Chapter Text
“You have got to be kidding!”
Arthur Pendragon was not a happy bunny. He was, in fact, not any sort of bunny unless it was a homicidal were-rabbit with a deep desire to rip college professors into pieces.
“I am sorry, Mr. Pendragon,” the secretary said. Arthur noticed her mascara was smudged, a small detail which irritated him. The secretary continued. “The information about course criteria was posted on the module website and regular reminders were sent out for every language course.” She did not add that Professor Kilgarrah had specifically said that she was to ensure that there was “no way in hell that that arrogant prat, Pendragon, could weasel out of the module requirements.”
Arthur growled but he knew he was snookered. The requirements of the Celtic languages module did insist on six weeks of residential language courses over two years. He had done none. Now, if he wanted to avoid repeating a whole year he would have to give up his summer. And he had plans.
Which may have included Barbados.
Not Doonshee in Donegal.
And that made it worse. Not only did he have to spend his summer at a language course, he had missed out on choosing which one he went on. He would have chosen studying Breton in Rennes – because, well, at least it was France and there was the possibility of some good weather and the occasional visit to Paris. He had even missed out on Welsh in Cardiff and the Scots Gallic course in the Highlands. Instead he was stuck with Irish Gaelic in Donegal.
“Where is Donegal anyway?” he snarled.
“Ireland,” said the secretary succinctly.
“Got that. Where?”
The secretary shrugged. “North I think. Or west."
So, Arthur now found himself standing on a footpath in a typical Irish one street town, staring at the low building in front of him with the sign 'Coláiste Dunsí' emblazoned in rather tacky signage on the front. It was not how he intended spending his summer.
He had been relieved that he could fly to Donegal, even if it meant spending time in small local airports. Then a 30 km drive through narrow roads had turned that relief into annoyance. Had he been less pissed off, he would have acknowledged the beauty of the landscape around him, but Arthur was in no mood to be positive. His mood continued as he walked into the shabby building.
There was a receptionist sitting at a scruffy desk just inside the door. When she looked up, Arthur was aware of the warm appraisal in her eyes, the gleam his appearance garnered from most females around him, but he ignored it. Since Sophia, since breaking up with Sophia, since the reason he broke up with Sophia, Arthur did not feel comfortable flirting, even casually. It was with a forbidding, grim expression that he walked towards the desk.
“Arthur Pendragon,” he said brusquely. “I am enrolled here.”
He was not sure if he was gratified or annoyed that the appreciative gleam in the girl’s eyes faded at his brusque tone.
She answered him in Irish.
Arthur did his best ‘Englishman abroad’ impression and looked at her blankly. It was true he had ‘done’ the introductory tutorials on the language but at the time he had also ‘done’ rugby and rowing training, and, to be blunt, Sophia. That had left very little time for a language he didn’t want to ‘do’ in the first place.
And by little he meant none.
As a result the receptionist might as well have been speaking Klingon for all that Arthur understood. In fact he would have had a better chance at Klingon after all the Star Trek marathons he had watched as a kid, though he would never let his team mates know that. Watching old sci-fi shows would do nothing for his credibility in rugby, though privately he thought Klingons would make good rugby players. Maybe forwards.
The receptionist read his face and switched to English.
“I am afraid I can’t find your name on the college list. Are you sure you are enrolled here?”
Arthur felt momentary relief. If the college had screwed up his reservation, would it count as a by? Could he dodge the six week bullet and get a decent holiday in the Caribbean? The memory of Professor Kilgarrah’s face as he pointed out Arthur’s deficiencies in the module as a whole made him pause. It was quite possible the cranky old So-and-So would use this as an excuse to fail him and that would not be acceptable to Father. No Pendragon ever failed at anything he set out to do. Through gritted teeth Arthur said, “Check again.”
The receptionist was still talking. “It’s strange ‘cause your name is really familiar, like I know I read it before like, and I know it must be here somewhere.... Oh.”
Her tone changed and throwing Arthur a worried look, she checked a different folder. “Oh!” she said again, and raising nervous eyes to him went on, “You’re not twelve.”
“Evidently,” said Arthur with some impatience.
“Oh!” said the girl again and then, with some agitation she excused herself and went into a small office off the atrium. In a moment a fair-haired women with a definite air of command came into the hall.
“Arthur Pendragon?” she asked, and without waiting for a reply, continued, “You are not twelve.”
“I know,” said Arthur, feeling that he had dropped through the Looking Glass.
“That is a problem,” the woman continued.
“Not for me,” Arthur said flippantly. He had hated being twelve. It had been before his growth spurt and he had been smaller and frailer than his peers. It had not been a gentle year.
“It is for us,” the woman said. “It appears that you have been enrolled in the beginners class.”
“That would probably be accurate,” Arthur admitted with an honesty he did not often show.
The woman ignored his comment and continued, “The beginners class is generally for 12 to 14 year olds.”
