Chapter Text
The morning light filtered through the towering glass windows of the Pendragon Capital building, casting long lines across the obsidian surface of Uther’s desk. He sat, perfectly still, in his custom leather chair, staring at the latest investment proposal that had just landed on his desk.
Another biotech startup promising “disruption,” “innovation,” and “the future.” They always said the same thing. Uther grunted softly, unimpressed. He was considering whether to crush the deal with one email when the door opened with a polite knock that wasn’t really a knock — it was George’s knock, and George didn’t wait for permission.
“Morning, sir,” said George crisply, entering with a stack of files and the air of someone who had already had three espressos and half a croissant. “Documents for your signature. Quarterly board notes, revisions to the Singapore pitch, and that French merger draft you requested.”
Uther nodded silently, signing without reading — he trusted George more than most.
“Oh, and sir—” George hesitated only a beat, but Uther picked up on it. “Today is Arthur’s birthday.”
Uther's pen paused mid-signature. His face didn’t change, but something behind his eyes did. Three years. Three long years since Arthur had stormed out of their house with a canvas roll under one arm and righteous fury in his voice. “I want to live my own life, not yours,” he’d said.
Uther had said nothing. Because if he had, he would have said the wrong thing.
“I see,” he said now, voice clipped. “Thank you, George.”
George adjusted his tie — the signal that he was about to say something mildly inappropriate. “I thought perhaps you might want to—”
“No,” Uther interrupted. “I do not…” He waved George away like a particularly irritating fly. “Fine. Go.”
George gave a small bow and retreated, not unkindly.
Left alone in the silence of his fortress of steel and glass, Uther leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against the desk. With a sigh, he opened his laptop and clicked into his email, prepared to distract himself with quarterly reports. But something unfamiliar caught his eye.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
A spam mail, surely.
Uther had been one second away from dragging the email into the abyss of his spam folder and blocking the sender for life. He had little patience for anonymous correspondence. Especially ones that began like a letter from a fan—or worse, a charity.
But something had stopped him. A photograph, attached at the bottom of the message.
Uther clicked on it grudgingly.
And froze.
It was Arthur.
His son’s face was covered in a disgraceful amount of whipped cream. There was even a blob of it on his golden hair, right at the crown, like some ridiculous dairy tiara. He looked absurd—laughing, wide-mouthed and unguarded, caught mid-laugh as if someone had called his name and he’d turned around just in time for the camera to catch him at his most human.
Uther stared.
He had never seen Arthur smile like that.
No, that wasn’t quite true. He had. Once. Maybe twice. When Arthur had been small—five? six?—and had pulled him by the hand out into the yard, insisting they play catch. Arthur had laughed like that when Uther had finally thrown the ball, and Arthur had caught it, wide-eyed with glee, like his life had just begun in that moment.
Uther’s throat tightened. He looked back at the email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
I’m your son’s partner. Yes, that son. Arthur. Blond, moody, self-righteous. Probably taller than you by now, though I wouldn’t mention it if I were you.
I’m writing to you because, well—today is his birthday. (Just in case you’ve forgotten. I hear you’re the type who forgets such things, but remembers stock prices to the decimal.)
This morning, I made him a cake. A proper one, too. I even sifted flour like some sort of 1950s housewife. But Arthur, in his infinite brilliance, decided that the cake was best enjoyed by weaponizing it.
He hit me with a handful of whipped cream. To my face. My hair , sir. And worse—my suit. A very expensive suit. Which I will now have to get dry-cleaned. Assuming it’s even salvageable.
Naturally, I retaliated. It was war. There were casualties. The floor will never be the same again.
So, I’m going to be late for work. Again. Which is unfortunate, because my boss is a bigger prat than Arthur on his worst day.
This is not a complaint. (It is absolutely a complaint.)
Anyway, I just thought you should know:
- Your son owes me dry cleaning fees.
- It’s his birthday. You might want to wish him something.
- If not, feel free to yell at him on my behalf. I’d be quite touched.
Yours with just enough respect,
Merlin (yes, like the wizard, no relation)
Uther sat back in his chair, unsure whether he should laugh, scowl, or forward this email directly to Cybersecurity Department.
But his eyes kept drifting back to that photo.
Arthur. Smiling. Happy.
“Bloody hell,” Uther muttered, rubbing his temples.
The email still glowed faintly on Uther’s screen, even after he’d read it three times. Maybe four. He’d like to think it was for analysis — checking for signs of manipulation, sarcasm, false sincerity.
