Son of Poseidon

Chapter 1: Two Princes

The prince entered his father's inner sanctum - private audience, presence requested - with a sense of apprehension and anticipation.

"Father?" he began, doing his best to keep his voice steady.

"The rumors have been confirmed," the king told him without preamble, studying a physical representation of the kingdom's territory, the surrounding lands and waters. "The creature is real, a dangerous threat to lives and livelihoods. It has killed several dozen of our people now, and must be stopped."

"Yes, Father," the prince agreed, his heart beating a little higher with the feeling of shared responsibility, ready obedience and courage to do what was necessary. To face the danger. "What are your orders?"

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Uther turned from the map on the wall. "You will go to sea," he said, fixing his inexorable gaze on Arthur. "Choose your crew carefully – not just sailors, but warriors. I recommend Leon as first mate, but the others are up to you."

"One of the battleships?" Arthur asked.

"No. It's not another ship you'll be facing, but a sea creature. You'll want speed and agility as well as strength in your craft… take the Medusa."

"And Gaius?" Arthur asked, stepping closer to the map as his father beckoned peremptorily. "His apprentice is capable of fulfilling the role of court physician in our absence, Gaius speaks very highly of her. And we may have need of Gaius' experience and knowledge in this quest."

Uther considered, then allowed, "You may give him the option of accompanying you, but remember, Arthur, you don't command him. At his age he may very well decide that a sea-quest is not for him."

"Riding a deck is easier than riding a horse," Arthur protested, grinning, and was rewarded by a twinkle in the king's eye.

"But a horse won't make you seasick," his father retorted. "And Gaius has done neither for several years. Now, I suggest you start down the coastline, from Low-croft to White Post, gathering what intelligence there is to be had on the creature and the waters, but don't delay too long. Every day our ships remain in harbor is a loss, for our peoples' pockets as well as our own treasury."

"Yes, Father," Arthur said, already beginning to mentally catalog the distance to the port where the Medusa rode at anchor, the time of travel, the supplies needed, the expected weather during this season. The crew he wanted. "I won't fail you."

"I know, Arthur," the king said, gripping his shoulder and giving him a slight shake. "I'm proud of you, son."

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Balinor hovered over the slab depicting the topography of their realm, the ridges and valleys and abyssals to the edge of explored territory beyond.

"I'll take some of our best fighters and storm-crafters myself," he decided. "Along with the horn, and hope to take the creature by surprise. I'll leave the royal seal with your mother, but I'm counting on you to manage the details of daily administration in my absence."

The prince struggled with his desire to be obedient and dependable, as always, and a new wish, subtle but strong, to prove himself as capable physically and magically, as mentally, of ruling their kingdom as Balinor expected him to, one day.

"I rather thought you might send me along with one of the commanders," he commented, drifting closer to the map-slab, running his fingers along the rough edge that showed the dark maw of the seafloor where the monster was rumored to reside.

"You're no warrior, son," Balinor's tone was truthful and not unkindly, and he did him the courtesy of looking him in the eye – though that probably meant he'd seen the retort that his son bit his tongue on hard enough to draw blood. "One day."

"That is what you said," the prince kept his voice even with an effort, "when the Great White menaced our eastern shoreline. That is what you said when the border-dwellers brought word of the poison eels in the Sub-Aqua caves."

Balinor reached to squeeze his shoulder sympathetically. "You were too young then, and this isn't the same. This is far more dangerous, and–"

He began to protest, "But I can –"

"And if I am killed," Balinor spoke over him, "you are king. And you will be a wise one and a capable one, I am sure of it. You are smart enough to listen to and make use of your commanders, enforce our decrees with the compassion you get from your mother. But, if I send you on a quest, and something happens to you, what then? I grow old and die with no heir of our blood."

Dyn-emris saw the good judgment of his father's decision, but that only made it harder, to struggle with the hurt pride and deep sharp suspicion of inadequacy in his heart. I am ready. I need a challenge. I need to test and measure my skills and strength, to know myself.

Or, My father is right.

"When do you plan to leave?" he heard himself asking.

"In the morning, as soon as it's light enough to see two fathoms," Balinor answered, shifting to study that unexplored trench that had belched the monster forth.

"I will take my leave of you now, in that case." He tried to hide the turmoil he felt. "May good fortune go with you, Father."

"Dyn –" The king met his gaze with understanding and sympathy in his deep blue eyes, and the prince whirled and fled.

Like he was still as young as his parents seemed to think, he fumed at himself.

He was capable. He was ready, to be on his own. To evaluate a situation for danger and make the best decision, the right choice, even if it was hard.

To wait home at his mother's side as his father went out to battle a threat to their people – again? When others his age might go along as warriors, would he be left behind?

He didn't believe, as Balinor evidently did, that he would be so weak or foolhardy as to get himself killed. But what if this proved his father's last quest? Wouldn't it be better if he gained some experience of the world outside his father's domain, before he was expected to rule it?

The plan was set in his heart almost before he realized he'd made it.