Arthur took a breath to interrupt but she went on, “That is not the problem. We can enroll you in the Third level group without difficulty. The problem is accommodation. You have been assigned a bed in Mrs Brennan’s house with five teenagers. Obviously, that is not good.”
“Obviously,” said Arthur. He was not sure if he was through the Looking Glass or just plain crazy but he decided to roll with the crazy.
“So,” said the woman, “We have to find you somewhere not so illegal to stay. But because of the music festival, every bed in Doonshee is taken. If you have a car, I could find something in Letterkenny...”
She paused as the receptionist interrupted with ‘Ooo Ooo’ sounds. When the Scary Boss Lady (as Arthur resolved to call her) turned to her, her ‘Ooooos’ turned to ‘Eeek’ and Arthur wondered if she made a practice of using only vowel sounds in conversation. The glare from her boss seemed to give her the confidence to use consonants. “Cal,” she said, “Um, Calum. Calum Kavanagh. I think. Er... I think there is a spare bed in the ...in his ...house.”
Arthur noticed the hesitation before ‘house’ and resigned himself to an unusual experience.
The Scary Boss Lady looked reflective but at that moment a bell rang and Hell descended. Doors opened and the atrium filled with hordes of teenagers of various sizes all either shouting (their version of speaking) or gesticulating wildly. Arthur flinched back but the other two seemed to take the chaos in their stride.
“Ah!” said the Scary Boss Lady, “Calum, Anseo!”
A non-teenaged man emerged from one of the rooms and responded to the call. After a rather heated discussion which included quite a lot of gestures, making Arthur wonder if gesturing was a peculiar Irish thing, or just a Donegal thing, the Scary Boss Lady turned to Arthur and said emphatically, “Everything is sorted. Talk to Calum,” before leaving dramatically. Arthur admired her dramatic flair but was rather flummoxed as to what he was supposed to do next.
Before he could look too confused, the other man sighed and said, “It looks likes you’ll be rooming with us for a while. I’ll tell you how to get there but I’ve got to warn you that the Ritz it ain’t. Mezzer should be there still and he can give you the tour, ok?”
Arthur really couldn’t figure out how he, Arthur Pendragon should be standing in a faint drizzle half way up a mountain in a God forsaken part of the world that even the natives seemed to have abandoned. Calum – whoever he was - had given directions that sounded as if they were in a Disney version of Ireland and included phrases like “It doesn’t look like a road but it is, never mind the rushes,” and “Turn left at the thorn tree with the beer bottle on the middle branch.” And here he was in front of the “It’s the only building there so you can’t miss it” house.
He now understood the receptionist’s hesitation when she mentioned it. A low Irish cottage, with one window either side of a central door, it huddled under the side of the mountain. To say the thatch had seen better days was a misnomer. It had seen better centuries. There were rushes growing from the roof that were taller than those on the road and frankly, either thought was depressing. Arthur mused longingly on warm Caribbean beaches with tall cocktails in the sun.
FML did not adequately summarise his life at this point.
A battered Ford Fiesta stood by the door, the only sign of potential occupation. As Arthur moved closer, he saw a pair of legs sticking out from under the car. Arthur wondered at the etiquette of addressing legs and then decided that his day had been too shitty to worry about the niceties. He gave the nearest ankle a light kick and called “Oi! Are you Mezzer?”
The legs convulsed slightly and then, with a wriggle, their owner appeared from under the car, face smudged with engine oil. He was a faun. Or at least an elf, Arthur decided, looking at the shock of dark hair and very eldritch ears.
“Calum’s not here,” said the legs’ owner, wiping his hands. “You’ll find him down at the Colaiste in Doonshee.”
Wondering if he was in Narnia or Middle Earth kept Arthur from replying immediately but after a brief but awkward pause, he said that he knew that Calum was not there.
“Why would you think I was looking for Calum?" he asked.
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” the faun/elf replied. “Only Calum calls me Mezzer. Ergo – you are a friend of Calum.”
Arthur disputed the logic. "I only met him half an hour ago."
“Ok,” said the Faun/Elf. “So why are you here? And more importantly, do you know anything about cars? Specifically what would make a car go ‘whirr clunk clunk thud’ and die.”
Arthur thought of the long hours he had spent in garages and workshops learning the practical mechanics of everything that moved in the vain hope that his father would approve. He could probably diagnose the fault from the clunk but his feet hurt, he was not in Barbados, and he was feeling mean.
“No,” he said shortly.
Not-Mezzer sighed. “I guess I’ll be walking down to the village then,” he said. “Which brings us back to why is a complete stranger standing in my yard having walked from the village in very unsuitable shoes.”
“Bed,” Arthur said.
Not-Mezzer’s eyebrows raised and Arthur noticed his eyes were blue and laughed as he spoke. Then he noticed himself noticing and stopped angrily.
Not here. Not again.
“Whose bed?” Not-Mezzer asked.
Arthur lost patience. “Look,” he said. “A scary boss lady pushed me off here to cover up some idiot mess-up with my room but if you don’t have a spare bed, I will go back to London right now.”