But the truth was simpler.
He couldn’t stop looking at Arthur’s face.
Uther leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched. His hand drifted to his phone, then hovered above it. He pulled it back. Then picked it up again.
No.
Yes.
Damn it.
He unlocked the screen and opened his messages. The last text thread with Arthur was still there, buried under layers of digital dust — a two-line exchange from three years ago. Arthur had said he was leaving. Uther had said, “ Do as you like. ”
Now, he stared at the blinking cursor. He typed something. Deleted it. Typed again.
Happy Birthday.
Too cold.
He added a space.
Added a dash.
Deleted the dash.
Added it back.
Happy Birthday – Dad
He stared at the message for a full minute, thumb hovering over send .
It was ridiculous, how hard this was. He was the CEO of one of the most powerful investment firms in the country. He had fired entire departments with less hesitation.
And yet, sending a text to his own son felt like threading a needle with trembling hands.
Finally, with a soft exhale, he pressed send .
The message flew off, delivered in an instant. Uther stared at the screen as if it might explode.
It didn’t.
Instead, the thread sat there, quiet and unchanged. No typing bubble. No reply. Just silence.
The next morning, Uther arrived earlier than usual. It was still quiet in the halls of Pendragon Capital, the only sound the soft whir of the climate control system and George typing away like a caffeinated machine outside the glass doors.
He sat down at his desk, opened his laptop with the precision of ritual, and ignored the dozen urgent emails already blinking in his inbox: investor updates, consulting pitches, acquisition follow-ups.
His eyes went directly to that sender.
The same unfamiliar address. The same strangely formal subject line.
He clicked it open without hesitation.
There was another photo.
He tapped it.
It was candid — clearly taken without Arthur’s knowledge. Arthur sat barefoot on a worn sofa, legs folded loosely beneath him, like he hadn’t even realized he’d sat down that way.
He was wearing a loose, oversized jersey — Number 1. Arthur Pendragon , the name stitched boldly across the back.
Uther recognized it instantly.
That was his old number. From the Cambridge football team.
Uther had been Number 1. Captain. The pride of the field. And then Arthur had gone to Cambridge too, and chosen the same number. Uther had pretended not to notice at the time.
But he had noticed. He had always noticed.
Arthur had grown up trying to walk in his shadow — and then had run from it the moment he realized how heavy that shadow was.
Now, on the screen, Arthur was staring down at his phone, completely unaware of the camera. His lips were tilted in a subtle, unguarded smile. Not the grin from yesterday — no whipped cream, no ridiculous laughter — but something softer. Something private.
Uther knew, with grim certainty, exactly what was on that phone screen.
His message.
His hands curled slightly around the edges of the laptop.
And then he read the email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
I’m beginning to regret the advice I gave you yesterday.
Clearly, your minimalist fatherly outreach has turned Arthur into a lovesick idiot with the attention span of a stunned goldfish.
This is the eighth time I’ve called his name in the past hour without a single response. I finally had to throw a pillow at him to see if he was still alive.
He's just sitting there. Staring at his phone. Smiling at absolutely nothing like he's in a low-budget romance movie. I'm concerned. Deeply.
So I took a picture. For documentation purposes. Also so you fully understand the kind of chaos you’ve unleashed with your tiny, punctuation-challenged text message.
Congratulations. You’re apparently still his hero.
Yours begrudgingly,
Merlin (still not a wizard, still underpaid)
Uther wasn’t checking his inbox obsessively. He was simply… maintaining awareness. That was his job, after all — staying informed, keeping up with communications, being efficient.
So when the third email from the same untraceable sender popped into his inbox that afternoon, he opened it. Immediately.
Not because he was curious. Certainly not because he was waiting for it.
The subject line was the same: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon.
The attachment — another photo.
He clicked it.
And again, time slowed.
Arthur was painting.
He wore a paint-splattered blue apron, two sizes too big, hanging off one shoulder. There were streaks of red, yellow, and cobalt across his forearms and even his cheek. His hair was messy — more than usual — as if he’d pushed his hands through it a hundred times.
He was completely immersed. His eyes narrow, focused. His mouth slightly open in thought. Uther had seen that look before — but never like this.
On the easel in front of Arthur was a large canvas. The subject: the naked back of a slender, pale man. The figure’s shoulders were slightly hunched, his posture intimate, vulnerable. His back muscles were defined, but not exaggerated — elegant, subtle. He had messy, black curls.
The figure’s face wasn’t visible, but the affection in the brushstrokes was.