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It was a dockside tavern like any other, ordinary in the extreme. Not the first they'd visited, though Arthur wearily hoped it might prove the last.

Boot-scuffed floorboards, listing a bit starboard, currently being swept by a drowsy, untidy maid. The rattle-and-toss of dice from the corner table, a trio of men exclaiming over their luck, or lack of it; Gwaine fit right in with those fellows. Which was the idea, after all. Smell of ale, cider, and rum – warm and spicy and stale –

"D'you need a fill-me-up, Master Linus?" Percival asked solicitously, raising the jug to the old sailor who made a company of three at their own corner table, opposite the game. Percival was a bit polite for a place of this questionable nature, but his bulk and shorn head and the scar that interrupted his hairline and left eyebrow made him look the part, at least, if he could keep his polite mouth shut.

"Master Linus," the old man cackled, leering stained teeth at Arthur, who resisted the urge to sit back. Maybe this was a waste of time, but… maybe it wasn't. "Been many a year since I been called Master, young sar," he confided to Arthur.

Linus resembled nothing more than a tanned hide stretched on a bony frame to dry. His skin brown and brittle-looking, the hair on his skull the sparse fringe of fur visible at its edge; his hands were twisted and crabbed from maybe decades of rope-hauling in all kinds of weather. His veracity dubious.

"It's your last voyage we want to hear about," Arthur told the old sailor. "Sole survivor, we were told?"

"Ah, that's the tale," Linus said shrewdly. He spilled a bit of his drink around the edges of the rim, down his chin and shirtfront as he gulped. "Well, y'see. Out in the uncharted Sea of Darkness, every good sailor knows, you risk boiling spots and monsters of the deep – but now one of them has crawled nearer our shores and routes and passages than any of us can live with."

He cackled at his terrible joke, and Arthur very nearly rolled his eyes. Very nearly declared it time for the three of them to move on to another tavern for better luck gaining information. But Linus was the only alleged witness of the creature he'd been sent to kill.

"It's claimed our waters for its own, y'see. Maybe looking for new or fresh or easy hunting – maybe it's old, or injured like a land-beast turned man-eater. Any oar, my last voyage was early days of the creature's reign of terror, and the captain weren't inclined to believe the rumors of ships gone missing. Unexpected storms, inaccurate reef-charts, maybe even a new pirate starting a run. And then we saw it."

Linus put down his mug to gesticulate – and Arthur wondered how many times he'd told this story. How many embellishments he'd added, at each telling.

"Rising up from unmeasured depths, right under us – tentacles fore and aft, port and starboard – tentacles thick as this 'yere table!"

Arthur glanced down, as Percival did - the uneven round table was a long pace across.

"Ye've seen an octopus, I take it, or a squid a few times in yer lives? How the arms writhe and crawl and grip? The monster's arms were over the gunnels faster'n a drawn breath, climbing the main-mast – ah, the groaning of the timbers, and the screaming of the men!

"Captain was picked off first – on purpose or just unlucky. But he weren't the last. Four-five legs was holding the ship, ripping the rigging and canvas, snapping the spars – three-four legs plucking sailors like a man plucks berries from a bush! Two at a time, even, I saw."

"And where did you see this from?" Arthur queried, trying to avoid skepticism in his tone, in favor of interest.

The old sailor, rhythm interrupted, jerked upright and cupped a grimy ear with a grimier hand. "Eh?"

"Where were you when the creature attacked your ship?" Arthur asked again.

"Up in the crow's nest," Linus replied promptly.

He sat back and spread his arms, his eyes traveling the rough, stained tabletop with a spark that took Arthur a bit by surprise. It was horror, and memory. And maybe he'd made a performance out of the tale-telling to distance himself from the reality of the experience.

"Maybe it ate its full, tentacles pulling men under, returning to snatch again. Maybe it was angered by some trying to fight back… Thing broke our ship like cracking an egg." Linus mimed the action, but with diminished enthusiasm. "Snap. In half. And the water boiling up in the middle like spilling yolk…"

He glanced at Arthur as if he'd repeated his earlier question.

"The fore half listed, way to starboard, the mast near horizontal. I took my chance and jumped – there was some wreckage just below, already. Piece of the deck, the rail, the hull… something." He gripped his cup again and gulped his ale like it was water. "Sharks. Will follow a trail of blood, and movement. Everyone knows that. So I hung on to that – bit of my ship – and didn't move a muscle. Not a single muscle, hardly even to breathe. I dunno how long. Before I saw the coast and the waves brought me eventual-like to shore."

The dice players shouted incongruously into his pause at some lucky toss – winners exultant, losers protesting.

"Haven't been out on the water since," Linus added, abruptly and truthfully. This wasn't part of the recitation, Arthur thought. There was desolation in the old sailor's mud-colored eyes, longing and regret, for a way of life and earning a living lost. "Nor will I. Not while that thing's around. Lost every friend I had that day, and the cargo. It were going to make my fortune, too."