“Not from here you won’t,” Not-Mezzer commented, then went on, “I take it you’ve met the White Witch then. Scary boss lady is very descriptive.”
‘Narnia then’ Arthur thought randomly as Not-Mezzer continued. “About yay high? Blonde, makes you feel extremely nervous when she looks at you?”
Arthur nodded.
“Morgause O’Donnell, head of the college, owns the hotel, and my boss. If she says you’re staying here, you’re staying here. I hope you like top.”
Arthur froze but Not-Mezzer carried on regardless. “Calum and Guillaume claimed the two bottom bunks ages ago. I have the top by the wall which leaves top by the window for you.”
Arthur found himself listening to his accent as he spoke. The linguist in him identified it as Northern Irish but he could not get more particular. Not Donegal anyway. Five hours ago he had never heard the Donegal accent but the non-stop chatter of the taxi-driver who had brought him from the airport had ingrained it on his ear. This was not necessarily a good thing.
Not-Mezzer turned suddenly. “I’m Merlin by the way. Merlin Balinson.” He held out his hand.
Arthur looked down and reluctantly gave his own. “Arthur Pendragon,” he said shortly, waiting for the usual ‘Are you related to...’. When he did not get it, his sense of confusion increased. This was the third time in a few hours that no one recognised his name. Was Ireland another planet? Or another dimension entirely? Although part of Arthur was a bit chagrined, another part, the part that noticed the crinkles around Merlin’s eyes, was quite happy.
“I’ll show you the Palace then,” said Merlin, leading the way towards the battered cottage. “It won’t take long.”
He opened the plain green door and ushered Arthur in.
They walked straight into a room, about three metres by four. To the left, Arthur noted the gable wall was a large fireplace, with two sofas at right angles to the fire. This could have been impressive had the sofas not been two seaters, and, as Arthur noticed, rather shabby. Straight ahead was another plank door with a kitchen sink beside it. To the right a third plank door stood half open.
“This is the living room, kitchen and general dump everything room,” said Merlin. “We have a hot plate, a microwave and a kettle, but only one socket. It can get fraught in the morning with Guillaume craving his coffee and Calum jonesing for porridge. If you want hot, you had better get up early or wait to hit the eateries of Doonshee. I am a cornflakes and cold milk man myself so I keep out of it.”
“Doonshee has eateries?” Arthur queried. “It barely has a street.”
Merlin gestured at takeaway menus pinned to the wall. “Pizza and Chinese will deliver but only once in a night so check with everyone before you order. We don’t want a repeat of the Great Pizza meltdown. The chipper on the main street does the best chips in Ireland but avoid the burgers – nasty. There is a coffee shop that does all the fancy sandwiches but it closes at four thirty. Oh and five pubs, all of which do food. Two of them relatively edible food. And the hotel, but we don’t go there ‘cause it is beyond our budget.”
Arthur picked up on one point. “Five pubs? Really?”
“Yes,” said Merlin, “It’s a small town.”
Opening the door on the right, he beckoned Arthur in. “This is the bedroom,” he said.
Arthur registered the definite article for the first time. One bedroom. For four of them. This whole house would fit in his own bedroom at the Manor. Right now he hated Kilgarrah. Looking at the room, he realised Merlin had not been joking about the bunk beds. Two sets of bunk beds took up most of the room, with barely a metre between them.
Arthur had never slept in a bunk bed, not even as a child, and even though now, Arthur Pendragon of Pendragon Enterprises would claim to prefer a King size bed in a suite at Claridges, the child Arthur who had never played pirates on a bunk bed was secretly exhilarated.
He hid it well.
“This is your bunk,” said Merlin, pointing at the top bunk by the window. It was covered in bags, clothes, and was that really a surf board? Just this morning Arthur had been sipping coffee in Chelsea and now he was contemplating sleeping with a surf board. He looked at Merlin and raised an eyebrow known to have sent servants and slow waiters into a frenzy of frantic activity.
Merlin shrugged. “Most of that is mine and I’ll need it this afternoon. Anything left just dump it on the floor. It is probably Calum’s and he won’t notice.”
He turned around and went back into the living room. Arthur looked at his accommodation and reached for his phone. With an urgency he had not felt for years he sent a text to his father’s secretary. ‘Find house to rent in Doonshee. Now. Urgent.’ Once he pressed send he relaxed and followed his host into the bleak main room.
Merlin was standing by the back door of the house. “This,” he said “is the piece de resistance,” as he opened the door. The linguist in Arthur was impressed at his French pronunciation, but that was forgotten when he moved through the door.
Inside was an ablutionary palace, a sybaritic fusion of marble tiles and recessed lighting.
“The loo,” said Merlin inadequately.
A sunken bath took up one corner while a shower with more buttons than a starship console glittered in the other. Twin marble basins gleamed in the reflection of gently lit mirrors and the whole room would not have looked out of place in a Hollywood mansion. Arthur looked from the vision in front of him to the mildewed and shabby room he had just come from.
“Is this the Tardis?” he asked, resisting the impulse to rub his eyes.