Uther stared.
And his memory betrayed him — dragged him back, uninvited, to the last time they’d spoken about art.
It had been in the dining room, a space so cold and echoing it might as well have been a boardroom. Arthur, twenty-two, tan from summer football, had placed his portfolio on the table. He had wanted to switch his major — from economics to fine arts.
Uther hadn’t even opened the folder.
"You’re wasting your time," he’d said. "You’re not a child anymore."
"And I’m not your clone, either," Arthur had snapped. "I don’t want your firm. I never did. I want to do something that actually makes me feel alive."
"Feel alive? What does that even mean?" Uther had stood then, hands clenched. "You think feelings will pay your bills? Will give you a future? You’re a Pendragon. Act like it."
Arthur’s eyes had burned. "I am acting like one. You built this empire from nothing, right? So let me build mine."
"You walk out that door," Uther had said, low and deadly, "don’t expect to walk back in."
Arthur had walked out.
And he hadn’t come back.
Uther had waited. For months. Then a year. Then longer.
He thought Arthur would return when the money dried up.
But Arthur had Uther’s stubbornness.
And he had never returned.
Uther blinked. The present swam back into focus.
He looked again at the photo. At Arthur, painting like nothing else existed.
Then he read the email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
I don’t know if he was like this when he lived with you, but I have to say — your son Arthur is usually very loud .
He teases. Constantly. He talks over movies. He starts arguments with doorframes. His laughter could scare off wildlife. There’s a reason I invest in noise-cancelling headphones.
But when he paints, he goes silent. Completely. And it’s the only time I remember, without frustration, that I’m wildly in love with him.
So I thought I’d share.
This is painting-Arthur. Warrior-Arthur. His brush is his sword — dramatic, I know, but that’s who he is. You probably understand that better than anyone.
(Not that I’ve ever said this to him. And kindly keep it that way. I have a reputation to maintain.)
Side note: he claims the model in the painting is me. Which is ridiculous. I am not that gangly. I’ve been working out recently and have gained very real, very firm muscle.
Arthur says it’s not muscle — just decorative bone structure — and that he has the real muscle. I say he just eats too much.
Yours insincerely,
Merlin (who is apparently art now , thank you very much)
Uther closed the email slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching in a way they hadn’t in years.
He didn’t know who this Merlin was — not really — but he was starting to suspect something important:
Arthur was okay.
Arthur was more than okay.
The emails had become part of his morning routine.
Coffee. Briefing. Aggressive disappointment in the financial news.
And those emails.
He’d never replied, of course. That would be... absurd. Inappropriate. But he read every one.
Arthur in the studio.
Arthur at the farmer’s market, failing to pick a ripe avocado.
Arthur asleep on the sofa with a cat he insisted wasn’t his curled on his chest.
Arthur refusing to eat broccoli “on principle.”
Arthur painting through the night, shirtless and splattered in color like some deranged Greek myth.
The emailer — Merlin, allegedly not a wizard — had become a narrator of a life Uther no longer had access to.
And Uther had come to rely on it. Not emotionally, of course. That would be ridiculous. He was simply... collecting data.
So when the inbox stayed quiet for one day — He didn’t notice.
Two days — He noticed. Slightly.
Three days — He opened his inbox with genuine urgency.
Four —He checked his spam folder.
By day five, he was checking during meetings. Pretending to be reading pitch decks. Pretending the silence didn’t make his chest ache like he’d run a mile in the wrong direction.
He told himself Arthur had probably gone on a trip. Or broken his phone. Or had finally smothered Merlin in a fit of broccoli-fueled rage.
Still —Uther found himself opening a blank email.
Staring at the blinking cursor. For an hour.
He told himself it was about clarity . If something had happened to Arthur, he had a right to know. That was all. It was his duty.
Finally, he typed.
From: [email protected]
Subject: (none)
Text: You’ve been quiet.
Not that I’m keeping track.
If you’ve grown tired of these unsolicited updates, that’s your choice.
But if something has happened to Arthur, I expect to be informed. Immediately.
—U.P.
He hovered over send .
Then, with a grimace like someone forcing down unpleasant medicine, he hit the button.
And for the first time in over years, Uther Pendragon waited for someone else to write back.
The boardroom was filled with voices. Projections. Strategy charts.
Uther wasn’t listening.
His phone buzzed in his lap.
A familiar chime.
He glanced at it.
1 new message.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: (none)
He stood. Abruptly.
The room fell silent.
