Uther, King: chapter the third
Chapter the Third
Threw Merlin in the stocks today.
Knew it was really all Arthur’s fault (it always is, isn’t it?) but couldn’t resist knocking Merlin down a peg. Would have been down in the square throwing tomatoes myself if mingling with the commoners weren’t so far beneath me. Settled for watching from behind the curtains of my balcony.
Guinevere seemed awfully upset about it. Maybe she has feelings for Merlin? Possible I have had her pegged all wrong. Penchant for bringing Morgana flowers and brushing Morgana’s hair while she’s sleeping still confusing, though. Note to self: encourage Guinevere-Merlin affair. Distasteful, yes, but potentially advantageous.
Uther kept a journal. A manly journal. Really more of a historical record of the great rule of King Uther Pendragon maintained for posterity…a record that no one could ever, ever see. Who was he kidding? It was a bloody diary. And it was all Gaius’ idea! He had told Gaius about the dreams. Not the details of course, simply that stress was affecting his sleep more than usual. He had brought it up to the physician in hopes of a new sleeping draught or some such, not because he wanted to talk about his feelings, as though he were some swooning lady of the court. But then Gaius had reminded him of the million times that he had been right when Uther himself had been wrong (Morgana’s brain fever, the time that he thought compress of dragon dung would cure the rash down there) and had asked Uther to trust him this once. Only Gaius could get away with speaking to him that way! Was it their long, fraught history together? Or was it that look that only Gaius could give him? Sometimes Uther swore that Gaius had cast some sort of enchantment upon his eyebrow that endowed him with strange powers. It would sure explain a lot.
Uther was supposed to be writing about his dreams, or at least the matters of state that were weighing him down. But Merlin got under his skin more than all of his important troubles combined these days. Just the thought of him made Uther irritable. He wanted to take Merlin’s tacky scarf and choke him with it. Ok, maybe that was a little extreme. Irritable didn’t begin to cover Uther’s moods these days.
His closed his eyes, took a deep breath, made his pained ‘I am the King of Camelot and therefore constantly very much beset upon, no one can understand the depths of my sacrifices’ face and refocused. He fi-
…
He cradled the phone on his shoulder and punched the numbers off of his receipts into the calculator with one hand, a stack of books piled precariously on his other arm. The phone was beginning to dig painfully into ear, sales totals for the day were abysmal, and his brain hurt from trying to interpret some particularly frustrating runes. Everyone relied on him too much. It used to mean something to him, that so many believed in him in ways he had never believed in himself. Now he was just exhausted. Even the Magic Box, which had once excited, was beginning to feel like a boring, boring burden. No less than three customers had asked him if his shop carried “Remembralls” today. He was trying to decide what he hated more just for existing-those stupid Harry Potter books for inspiring such rabid lunacy or his stupid bank for keeping him on hold for over twenty minutes-when he thought he heard something out back.
He stopped crunching numbers, hung the phone up, and set the books down as quietly as he could. After grabbing the giant troll hammer from the nearest display case, he crept toward the back door. Halfway there, he was sure he heard something again. A sort of muffled thumping? He crept closer. Was that…heavy breathing? He knew from experience it was likely one of two things: a disgusting, heavy footed, mouth-breathing demon, or a disgusting, chain smoking, bleachy smelling demon named Spike. He steeled himself, grabbed the doorknob, twisted and yanked.
It was Spike. Of course. He was hunched over, facing the wall, banging his forehead against it. He had a bottle of Jack in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. Giles wasn’t going to ask himself or Spike why the vampire’s fly was unzipped.
“Spike?!? What the bloody hell? Get a hold of yourself, man! This is pathetic.”
“Oh, I’m way past pathetic.” Great, Spike was drunk. Again. “And don’t you dare think I don’t know it.” He took a drag of his cigarette and belched some putrid mixture that reeked of smoke, whiskey and what Giles suspected was kitten blood. “By the by, have you seen the Slayer around here lately?”
“She’s not here. Go home, Spike.”
“Alright. S’not like I care. Nothing on the telly, s’all,” he slurred. “’M goin’ back to the crypt. Catch the end of Passions and whatnot. If you see Buffy, tell her…don’t tell her anything.” Spike stumbled off down the alley, stubbing his undead toe and letting out a loud stream of profanities in the process. “Fuck, fuck, fucking FUCK!!!”
Giles didn’t know if he felt more amused or concerned. Good god, Spike needed all kinds of help. If only Buffy would do something to squelch this bizarre and unnatural crush. He was starting to suspect that she liked Spike hanging all over her. Maybe she just liked the drama? Either way he had some thoroughly dull runes to get back to. He turned to open the door, and had barely caught a glimpse of the gruesome creature before it hit him over the head with the troll hammer. His last thought was that he was positive he had been the one holding the hammer. Then there was only darkness.
...
Uther was going to have to reconsider his whole ‘Merlin is the worst of my problems’ mentality. Damn it all to hell!