“If it is,” said Merlin, “We are definitely driving it with the handbrake on.”
Something in Arthur’s heart warmed at that comment. “As long as you don’t stroke the walls and call her Sexy,” he quipped in response.
“I’m no Doctor,” Merlin replied with a grin “And She’s too cold to be sexy,” he went on. “The plumber who built this place ran out of money before he could renovate the house – and he left out one thing. No hot water. Just cold. And when I say cold I mean straight-from-a-mountain-stream-freeze-your-balls-off cold. Freya swears that even down in Doonshee, she can hear Calum scream when he hits the shower.”
Arthur sighed. The luxury bathroom almost-but-not-quite made up for the dilapidated house. He hoped Ms. Brown would find a house quickly. This nightmare was just getting worse and worse.
Merlin looked at his watch “Hate to break up the whole tourist thing, but I have to get to work. You going back down to the village?” Arthur took another look at the mildewed living room and nodded. Staying here was not an option. He watched as Merlin went into to the cramped bunkroom and came out laden with two large sports bags and a surf board.
“You want me to help you carry those, don’t you,” he said resignedly.
Merlin’s mischievous eyes peered out from the load he carried. “Are you going to?” he asked. “There could be cake?”
Part of Arthur, the part who had had a bad day, and was in fact cruising for a bad year, wanted to say no and walk off, but the other part knew he could not refuse to help someone who had made a relevant and detailed Doctor Who comment. He sighed. “Pass me a bag,” he said. “And the board.”
They headed down the lane. “A surf board?” said Arthur. “You? Not my idea of the type.”
“You mean I am not bronzed, buff and wearing Hawaiian shorts?” Merlin retorted. “I'll have you know that here, apart from one or two days a year, Hawaiian shorts would give you hypothermia and wetsuits, although really good at the non-freezing thing, seriously mess up the bronzing – even if the rain didn’t do that. But the waves... The waves are among the best in the world. Here I can ride the ocean and yeah, I surf.”
Glancing at him as he spoke, Arthur was impressed by the passion in his voice and the light in his eyes. “Hey,” he said, “No offense.” He didn’t know why it mattered to him to make peace with the man beside him, but it did.
Merlin smiled. “Sorry,” he laughed. “ A bit too defensive there. Touchy subject. My friends know to use that to wind me up. It’s my kryptonite.”
Arthur laughed. “Superman doesn’t need Hawaiian shorts,” he joked, and was relieved when Merlin laughed too. It would be okay.
And it was. Talking with Merlin, Arthur decided, was how he imagined flying to be. The conversation soared and swooped and sometimes got dangerously near the ground but it was exhilarating and... fun. Arthur Pendragon was having fun carrying a heavy bag down an unpaved country lane in the rain and he didn’t want it to end. They talked of Doctor Who, (Arthur preferred Eleven while Merlin argued for Ten), they discussed the relative merits of different superpowers and in the course of the discussion Arthur learned a little about his companion. Merlin was a student at Queens in Belfast, but was working for the summer as an outdoor instructor at the Doonshee college.
When they reached the main road, Merlin pointed at the beer bottle stuck in the tree. “That was my idea,” he said. “Do you know there are fifteen turns off this road and all of them have a thorn tree at the corner? My first week here, I got lost nine times. The council may call it littering but I call it the poor man’s sat nav.”
Once back in the village, Merlin led Arthur to the only coffee shop. It was a haven of warmth and cinnamon scent and Arthur sighed appreciatively. Merlin went over to the blonde girl at the counter and pointed at Arthur. “This is Arthur,” he said. “He’s staying at the Palace with us and has just seen his accommodation. Plus he carried my board all the way down the valley. He needs caffeine and deserves cake. Special cake.” He smiled back at Arthur. “The cake is not a lie,” he said and Arthur felt a warm laugh settle in his chest which dissipated slightly when the girl gave Merlin a warm smile as she replied, “Special special cake? You want me to give him some of your special cake? Are you sure?”
“Elena, he knows Doctor Who, though he is confused as to which doctor is best, and he’s seen Firefly. Special cake. Definitely,” Merlin paused. “Even if it is the last slice. I had to tell him about the unfinished bathroom. Speaking of which...” he raised his sports bag and looked enquiringly at the girl, “Can I use yours?”
“Mer, you’re going to get me fired,” Elena laughed but nodded and Merlin moved into the back of the shop.
“So how long have you known Merlin?” Elena asked as she prepared a cappuccino. Arthur looked at his watch.
“About two hours,” he said.
The girl laughed. “Really?” she said, “You must have made an impression. He doesn’t risk the last slice of cake for just anyone.”
Arthur felt warm at her words. Even in less than two hours, he felt a bond with the dark haired surfer and felt a frisson of pleasure at reaching cake status.
When Elena served the cake, that pleasure increased exponentially. “Chocolate fudge cake with bits,” she declared as she put a plate with a large slice of dark richness on it before him. “And don’t tell Merlin but there is still more.”