“I have to take this,” he said curtly. And without waiting for permission — he walked out.
Let the junior partners speculate. Let them panic.
Let them learn that Uther Pendragon never explained himself.
But he did leave meetings when his son was involved. Apparently.
He marched down the hallway, ignoring George’s raised eyebrows, and locked himself in his office.
Closed the blinds. Sat down. And opened the email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: (none)
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
I know I once told you I’m your son’s partner.
I’m afraid I need to correct that now. I am no longer your son’s partner.
Because your son is an absolute dollophead .
Uther frowned. Dollophead? That wasn’t a real word. Was it?
He kept reading.
A curator contacted Arthur. They’re hosting his first solo exhibition .
That’s the good news.
If this goes well, Arthur might finally stop calculating how many tubes of ultramarine blue he can afford this month. (Which, by the way, are criminally overpriced . I’m starting to suspect oil paint is infused with powdered unicorn.)
Arthur’s been working like mad for this show.
Three years of effort. Sweat. Possibly tears — although he’ll never admit it. This exhibition means something to him.
And I made the foolish mistake of suggesting—
“Hey. Maybe you should invite your father.”
Guess what happened next?
He yelled to me. Apparently, I have “no right” to comment on his relationship with you.
I said maybe someone should , since clearly neither of you know what the hell you’re doing.
He told me to leave. So I did.
And he didn’t follow.
(That part, I suspect, he learned from you.
He said when he left home, you didn’t chase him either.
He’s truly your son.)
So now I guess we’re done.
I left my keys. I took the cat.
But—if you care.
If you still care.
The invitation is attached.
To the gallery. To his work. To his heart, really.
Go see it. See him.
You’ll be stunned. He’s extraordinary.
Sincerely, or maybe not,
Merlin (currently not speaking to your son, but still in love with him, which is annoying)
Uther stared at the screen.
He didn't move for a long time.
The attachment blinked at him silently.
An invitation to his son’s life — offered not by Arthur, but by the one person who had somehow made Arthur’s laughter reach him again.
He clicked the file.
Uther didn’t know why he was here.
He told George he had an offsite meeting.
Told himself it was just curiosity.
That he was evaluating potential investments in the arts sector.
(He almost convinced himself.)
But none of that explained why his hand was trembling slightly as he accepted the exhibition brochure.
Or why his throat felt tight as he read the title:
“Arthur Pendragon — Becoming ”
Solo Exhibition
The gallery was flooded with light.
Soft murmurs.
Clicking shoes.
People holding wine glasses and pretending they weren’t emotionally compromised by oil and canvas.
Uther walked among them, alone.
He saw a few glimpses of Arthur’s style — bold, unapologetic brushwork. Saturated with color.
Each painting a quiet rebellion, a story he had never been told.
And then he stopped before a painting.
His own face stared back at him.
But not this version of himself.
Not the CEO. Not the stiff-collared patriarch.
He was in armor. A deep crimson cloak over broad shoulders. A gold crown resting gently on graying hair.
Lined face. Piercing eyes. Regal. Severe.
But there was something in the eyes.
Softness, buried beneath command.
Not just a king —A father.
Uther felt his chest tighten.
He leaned forward and read the plaque beneath the painting.
My Hero
The words struck him like a blade to the ribs.
He stepped back.
The detail was impossible.
Every crease in his brow.
Every tension in his jaw.
But painted with affection .
Not flattery — truth.
Arthur had been watching him.
All these years.
Every expression. Every frown.
Every moment Uther thought he’d gone unnoticed, discarded, forgotten —
Arthur had seen him. And loved him.
Uther swallowed hard.
His hand curled at his side.
He had never looked at his son the way Arthur had looked at him.
He moved on, breath caught in his throat—And then he saw it.
The painting. That painting.
He’d seen it once, unfinished, in a photo attached to an email written in sarcasm and love.
Now it hung in the center of the gallery. A spotlight illuminating it like a cathedral relic.
The man’s back was bare, slender and pale, dipped in warm light.
Lines of muscle and bone, graceful and strong.
Dark curls tumbling down his neck.
The figure stood with his back to the world, vulnerable and beautiful.
No name on the plaque.
No title.
But Uther knew. And so did Arthur.
He saw his son then.
Arthur stood in front of the painting, hands in his pockets. Looking.
At the man in the portrait, the man he had loved, the man he had pushed away.
And in his blue eyes—
Not pride.
Not defiance.
But sorrow. Regret.
Love.
Uther remained where he was, hidden in the edge of the room.
