowledgement of royal to royal, and Arthur returned the gesture, sheathing his sword but letting his hand rest easily on the hilt.
“You were born of magic.”
Igraine is still speaking, but Merlin only distantly hears the rest, his entire being caught up by that one revealing sentence.
You were born of magic.
It explained so much. He had sensed that connection, the meeting of two kindred spirits, from the first time he had met Arthur, though they had both recoiled rather violently from the recognition.
I nervously smoothed my skirt, secretly drying my sweaty palms as I perched on the stiff chair of Uncle Lou’s office. His secretary, a beautiful, long legged blonde more physically suited for the secretarial position in a porn movie than working for a fat, balding, middle aged man, finally found the intercom button.