The first mouthful was sheer bliss and Arthur was about to enter heaven with a second when Merlin emerged from the back wearing a wetsuit. Arthur nearly choked on chocolatey goodness and a pheromone surge. How he could have imagined Hawaiian shorts and Merlin in the same thought defeated him. Merlin was made for a wetsuit, his lean form outlined by smooth rubber and Arthur felt his breath catch in his throat as he saw him. No! Fuck no! he thought. Not again not here. Arthur tried to bury his embarrassment in his coffee cup but was saved by a ping at the shop door and an influx of high-pitched giggles.
There were only six of them, but they filled the shop with noise and the scent of fake tan. Tripping into the shop, the pack of teenagers made straight for Merlin.
“Hi, Merlin.” “Do we have you now, Merlin?” “Will you teach me to roll, Merlin?” “Merlin, I can roll now, can’t I?” The voices seemed to have reached octaves usually only reached by dog whistles. Merlin did not seem to be too phased though his cheeks were pinker than they had been.
“Hi Niamh. No, Lydia, I am not teaching your group now. Sarah, you have to learn to sit in a canoe before you roll. Emily, it only counts as a roll if you get back to upright, otherwise it is called drowning. Now, I have to get to the harbour,” Merlin did not run for the door but he definitely used very large strides to get there.
Through the mirror behind the counter, Arthur watched him run across the road to the harbour, then double back and re-enter the coffee shop.
“Sorry,” he said, slightly out of breath, “I forgot. If you want to get back to the house, you’ll need this.” He put a key on the counter by Arthur’s cup and exited as fast as he had the first time.
Arthur felt six heads snap towards him and six pairs of eyes devour him. He tried unsuccessfully to disappear into the cappuccino as the onslaught began.
“Do you know Merlin?” “Are you a new instructor?” “Is that the key of the Palace? Are you staying there?” then one voice drowned out the rest.
“Oh My God. Do they, like, actually have a talent hunt for that house? Seriously? I mean there’s hunky Calum, sex on a stick Merlin, that smouldering French bloke and now you, blond and gorgeous. Are you going to be teaching us?” The voice lowered into what was meant to be a seductive tone but sounded more like a Jack Russell in heat.
“I could learn a lot from you,” she continued. Arthur felt a hand reach around and stroke his back, while before him he had a faceful of teenage cleavage. He almost yelped and mouthed a silent ‘help me’ to Elena, who was doing her best to maintain a straight face behind the counter. She took pity on him and said something in Irish which made the girls look anxiously over their shoulders and, taking up their coffees and cakes, rush out of the cafe.
Arthur huffed into his froth. “That was terrifying,” he said.
“But funny,” Elena replied. “Very funny. Your face when Lydia boob-groped you...” she broke into giggles and Arthur blushed. He had not blushed since puberty. Except for that time with Sophia. He did not know but his expression closed and Elena noticed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I forgot you are new. Though if you are going to work with Mer, you had better get used to it. Are you an outdoors instructor?”
“Language student,” said Arthur shortly.
Elena looked surprised and he hoped she would not comment on the fact that he was not twelve. “Really?” she said, “a senior? But you’re not the type. Not if you have to live in the Palace. Most seniors are rich arrogant gits who rent holiday homes or stay in the hotel. One guy even had his chauffeur drive him from Rathmullen each day. I’ve never met a senior who was an ordinary poor student like the rest of us.”
Arthur had never heard anyone using the words ‘ordinary’ and ‘poor’ as a complimen, but he assumed she meant well, and much to his surprise, he did not want her disapproval, did not want her to think he was a ‘rich arrogant git.’ He harrumphed his agreement with what she said and drank his coffee.
“As a senior, you won’t have much to do with Lydia and her crew, so you should be ok,” Elena smirked. “Just don’t go out alone and remember, they hunt in packs.”
Arthur gulped wildly. “What is this place?” he asked in frustration.
“Not what you expected?” she asked. Arthur shook his head. He did not know what exactly he had expected coming to the wilds of Donegal, but predatory teenagers, mildewed accommodation and perplexing baristas had not been in the running.
And certainly not a dark haired surfer with laughing eyes who quoted Doctor Who.
Elena smiled sympathetically. “You’re feeling homesick, I know, it’s normal for students in the Gaeltacht. Though you are a little old.”
“Yeah, not twelve. Got that,” said Arthur.
“Thing is,” said Elena, “this is not exactly the normal Gaeltacht experience.”
“There is normal?” queried Arthur.
“Well, yes, and this ain’t it. See, most Irish teenagers at some stage of their teenage existence spend three weeks or so in the Gaeltacht, officially learning Irish and unofficially doing all the firsts that are age appropriate, first time away from home, first crush, first kiss, first...”
“I get the picture,” interrupted Arthur.
