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The starling is back. Or at least a starling – Arthur has no way of knowing if it's the same one as yesterday, but he likes to think it is. He watches it hop along his windowsill, wondering if it's lost. He's used to seeing starlings in groups, great clouds of them wheeling and spreading like smoke across the sky. Down by the river. Down by the shore where he'd been found, where as a boy he'd dreamt of following, of flying the whole wide world and never, ever, being alone.
"Sir?"
With a sigh Arthur swivels his chair away from the window. Giorgio is hovering in the doorway, clutching a portfolio. Arthur gestures him in, saying, "Yes?"
"It's just… The Brass-Tastic campaign, sir. A few last-minute tweaks, if you'd care to have a look before the pitch?"
"Of course, of course," Arthur says, leaning across his desk and holding out a hand. "Oh, and, Giorgio?"
"Yes?"
Arthur glances at the lone piece of paper tacked up on the cork strip above his whiteboard. It's a save-the-date postcard for Lance's wedding in May: Two grinning, handsome, windswept men tucked up in a driftwood fort with a bottle of wine and a pair of adorable water spaniels.
Please Join Us! it reads, and all awkwardness aside – Lance isn't technically an ex, but Gwen claims the three of them were a near thing during fresher's week and there'd been a lot of subsequent repression and pining – in the moment Arthur wants nothing more than to do so, if for no other reason than that the wedding is far, far away from his sterile office, on a postcard-perfect beach in the States where there will presumably be friendly dogs and copious amounts of wine.
"Provided all goes well today, I'd like you to take the lead on Brass-Tastic," Arthur says, putting some effort into his smile. "And I have a trip coming up in May. I'll send you the details."
Merlin swims with Kyra's clan as far as Mussel Point, then sings them off with blessings for their journey north, watching over the grey whale migration.
"Come soon, come soon," they croon, swarming around him, flicking him with their tails. The little ones dart in to butt their heads against his chest.
"Take care, Emrys," Kyra adds once she's got everyone back in formation. "Best fishes."
"Best fishes," he replies. He executes an elaborate tumbling turn, flicking streams of bubbles towards the children, and swims back south, towards the jutting headland that marks the entrance to a shallow bay. He doesn't know what it is this season, but something's been calling to him, itching under his skin and scales, urging him to stay in these waters.
In the weeks that follow, he sleeps poorly. He spends far too much time tagging along on the leopard sharks' night feeds, ferrying impatient starfish around the bay, and eavesdropping on bachelor sea lion gossip.
He's used to being lonely – no amount of joy or daily purpose can patch the deepest cracks in his soul – but he is, he realizes, out of practice at being alone. The Finned Folk rest together in caverns deep beneath the waves in a comforting press of bodies, limbs and tails entwined. Before taking this form, he'd spent half a century with a colony of emperor penguins, and before that…
Well, it's been a long time since he's travelled solo or slept on his own.
Eventually he finds a broody octopus that's not picky about sharing her cave. It's not the same as being with Kyra's clan, but it is eight limbs, some friendly grooming, and conversation.
"What are you waiting for?" the octopus says, idly plucking krill from his hair and popping them in her beak. "What do you seek?"
"I'm not sure," Merlin admits. "But I'm certain I will find it nearby."
"Very well then, but for tomorrow at least, beware of going too close to the harbor channel or the north end of the bay. The Two-Foots will be thick on the water for the blessing of their fleet. You mustn't risk being seen."
Merlin sighs, releasing a thick stream of bubbles. "I fear the Two-Foots see very little these days."
"Speak for yourself, Emrys. If it weren't for my chromatophores and quick reflexes, I have it on good authority there'd be compromising images of me up in their clouds."
Merlin drifts off into an uneasy slumber wondering what, exactly, might be considered compromising to an octopus and whether his weary magic might sustain a cloaking spell long enough to watch the boat parade. He's been purposefully avoiding humanity, it's true, but when they are at their best, they are splendid, and he's still a sucker for pageantry.
Arthur blinks as the fuchsia hardside plastered with colorful decals comes trundling past for the sixth – no, seventh – time on the baggage carousel. It's on its own now, and a glance confirms that nothing new has dropped down the chute.
He's one of only twenty or so passengers that he recognizes from his flight still stationed at this carousel, all of them bleary-eyed, most impatient. He envies those who've been met by friends and family. They seem fresher somehow, softer.
He's beginning to despair of ever being reunited with his luggage before the wedding – is idly wondering if there's a special U.S. Customs baggage version of lone sock purgatory – when he's bear-hugged from behind and nearly lifted off his feet.
"Pendy!"
"He lives!"
