There was no time of year Merlin loved more than Christmas. But it wasn't because of carols, or presents, or fairy lights; rather, Merlin's excitement lay entirely with the expectation of magical happenings and granted wishes.
It seemed to reliably result in little to no suspicion on the part of the general public when miraculous things came their way. For the discrete wizard of an altruistic frame of mind, it was the perfect system.
Thus, it was certainly not unusual that the Sunday before Christmas found him clothed in a red suit, matching hat, and grey beard, wandering Westfield London, while he shook hands with the less harried passers-by and stooped to hear the wishes of errant children.
Naturally, when he felt one more tug at his sleeve as he rounded the corner adjacent to a toy shop, Merlin had no inkling that anything magical was about to be happening to him. As far as he knew, he would simply be fielding another heartfelt request for a pony, or a train set, or world peace.
"Santa?" The hand at his sleeve belonged to a small girl, about seven or eight years old, with a voice as quiet as a churchmouse. Her wide eyes and anxious expression told him that speaking to him must have taken an awful lot of courage.
"Why, that's my name!" He knelt so they were face-to-face. "Did you have a Christmas wish you'd like to share with me?"
She nodded, more earnestly than should have been possible for a child of her age. "It's not for me - is...is that okay?"
Though initially taken aback, he bounced back quickly. "But of course! Santa Claus hears all kinds of wishes. What can he help you with this Christmas?"
She bit her lip and looked around anxiously. He had begun to wonder if she would speak again at all when, at last, she leaned in close and whispered, "Can you bring my dad a new boyfriend? I don't want him to be lonely anymore."
Merlin had been doing the freelance Santa gig for several years now, and that...that was a new one. After taking a few seconds to reassemble the melted mess that was once his heart, he managed, "I can't believe your dad could be lonely, not when he has a wonderful daughter like you."
"Does that mean you...you can't do it?" She looked utterly crestfallen.
Knowing full well it was probably a terrible idea, Merlin replied, "Now did I say that?" He imbued his voice with as much seasonal joviality as he could manage. "I promise you, my dear - Santa Claus will do his very best to see that your father has the very best of Christmases, all right?"
She looked at him intently for a few moments, before nodding and smiling a little. "All right. Thank you, Santa Claus."
Suddenly, her head whipped around as a concerned man's voice filtered into the scene: "Morgan!" A flash of blond hair and black wool turned the corner and laid hands on the little girl's shoulders. "Morgan, I've been looking everywhere for you! You know better than to run off like that."
"I'm sorry, Daddy!" She threw her arms around his waist and buried her face in his shirt. The teary mumbling that followed contained the phrases, "Santa Claus," "ask," and "very important," but that was about as much as Merlin could make out.
"Hey, it's okay, sweetheart," the man said soothingly. After a minute or two, he gently set the girl back a little and wiped the tears from her face. "Just tell me next time, huh?"
Merlin had been so engrossed by watching the two of them together, he hadn't had time to take in much at all about the man himself...that is, until the man looked directly at him. Then he was having a hell of a time taking in anything else.
Deprived of the cloud of worry that had been obscuring them, the man's features were...resplendent. Combined with his halo of golden hair and a physique impressive enough to be apparent beneath winter layers, this was certainly not the sort of man who should have needed any assistance in the romance department.
Merlin's mental cataloguing of perfect features was interrupted by the abrupt realization that the Westfield London Apollo appeared to be addressing him.
"Sorry." He laughed, far too nervously. "Santa's hearing isn't what it used to be. What were you saying?"
"I was just hoping that she hadn't bothered you." The man shot him a thousand kilowatt smile. "I know how busy you must be, with Christmas just around the corner."
"Well, what kind of Santa Claus would I be if I didn't have time for the children?" Merlin found himself wishing violently that he wasn't currently dressed like an elderly childhood fiction.
"I suppose I can't argue with that." The man's laugh was somehow even more entrancing than his smile. "Regardless, I'm very grateful." He pulled out a small card from his wallet and slid it into Merlin's hand.
Merlin nearly gasped. The moment the man's hand brushed his, a bolt of pure energy shot straight through him. He wondered desperately what kind of magic could do that.
The man looked slightly taken aback, leading Merlin to conclude that maybe he had felt something, too. He did, however, keep speaking. "If you ever, uh, need anything, that's...my card."
Merlin was just about to venture a reply when a small hand slipped into his other one. He bent down once more, and the girl - Morgan, he supposed - whispered, "Remember my wish."
He felt himself smiling as he whispered, "Don't worry - I won't forget," and gave her hand a small squeeze of reassurance.
"Come on, Morgan," the man said, tucking his fingers into the girl's vacant hand. "Let's go get you some supper, hmm?" He spun to leave with one last, dazzling glimpse of smile and a flash of expression that Merlin couldn't quite make out.
As father and daughter rounded the corner, Merlin retrieved the card from his pocket with trembling fingers. "Arthur Pendragon," he murmured, tracing his hand over the gold embossed lettering and feeling tiny aftershocks of the cosmic event that had occurred the last time he'd held the card.
Whoever else had decided to start working magic this Christmas, he mused, they were doing one hell of a job.