“Well, you see, the other colleges – colaiste I should say are very strict about behaviour and suchlike. One strike and you’re home to mammy and daddy with no refund. Even speaking a sentence in English would get you sent home in most colaiste. But Morgause O’Donnell saw a gap in the market for kids whose parents don’t send them to learn Irish, just to get them out of the house. They don’t want junior sent home for breaking rules. I don’t know what a kid would have to do to get expelled, but it would probably involve world domination and a side order of torture. Ms O’Donnell would take the kid from The Omen if his parents paid in full in advance. So... Lydia. And others. She is not actually the worst. She is just normal teenage hormones let run wild.”
“Fuck,” said Arthur uncharacteristically, “I’m in St. Trinians.”
Elena grinned widely. “Pretty much,” she said, “but it got Merlin a job. He knows practically no Irish but he is a great instructor and you saw he is good with the kids.”
“He still ran,” commented Arthur.
“I said he was good, I didn’t say he was stupid.”
Just then the bell pinged and Arthur braced to face another onslaught. Instead Calum stood in the doorway.
“Caffeine me,” he called as he moved in. “And cake me – special cake.”
“It’s all accounted for,” Elena said as she prepared the coffee.
Calum pointed at the few remaining crumbs on Arthur’s plate. “He had some!” he sputtered.
“Yes,” she said calmly, “and now it is gone.”
Calum looked properly at Arthur. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you – the guy from this morning ... Alfred?”
“Arthur,” said Arthur.
“Right,” said Calum.
“Calum Kavanagh,” laughed Elena. “It is polite to know the name of the guy you are going to be sleeping with tonight.” Both of them looked daggers at her.
“Elena, shut up,” said Calum. “I have to spend the next three hours hiking with Lydia and her posse. I am so screwed."
“I hope not,” said Elena, “I am pretty sure that would be illegal.” He glared at her again and took the coffee and paper bag she proffered. “Double chocolate muffin and a cinnamon Danish as a peace offering,” she said placatingly.
“It’s not enough,” Calum said gloomily. “I need armour. And possibly a taser,” he sighed and made for the door. Turning suddenly he lifted his arm and declaimed dramatically, “We who are about to die salute you,” and left.
Elena and Arthur stayed silent for a moment then Elena sighed. “Calum is not so good with the kids,” she said.
“Now,” she went on, “you will be wanting to rest and relax so just sit in the window seat where the comfy cushions are and look at the view while I get you a Panini. Chicken and tomato ok?”
She didn’t wait for a reply but bustled off and Arthur, feeling managed somehow sat where she had pointed. The view was spectacular. The Atlantic Ocean filled the horizon while in the foreground was a tiny beach harbour reminiscent of Cornwall, with canoes and kayaks in the water.
And Merlin.
Watching him work with the kids, Arthur could appreciate Elena’s point. He was good with them. Even without hearing him, Arthur could see he had control and patience and, it seemed, eyes at the back of his head. Once he looked straight across the road and Arthur thought he saw a half wave of recognition before he focused back on the task at hand. Arthur found himself drawn in.
“Great view isn’t it,” said Elena with the food. Arthur was surprised (and relieved) to note that chargrilled chicken and sundried tomatoes had made it to Donegal and the rest of the afternoon was spent in casual banter with Elena when she was not busy and not so casual observation of the lesson in the harbour. Arthur tried not to feel like a creepy stalker but failed. It did not stop him watching.
Later, Elena came over carrying a bag and a travel mug. “Do me a favour, will you? I have to close up but I am pretty sure Merlin did not eat today so could you bring this over to him? He should be finishing up soon. Oh and there are two pieces of cake there – one for you.”
Arthur looked at her in surprise. “Calum-” he began.
“I told him it was accounted for,” she laughed. “You and Merlin need it more.”
Arthur took the bag and crossing the road, sat on the little harbour wall.
The students had gone to change and Merlin was putting away the equipment. Arthur found it strange that even though he had only met Merlin a few hours ago, he could read his body language. He was tired. No, more than that, he was weary. His shoulders slumped and his eyes were dull.
Arthur called him. “Hey,” he said softly.
“Hi,” said Merlin. “Elena look after you?”
“And you,” said Arthur, lifting the bag and mug.
Merlin laughed. “She’s sweet,” he said, “I just have to change.”
“Aren’t you going to surf?” asked Arthur.
“There’s no one out right now. Safe surfing. Don’t surf alone,” Merlin’s words were pragmatic but he looked lost.
“I could be your beach buddy,” said Arthur impulsively. He did not know why he said it, but he found he hurt looking at Merlin’s despondency. “I know enough about life saving to pull you out, hopefully before you drown.”
“Really?” Merlin’s eyes shone and his voice lifted. Arthur felt a glow he had not felt himself. “Are you sure? We could go down to the beach. It’s not that far. If you are sure? I mean I don’t want to-”
“Come on,” said Arthur. “Let’s go.”
The beach was farther than Arthur had expected, but when he saw the sands, he gaped. “Yeah,” said Merlin, “Donegal has probably the best beaches in the world. If this was in the Mediterranean, there would be thousands of people here instead of you, me and a dog walker.”
The golden sands stretched for miles and the surf pounded on the shore with white foam. Merlin was soon in the water and Arthur watched as he rode the waves.