"What the…?" Arthur sputters, twisting round as soon as he's released to find Percy beaming down at him and, a few steps back, a good third of his best mates from uni. They're dressed as if they've just raided an outdoor clothing shop and are sporting a few days' worth of stubble.
"Ready for the stag weekend of the century?" Gwaine says, nudging Percy aside to claim a hug of his own, then passing him off to Elyan.
"Please," Arthur says with feeling. "But I thought – "
"Like we were going to let you hire a car and drive up all on your lonesome after that hell-flight," Elyan says, giving him a solid squeeze.
Leon leans over Elyan to muss Arthur's hair. "We're just excited you could make it. Didn’t want you to get lost, or wind up over a cliff."
Arthur snorts. "You mean Lance insisted you fetch me."
"Elias too," Percy says, shrugging. "I think they're cheating and trying to sneak couple time before the wedding. They gave all the others chores as well."
Gwaine rolls his eyes. "But hey, it's not like we mind. Arthur, mate, it's been ages! Grab your gear and you can catch us up on the drive."
"Yes, well, you see I would do, but…" Arthur turns back towards the carousel just in time to see the fuchsia hardside sliding into view again. His own gunmetal grey case is now sprawled half on top of it. He gives a little whoop and darts forward to grab it.
"Ah! Reunited at last," an older gentleman comments, watching Arthur wrestle the case off the belt. "There's hope for us all."
It's not these waters holding Merlin captive. It's the land. He feels the pull of it on the day of the boat parade. He swims in closer to the beach than he ever has before, bobbing alongside one of the great stone jetties that mark the entrance to the harbor channel.
The fishermen's boats are decked out in fresh coats of gleaming paint, colorful flags, and garlands; the leisure craft are packed with friends and family. He lingers long after the last of them pass by, eyes dazzled by the spectacle, but more so by all the faces – still hopeful, still smiling, even though they must know as well as Merlin does that, blessings or no, their catch will be down again this year.
He lingers so long his cloaking spell wears thin, but it holds. The rough, sun-warmed rock feels like a balm to his magic, and he misses it once he's back beneath the sea.
He returns the next day, and the next, haunting the waters near the beach and the harbor channel, watching the boats come and go and the beach campground fill up for the season. When he gets tired of fighting the current he hauls himself up above the tideline on one of the jetties and suns himself like a sea lion.
One afternoon he falls asleep, and is nearly discovered by a gaggle of kayakers. A laugh startles him awake just in time to dive back into the water. It's bright and braying, and stays with him long after the paddlers are gone.
"Does the water feel colder to you?" he asks the octopus that night.
"No, if anything it feels warmer," she grumbles. "Bad for feeding." She enfolds him in three of her arms, gently checking him over with the others. She tuts over the state of his scale mites and the spreading whitish patch on one of his tailfins.
"You are neglecting yourself, Emrys. Wasting your magic up there in the sun."
"I heard the most beautiful sound today," he says, smiling, and lets the rest of her words wash over him as he drifts off to sleep.
Arthur wakes with the sun, pulled from a welter of dreams by the increasing glare beyond his eyelids. He's half-hard and bathed in sweat, but can't remember why. The air reeks of stale wine and woodsmoke. His shoulders feel tight, his back painfully stiff. He knows for certain he's not in his own bed, but it takes him a moment – blinking up at translucent grey polyester instead of a ceiling fan, listening to the skirling of seagulls and soft human snores – to remember where he is.
He sits up with a grimace, mopping his face with the discarded shirt he finds at his hip, and looks around the tent. Leon's reclining against his rucksack in the far corner, idly scratching his belly, nose buried in a paperback; the other lads are still asleep, sprawled haphazardly across the foam mats and sleeping bags they'd thrown down as padding. They all look about as disgusting as Arthur feels save for Lance, who always sleeps sweetly like he's on camera, waiting for true love's kiss.
Which – really, Pendragon? Arthur thinks, wincing – is exactly why they're here. He pitches forward and, once he's certain he's not about to vomit, crawls to the door and starts to unzip the flap.
"Going for a walk," he mouths when he catches Leon peering at him over the top of his book.
Leon blinks, frowning, then gives a nod and goes back to reading. Arthur's in a crouch, ducking through the flap when something hits him in the back. He looks down to see a bundle of fabric. It’s the jeans he was wearing last night, the belt still threaded through the loops.
"You might want those," Leon whispers, "unless you're trying to get arrested for indecent exposure."
Arthur's briefs are no more indecent than some of the swimwear he's seen on European beaches, but they are unmistakably underwear, cock flap and all, and not something he'd normally stride around in. Who knew one could get so bladdered on pinot noir?
"Cheers," he whispers back.