He watched his son watch the painting.
And for the first time in a long time—Uther truly saw him.
Uther didn’t hesitate.
He walked through the gallery crowd with the same steady command he used to close million-dollar deals.
But his heartbeat—It was faster than any boardroom negotiation.
He stopped just behind Arthur, where his son stood staring at the portrait that had once been just brushstrokes and an email attachment.
Uther lifted his hand—
And rested it gently on Arthur’s shoulder.
Arthur flinched, turning in surprise.
“Father!” he blurted. “What—how—”
Uther looked at him. Really looked.
The same boy who had once dragged him outside to play catch.
The young man who had stood, furious and trembling, in their living room with a sketchbook and a suitcase.
Now, older. Wiser.
Still stubborn.
And still his son.
“Maybe I should’ve said this years ago,” Uther began, his voice lower, rougher than usual. “But, Arthur… you’ve done well. You’ve done brilliantly .”
Arthur blinked. His mouth opened slightly.
Uther pressed on.
“You’ve always been my pride. Even when I didn’t understand you. Even when I disagreed with you.”
He glanced toward the portrait again. “And clearly… I never really saw how much you understood me.”
Arthur’s face twisted—half disbelief, half emotion. “I—” he tried to speak, then gave a small, shaky laugh. “I thought you hated everything I was doing.”
“I thought I was protecting you,” Uther said quietly. “And in doing that, I pushed you away. That was my failure, not yours.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them.
Thick with years of anger, disappointment, love.
Then Arthur took a breath and said, softer now, “But… how are you even here? I never sent you an invitation.”
Uther gave a small smile. One of the rare ones.
He pointed to the painting of the dark-haired man. “He invited me.”
Arthur stiffened. “Merlin?! How do you—how do you know Merlin?”
Uther sighed. “That’s… complicated. It involves quite a few mails...”
Arthur looked utterly confused. “What—what mails?”
Uther waved a hand. “Later. I’ll explain everything later.”
Then he stepped closer, lowered his voice. “But for now, go find him. Do what I should’ve done three years ago.”
Arthur stared.
“Go get him back,” Uther said, firm but kind. “Because if you let him go…” He narrowed his eyes slightly.“…then you really are a dollophead. Even if I still don’t know what that means.”
Arthur burst out laughing—real, bright, breathless.
Then he nodded, determined. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll find him.”
And with that, Arthur turned and ran— Out of the gallery, i nto the street, and toward the man who had always been his home.
The morning was quiet.
Too quiet.
Uther Pendragon sat at his usual place by the wide window, a cup of black coffee in hand.
His computer pinged.
A new email.
From that address.
He clicked it immediately. Faster than he probably should’ve.
And as always, the subject line read: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
It’s me again—Merlin.
(You may have guessed. I doubt anyone else would bother with this kind of dramatic nonsense in your inbox.)
By the way, I’m your son’s partner again.
Because yesterday, your absolute idiot of a son ran all the way from the gallery to my mum's apartment—panting like a dying llama, mind you—because apparently, he forgot that transportation is a thing.But wait, it gets better.
He dropped to one knee right on my porch, pulled out a ring, and proposed .
While my mum was sitting in the living room.She nearly fainted.
It was chaos.
He said a whole mess of things—apologies, thank-yous, emotional gibberish—while holding onto me like I was the last biscuit on Earth. And yes… he cried.
(And I might have cried too, but we don’t talk about that.)
I said yes.
So I guess now you’re about to have two sons.
He said he’ll bring me to meet you properly this weekend.
Now, technically, I already know you—but I suppose it’ll be different this time, now that I’m not hiding behind secret emails.
(I do hope you’ll go easy on me. Though I’m not afraid of a little sparring.)
Oh, and one last thing:
Please confirm that I do have more muscle than that portrait of me Arthur painted.
Yes, it sold for a good price—hurrah and all that—but the idea of someone hanging a nude of me in their study is honestly… unsettling.
See you soon,
—Merlin (Your Future Son-In-Law, Apparently)
Uther let out a long breath. He stared into his coffee.
Then his eyes drifted toward the living room—
To the wall where one particular painting now hung.
The same portrait Merlin had just mentioned.
Back turned. Soft skin. Wild curls.
Delicate, vulnerable, and undeniably loveable .
Uther took another sip, lips twitching to a smile.
He was, surprisingly, looking forward to the weekend.
And—if the boy dared to argue muscle mass again—maybe a polite arm-wrestling match was in order.