Merlin did not stay out too long. He surfed for a while then had a wipeout and came in. “Tell me you didn’t see that,” he laughed.
“My job to keep watching,” said Arthur blandly.
“Ok. Tell me you didn’t laugh,” said Merlin.
“I didn’t laugh,” Arthur said. “I never laugh at something I can’t do.”
Arthur saw how Merlin’s eyes were shining and something in his heart responded to the joy he saw. “Sit down,” he said. “Elena will be mad if you don’t eat her food. And her coffee. But the second piece of cake is mine.”
They sat in companionable silence on the beach, watching the ocean surf pound the sand and munching on Elena’s supplies.
“You love the sea,” Arthur said. A statement not a question.
“Yes,” Merlin paused. “Even though I know I am not good at it. Middling Merlin. That’s what my aunt called me. Middling at everything. And it’s true. I am never the best at anything. Never will be. But when I catch a wave, I can feel the power of the whole ocean at my call. Then I don’t feel middling. I am someone. It’s like magic.”
Arthur watched as Merlin looked out to sea, his eyes almost unfocused. He was surprised that he could see the brokenness within the man at his side and something within him wanted to give comfort. He held back. Merlin stirred. “Want to get back to the Palace?”
They left.
The walk back to the Palace was friendly but quiet. Arthur found himself wondering about his sudden connection with this man – and wondering if he should end it before it went any further. When they reached the cottage, Merlin looked bleakly at the car sitting in front of the door. “I’m not sure what to do with her,” he said. “I can’t afford to get someone to fix her.”
“I’ll have a look if you like,” Arthur startled himself saying. Merlin looked at him quizzically.
“You could have been a serial killer,” Arthur said, justifying his previous omission.
“I still could be,” Merlin riposted.
“Nah,” said Arthur. “If you were, you would have succumbed to temptation when that blond kid tried to capsize the whole class.”
Merlin nodded. “Truth,” he said. “I have to get rid of the salt. Ignore any screams from the bathroom. Here are the keys,” he tossed the car keys to Arthur and went into the house.
Arthur found himself looking into the bowels of an elderly Fiesta wondering why he was not thinking FML. In fact he was happy. And that made him worried. He was never happy. Happy did not happen to Arthur Pendragon. He could be ecstatic or pleased or glad or any synonym you could think of but Arthur Pendragon would never be happy repairing an ancient motor for someone he barely knew.
But he was.
When Merlin came back, Arthur was streaked with oil and the car was purring.
“She lives!” Merlin cried as he heard the sound, “My Betsy lives!”
“You named your car?” Arthur looked incredulous. “You named your car: Betsy?”
Merlin looked abashed. “She looks like a Betsy. She certainly drives like a Betsy and... Wow! She drives!”
Arthur spread his hands. “I’m that good,” he said and revelled in the ‘thank you’ in Merlin’s eyes.
“You know what this means?” said Merlin pointing at the oil –covered arms. Arthur raised his eyebrows. “You have to take a shower,” Merlin went on. Arthur groaned. “It’s ok,” Merlin laughed as they entered the house. He handed Arthur a packet. “Industrial strength wipes. Cold does nothing for grease. I have towels. Try not to cry."
And Arthur entered the Tardis.
When he came out, convinced that the water in the shower was filtered straight from the Arctic, Merlin had made tea. Very domestic, but hot, and therefore good. And there were biscuits, slightly soft but Arthur found himself appreciating the gesture rather than scorning the fact – something that surprised him. They were sitting sipping tea when the peace of the room was dissipated by a sudden arrival.
“FUCKING TOMMY HIGGINS!” Calum yelled as he entered the house.
Merlin laughed hollowly, “Why so mad?” he asked “I had to put up with him for the afternoon, not you.”
“I met him on the way up here terrorising the new kid, Jack Whatisname... the one that acts like the weird kid in Glee. The poor kid was crying! Actually crying! Not but that he’s asking for trouble practically parading about with a hand bag but that Tommy is a bastard and...”
“I think I left the pizza menu inside, I’ll just get it,” said Merlin, virtually running into the communal bedroom.
Calum stood transfixed for a moment. “Fuck!” he said and moved for the door of the other room, leaving Arthur puzzled as to what had just happened. Before he had time to think, the front door opened and a dark-haired man with an aura of confidence entered. He looked at Arthur, comfortably ensconced on the shabby sofa.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi," said Arthur.
“You’re with....?” the newcomer asked obliquely.
“I live here,” said Arthur.
“Right,” the stranger said.
“CALUM!” he yelled. Calum emerged from the bedroom looking flushed. “Is there something you should be telling me?” the stranger asked, pointing at Arthur.
“Oh,” Calum sounded a little flustered. “Yeah, Guillaume, this is Arthur ...Arthur... Pender... he’s staying here, mix up at the collage, yada yada yada, Arthur this is Guillaume Dulac, fourth bed.”