"And brood all you like, but don't you dare be late."
Arthur grins as he zips the flap closed behind him and struggles into his jeans. He may not be lucky in love – may be, in fact supremely unlucky, given the number of exes' and almost-exes' weddings he's attended in the past three years – but his mates from uni really are good people. He's been having a great time, is already plotting how he might get together with some of them more often despite how scattered they are, and so what if he's the only one here without a plus-one staying up at the resort?
He wanders down the path towards the shower house, nodding at other early risers. He washes his hands and face, then drinks his fill from the water fountain and sets off for the beach. The first whiff of it hits him as he rounds a windbreak of stunted cypress: the thick, briny tang of rotting kelp. There are masses of it washed up at this end of the beach, ropy bundles strewn across the sand and mounded along the base of the jetty.
It's buzzing with insects. Once Arthur's eyes have adjusted, he notes small crabs and snails as well, which explains all the birds gathered around like it’s a Vegas buffet.
Must be nice, he thinks, to be so useful in death.
He turns left, thinking to walk towards cleaner sand, when his eye is caught by a flash of something surfacing out in the water, near the entrance to the harbor. A sea lion, no doubt. Lance said there's a big rock out by the headland where they all like to hang out, but Arthur's yet to see one up close.
He changes course and makes for the jetty instead, picking his way through the kelp and moss and scrambling up the tumbled rocks. The top isn't made for walking on, but Arthur's seen plenty of people doing so in the past few days, hopping from stone to stone to claim a prime fishing spot. And yesterday, he could have sworn he'd spotted some guy sunbathing naked on the rocks. When his kayak drew abreast of the spot, however, he was gone. Gwaine had diagnosed him with "blueball-induced hallucinations" and later written him a script for anonymous hook-ups with hot surfers.
Arthur's pretty sure it wound up in the campfire.
Merlin wakes well before dawn. There's no pale moon, no starlight down this deep to tell him so, but after all this time the turning of the planet is something he feels in his bones. He disentangles himself from the octopus's grasp and swims up from the depths, then rides the flood current in towards the beach.
There's a thin scum of fog clinging to the headland, but Merlin knows it won't last beyond the hour. He hangs out in the shelter of Bachelor Rock, catching up with the sea lions until the last of the fishing fleet clears the channel entrance and chugs off into the bay.
He dives again, tucking his arms along his sides and propelling himself through the water on core and tail muscle alone, sleek and fast. He surfaces near the end of the north jetty in an explosive shower of spray, startling a pair of gulls.
"Sorry," he calls out, blinking until his eyes adjust to the air. "Misjudged the wave."
The gulls respond with a stream of absolute filth directed at Merlin, his clan, their supposed ancestry, and the Finned Folk in general as they hover over him. He's forced to dive deep to avoid getting pecked; when he resurfaces they've gone, flapping off towards the beach, but he can still hear them yammering.
"Bloody gulls!" Merlin says as he shakes the water from his hair. He tries to remember if they've always been so rude, or if humanity's rubbing off on them.
"Bullying you, were they?"
It's Merlin's turn to startle. The voice is warm, rich – human. He looks around, but sees nothing but rocks. He holds his breath and puts all of his concentration into his cloaking spell as he swims around the end of the jetty.
He sees the man's feet first. And the ridiculous thing is, Merlin is sure he knows these feet, from their tender arches to their sweet, knobby toes. He has the strangest urge to butt his head against them; by the time his gaze reaches the man's face, he's trembling all over. There is something familiar about his eyes, too.
The man leans forward. He's smiling. "Hey, it's you! I mean, you were out here yesterday, right? On the rocks?"
"You…you can see me?" Merlin whispers.
"Sure can." The man cocks his head to one side, playful expression sliding into one of concern. "You alright there? Kind of cold to be swimming without a wetsuit, and I'm told the currents can be dangerous out here."
Merlin forgets to keep cycling his tail for balance, and the next wave pushes him up against the rocks. The man reaches for him, and before Merlin knows it he's hauled up onto the jetty, tail flopping and scales glittering in the sun.
"Make that swimming without any suit," the man says as he looks Merlin over. "Brave man."
His reaction makes no sense. The Finned Folk have kept their distance from humans for centuries, yet he doesn’t appear surprised or repulsed by Merlin's fish parts. He doesn’t appear to have noticed them, even.
Merlin draws himself up beside the man and settles himself on one hip. He lets the cloaking spell dissolve and watches carefully for any reaction. "Can you… What do you see, now?"
"Same as yesterday." The man reddens as his gaze flits along Merlin's body, then back up. "Someone I'd like to know better, if that's not too forward."
