the one where the dragon gets released
The funny thing is, I don't actually do drugs. Yet I write stuff like this.
When Arthur found out about Merlin being a (Super Secret!) Sorcerer, he’d been moderately non-plussed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he’d demanded, arms crossed, pout turned up to full, and almost (but not quite) stamping his foot on the stone tile.
Merlin had given him a look that said his trials in life were very great, indeed, and could he have another prince to share a destiny with because this one was clearly an idiot, and said simply “I wasn’t all that fond of barbeque”, at which point Arthur had actually stamped his foot and asked, hurt, why Merlin didn’t feel he could trust him. Merlin had pointed out that Arthur regularly had him thrown in the stocks for failing to adequately polish his boots, or for delivering lukewarm soup, and once for having a bad hair day, so goodness knows what Arthur would have done if he’d found out his manservant was actually all kinds of illegal, and Arthur had had to grudgingly concede that Merlin may have had a point.
He’d immediately made magic legal again, but still hadn’t spoken to Merlin for a week anyway. It was the principle of the thing.
When he’d (mostly) gotten over it, (Super Secret! Sorcerer) Merlin had gently broached the subject of the Dragon.
“You should probably let it out,” he said, “I’m just saying. Given that you are really, spectacularly shit at keeping powerful and magical beasts alive and well, and bad things tend to happen when they die.”
“Dragon,” Arthur laughed, “that’s a good one!” and he’d laughed solidly until Merlin’s ears turned red and he found himself being dragged through the dungeons and, oh my god there really was a dragon.
“How do you think you got your name?” Merlin pointed out as Arthur stood there gaping, “I mean, Pendragon. Don’t tell me you never thought about it?”
Arthur just stared blankly at the dragon.
“You never thought about it,” Merlin said flatly, “Of course. Of course you never thought about it. That would require thinking, which is something that you never do, unless it’s about the laundress’ Gigantic Heaving Bosoms, which I know you happen to think about quite a lot.”
Arthur blinked. They were very large, very heaving bosoms. It was hard not to think about them. He said as much.
“You’re right,” said the Dragon, “he is an idiot.”
“I’ve been telling you,” said Merlin through gritted teeth.
“All this time I thought you were being melodramatic,” the Dragon mused.
“You do have those tendencies,” Arthur chimed in, surer of his footing now that they were good-naturedly insulting Merlin. He could win awards in Good Naturedly Insulting Merlin, at an international level.
Merlin glared, “Just let the dragon go, Arthur.”
“What will happen if I do?” Arthur asked the Dragon warily, given his distinctly terrible track record with powerful and magical beasts. “Are you going to eat me? Destroy Camelot? Burninate the peasants and their thatched-roofed cottages?”
“No,” said the Dragon witheringly, “I’m going to fly far, far away, maybe eat a cow, and then figure out how I’m going to face my wife. I’m thirty years late for our anniversary dinner, AND I left her alone with the egg.”
“Oh dear,” said Arthur sympathetically, “would it help if I wrote you a note?”
When Arthur found out about Merlin being a (Super Secret!) Sorcerer, he’d been moderately non-plussed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he’d demanded, arms crossed, pout turned up to full, and almost (but not quite) stamping his foot on the stone tile.
Merlin had given him a look that said his trials in life were very great, indeed, and could he have another prince to share a destiny with because this one was clearly an idiot, and said simply “I wasn’t all that fond of barbeque”, at which point Arthur had actually stamped his foot and asked, hurt, why Merlin didn’t feel he could trust him. Merlin had pointed out that Arthur regularly had him thrown in the stocks for failing to adequately polish his boots, or for delivering lukewarm soup, and once for having a bad hair day, so goodness knows what Arthur would have done if he’d found out his manservant was actually all kinds of illegal, and Arthur had had to grudgingly concede that Merlin may have had a point.
He’d immediately made magic legal again, but still hadn’t spoken to Merlin for a week anyway. It was the principle of the thing.
When he’d (mostly) gotten over it, (Super Secret! Sorcerer) Merlin had gently broached the subject of the Dragon.
“You should probably let it out,” he said, “I’m just saying. Given that you are really, spectacularly shit at keeping powerful and magical beasts alive and well, and bad things tend to happen when they die.”
“Dragon,” Arthur laughed, “that’s a good one!” and he’d laughed solidly until Merlin’s ears turned red and he found himself being dragged through the dungeons and, oh my god there really was a dragon.
“How do you think you got your name?” Merlin pointed out as Arthur stood there gaping, “I mean, Pendragon. Don’t tell me you never thought about it?”
Arthur just stared blankly at the dragon.
“You never thought about it,” Merlin said flatly, “Of course. Of course you never thought about it. That would require thinking, which is something that you never do, unless it’s about the laundress’ Gigantic Heaving Bosoms, which I know you happen to think about quite a lot.”
Arthur blinked. They were very large, very heaving bosoms. It was hard not to think about them. He said as much.
“You’re right,” said the Dragon, “he is an idiot.”
“I’ve been telling you,” said Merlin through gritted teeth.
“All this time I thought you were being melodramatic,” the Dragon mused.
“You do have those tendencies,” Arthur chimed in, surer of his footing now that they were good-naturedly insulting Merlin. He could win awards in Good Naturedly Insulting Merlin, at an international level.
Merlin glared, “Just let the dragon go, Arthur.”
“What will happen if I do?” Arthur asked the Dragon warily, given his distinctly terrible track record with powerful and magical beasts. “Are you going to eat me? Destroy Camelot? Burninate the peasants and their thatched-roofed cottages?”
“No,” said the Dragon witheringly, “I’m going to fly far, far away, maybe eat a cow, and then figure out how I’m going to face my wife. I’m thirty years late for our anniversary dinner, AND I left her alone with the egg.”
“Oh dear,” said Arthur sympathetically, “would it help if I wrote you a note?”