Arthur did not correct Calum on his name, the mistake seemed to be serendipitous. Since no one seemed to know his family here, it didn’t matter to keep the family name out of everything.
Guillaume looked at him, eyes narrowing.
“You smoke?”
“No.”
“You eat potato crisps with noisy packaging in bed at three in the morning?” Arthur was too startled to reply.
“It was one time,” Merlin said, re-entering the room. Guillaume shrugged and went on, “You know the ordering rule?” Arthur nodded. “Fine. You can stay. Don’t stand on my face getting into bed.”
“Again, one time,” said Merlin.
“Twice,” said Calum. “I still have the marks.”
Arthur smiled but he noticed that Merlin looked strained. Normally Arthur Pendragon was oblivious about the emotional well being of anyone around him, but now he knew that Merlin was hurting and it unsettled him, both because Merlin was upset and because he noticed. Reflecting on this made him not notice the silence in the room.
It grew, as silence does until breaking it seemed to be the end of the world.
“Ah feck this!” said Calum loudly, “Pub?”
Guillaume nodded. “I expect you want me to drive,” Merlin said, “Betsy’s better thanks to Arthur.”
“Grand,” said Calum, nodding at Arthur. “We’ll keep you.”
The awkward silence had faded into activity as jackets and wallets were sought for. Arthur stayed sitting. In London, he was always sure of his welcome – more than sure – he knew his presence was positively desired and sought after. But here in the wilds of Doonshee, he found himself unsure and a little shy.
“You’ll need a hoodie, you know,” Merlin’s voice drew him back. “I know it's summer but it will be cold by the time we get back.”
He was included. Arthur felt a warm rush of something in his chest and scoffed at himself desiring the company of people he would not have looked twice at yesterday. But he did get a jacket (not a hoodie – he still had standards).
The drive to the village was a lot quicker than the walk but it emphasised the potholes on the unpaved lane rather painfully. The rushes in the centre of the lane did provide interesting sound effects as well as, Merlin asserted, keeping the undercarriage clean. Having spent some time in close proximity with the undercarriage, Arthur disagreed.
As they drew up to the pub, the others attempted to explain to Arthur the etiquette of pub choice. “Two of them are Old Men Pubs,” explained Calum. “You know, the sort of place that always seems to have three oul' fellas and a dog and when you walk in, they all look at you and you feel that there is about to be a ritual sacrifice and you’re it. One of the others has all the kids of Doonshee trying their luck with fake ID and mini skirts, and the other has all the mammies and daddies of Doonshee hiding from their escaping teenagers. Which leaves this place as an oasis for everyone else.”
“Plus the food is good,” contributed Merlin.
“Correction, the food is edible,” said Guillaume. “Good is beyond them.”
The food was good, despite Guillaume’s protestations, and Arthur got his steak and was content. In fact he was happy. Again. He realised he had not been happy for months. Not since Sophia. But here, stuck between Merlin and Guillaume in a lounge bay drinking Guinness for the first time, (“Dude, you’re in Ireland, you have to have Guinness,” Calum had said, plonking a pint in front of him), Arthur was happy. There was a lot of laughter, most of which Arthur did not really understand. Elena joined them early in the evening. (“Is this a boys’ night out or will you shove up for a tired stray who can dispense coffee?” They shoved up.)
The conversation ran wild and Arthur found himself noticing there was no gossip, no sly digs at mutual acquaintances not present, though plenty of abuse of those who were present. He and Merlin had a heated debate on the merits of DC and Marvel and not only did the others not roll their eyes in disgust, they joined in, with enthusiastic ignorance (“Isn’t Batman useless? I mean he has no superpowers.” “Seriously dude, how can a guy who doesn’t know that underwear are worn, like, under, be a superhero?”). Arthur loved it. The linguist in him gloried in the diversities of accents, Northern Irish, various other Irish, French, and his own Chelsea English (he objected to Sloane on principle).
When he commented that Merlin was still sipping a rather dull orange juice, Calum jumped in. “Don’t you go corrupting Merlin. He is a good teetotaler and we all want him to stay that way.”
“What he means is,” said Merlin, “I am the designated driver.”
“And we all love you ver’ much,” said Guillaume.
“You don’t drink?” Arthur asked incredulously. In his circle in Uni, no one did ‘not drink’.
“What can I say?” said Merlin, “Presbyterian upbringing.”
“God bless it,” said Calum raising a glass and joined by the rest of the table. Arthur decided that Ireland confused him very much, but his confusion was much allayed when they left the pub, avoiding the drizzling rain by settling comfortably into Betsy for the journey back to the Palace.
As he settled down to sleep on a mattress that was far too lumpy to be comfortable, Arthur, stared at the ceiling, with its very dubious stains and close proximity which made sitting up in bed an impossibility, and reflected on the day. It had been just about twelve hours since he arrived at Doonshee. It could have been a life time.
Unknown to Arthur, Merlin lay awake, a few metres across the room. He had never felt such a sudden affinity, mental and physical, as he had felt for the new arrival and it confused him. It was some time before he slept.