Merlin laughs, feeling as if he's swallowed bubbles, or sunlight. It's not the land, it's this man, right here. That's what – whom – he's been waiting for. The man who never looked for his magic, but for what was in his heart, who valued his friendship and loyalty above all else.
"You can see me! I mean, the original me. With feet."
"Feet, hands, and everything in between," the man says, chuckling. "And clearly as original as they come. I'm Arthur, by the way."
Merlin takes the offered hand and brings it to his face, breathing gently into the open palm before remembering that that is not how it goes above sea level. He flips Arthur's hand over and kisses his knuckles.
"Of course you are," he murmurs. "I remember that now. And I am Merlin. Naturally." He holds out his hand to be kissed.
The guy is odd, but charming, and awkwardly, unabashedly beautiful. He's got a lean, powerful torso, legs for days, and dark hair in all the right places, not to mention a lovely package. He also has, as Giorgio would say, "zero chill," staring at Arthur like he's never seen or heard of anything so fascinating as a mid-thirties marketing exec on holiday.
As near as he can tell, Merlin is a bit of a wanderer. He mentions some people he was traveling with recently who left him to go whale-watching up along the Lost Coast. Or maybe it's that Merlin decided to stay behind. Arthur's no prude, and he's been in plenty of locker rooms, but Merlin's nudity is distinctly distracting.
His skin seems too fragile for the rough rocks and harsh sunlight. Arthur wants to protect him. If he's honest with himself, he also wants to touch. The feel of Merlin's lips on his skin had filled him with a bright, fierce pride, and Merlin's skin had felt soft and cool against his own.
"Say, I know it's sudden, but are you free this afternoon by any chance?"
Merlin sighs heavily. "I am always free. That is my burden. Or was, until now…I mean I hope you're here to – "
"Come to a wedding with me," Arthur cuts in, reaching for his hand. "It's just up at the resort. Good food, better people, and buckets of fabulous wine – figuratively speaking. I doubt Lance would actually let them serve it in buckets."
"Lance?" Merlin's eyes widen.
"Lancelot. He's the groom. One of them anyway, a mate of mine from uni. And yes, there was an almost-thing there once, but that was before I was out and I'm pretty sure he was always more into my… Anyway, I promise we all get along splendidly now and I'm asking you because of you, not to make someone else jealous."
Merlin's face cycles through a whole range of expressions. Arthur's not sure what half of them mean, but is awed nonetheless; he didn't know it was possible for one man to have so many visible feelings. He's psyching himself up for an awkward "thanks but no thanks," or maybe even a punch, when Merlin leans in, kissing-close, and says, "Tell me about your friends. Your family. All their names. Do you have a sister?"
"Not that I know of. Actually, I – " This isn't what he usually leads with on first dates, or third dates, or…ever, but he doesn't see why Merlin shouldn't know. "I've no idea who I am. I was found washed up in a dinghy at the mouth of the River Brue. That's in the west of England, near – "
And now Merlin's kissing him, an urgent press of smooth, salty skin giving way to a warm tongue and a taste that's unfamiliar, but unbelievably good. As is the feel of Merlin's fingers in his hair, smoothing it back off his forehead, then rubbing along the fuzz behind his ears. He can't remember the last time any of his dates bothered touching him like this, like they valued the comfort of intimacy above just getting off.
"Yes," Merlin says, pulling back for a moment, the both of them gasping for air. "Yes I know it. And, yes, I'll come. I'll just need to sort out some – "
"Clothes? Don’t worry about that. I'm sure Gwaine has something that would – "
"Legs," Merlin interrupts, bumping his nose against Arthur's and grinning from ear to ear. "But yes, I suppose I'll need clothes as well."
"You don’t make any sense," Arthur whispers, taking hold of his shoulders and trying to draw him closer.
"No." Merlin crushes their lips together, then he's pushing Arthur away and slipping back into the water. "But I will do. We will. I promise. Where should I meet you? When?"
Arthur watches him tread water, all pale skin, pink lips, and sleek dark hair. His eyes are darker than the sky, but brighter than the sea. In this moment he seems like something foreign, or ancient, and Arthur recalls the starling on his windowsill. Birds have always been the same sort of mystery to him. The same sort of magic.
"Soon," he says. "Come soon. Main campground, the grey and orange tents by the red Subaru. We're doing a last beach-bum brunch before we have to get cleaned up for the big event."
"I will be there. You have my word."
Merlin doesn't need the octopus to tell him how much magic the transformation will take this time, nor how few options it will leave him with in the future. He makes her promise to send word to Kyra and all the other creatures in the bay. He is done waiting. He is done hiding from his true responsibilities. His king has returned, and tomorrow will be a new day.