'Thou art the Pendragon.' As the Druid spoke, Uther's gaze was drawn to his lips, wet and red, drawn back in a toothless mocking grin. Small flecks of spittle and acorns erupted with each word, and Uther felt himself step back, 'Thou art the Pendragon, tis true, yet for now, thou art but a half-dead King.' Cackling laughter faded into an uncertain distance as Uther sank away to be embraced once more by his sorrow and his grief.
It was the rain that finally woke him. The soft sounds of it splashing and splattering onto the stones below the small window and echoing up into his cell. Once his mind had identified water, then it was the nagging thought of it, a drink of water so incredibly precious, because his neglected body was so, so thirsty that he was dragged up and out of his dreams.
Re