Tossing his head back, he finished his cup and beckoned for the pitcher from Percival. Arthur pushed his chair back and nodded to his biggest warrior. Turning to the door, he caught Gwaine's eye, and the sound of a soft clink as Percival passed spare coin to Linus.

Out in the street, Arthur squinted to get used to the brightness of the sun again. He waited a moment for his two companions to join him, then headed down towards the wharfs. Behind him, Gwaine asked a question he didn't quite catch in the noise of the street – wooden cart wheels rolling over cobblestones, fishwives calling to their children and each other – but Percival's response was clearer.

"Giant octopus, sounds like. And you?"

"Oh, the octopus whose head is a mile wide?" Gwaine said, and Arthur knew his expression from the tone of his voice. It was the sort of irreverent amusement that had Gwaine blending in so well in places like this. "I got, stories of disappearing islands. Hey, Arthur – if it's not on the map, let's not stop, yeah? Evidently crews land and start cook-fires and so on and wake the thing up and –"

"Wind the thing up?" Arthur suggested, over his shoulder.

"Bit like you in the morning, princess." Arthur pretended to ignore that. "Course, I also got stories of the thing vomiting up its breakfast to lure fresh fish into its mouth for dinner. In that version, though, fisherman can also take advantage of baited waters for a grand catch – if they're willing to risk being chomped themselves when the creature's done waiting."

"Let me guess," Percival said. "No one's done it himself, but knows someone who did?"

"The friend of a friend," Gwaine agreed. "And he'd never lie – surprisingly honest lot, sailors and fishers."

Arthur grunted sardonically as they rounded a slight corner; the end of the dock came into view, down the hill, and the two men standing there to wait. Lancelot and Leon were both too proper and upright for tavern-trawling for information like they'd been doing - everything about Leon screamed king's-man, and Lancelot was so obviously a captain the gutter-dwellers of a seaside town would clam up and scuttle away as soon as look at him. Arthur himself wasn't a great deal better, but he could pass for a rich man's inexperienced son, to be pitied and patronized – and enlightened – by men who made the sea their profession.

"That's not the best of the stories, though," Gwaine added. "You should hear them tell of sirens and selkies." Percival scoffed and Gwaine added, "Merpeople."

"Sire!" Leon called, catching sight of them. A bit surprised, maybe, that they were back so early. "What news? What orders?"

"I want to take a look at that map again," Arthur said, joining them. "But I think I may have an idea where this thing hides." That one abyssal that had never been plumbed – not to have it recorded, anyway. It stretched twelve leagues or so, beginning thirty leagues off the southern coast and running roughly south by southeast.

"What's the plan, then?" Gwaine asked, slightly more serious.

"A hatchet for every man, to be carried at all times," Arthur said. Trying to imagine how long it would take a couple of men to hack their way through a rubbery limb as wide around as a tavern table, while it was threshing and yanking and sticking sucker-tight to anything it touched… "And harpoons, stowed convenient for immediate use," he added. "How much black powder are we carrying, Lancelot?"

"Four barrels, sire."

"Get four more," Arthur decided. "And see if a couple of these rowboats can be bought."

"We have a lifeboat," Lancelot reminded him, as an objection.

"I know. We'll post a constant watch, and as soon as it's sighted, we'll take to the boats. Surround it if we can…" And if we can't, maybe some of us will still survive. "Hatchets and harpoons – and if it surfaces to tear the ship apart, that black powder set alight ought to give it a belly-ache at least."

"How soon do you want to weigh anchor?" Lancelot asked. "There's a storm brewing to the northeast, maybe a three-day gale."

"We'll leave as soon as we have those supplies," Arthur said. "We can ride out the storm off the point of Land's End – and head out to deep water after it blows over."

A soft chorus of "Aye, sir."

Arthur turned a moment longer to look across the wind-whipped, sun-tipped bay toward the low blue-purple of the horizon. And shivered.

Because if it was as easy as that to kill the sea-beast, someone would already have done it.

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The sea-prince agonized over whether or not to see his mother, before he left their home.

He was not so young or naïve to think there was no possibility he might not return from his self-imposed quest, but he wasn't yet so mature as to be able to hide from her the feelings that might give him away. The chagrin of being left out of his father's plan, the fatalistic determination to go against orders, the anxiety over the risks he knew he'd face alone.

Dyn-emris was afraid that Hunith would see, and know – and she'd stop him. That thought made him feel very young – and all the more determined to prove that he wasn't.

He did, however, pay Freya one last visit.

She was in one of the inner, upper caverns of the palace, that which stood above the water-level. Being open-air, it was most often used for the preparation and service of meals for anyone in current residence, as it allowed for fancier and more elaborate dishes, the impressive layout of a banquet-table.

Legend told it centuries old, the crusted walls and columns of his home. Submerged and fallen in the Great War of the island, when his ancestors quarreled with their own kin so bitterly that the entire city was lost beneath the waves. The first son of the first son - Trytn of the horn that was the symbol and power-focus of his father's reign – had attempted to raise the palace at least, according to other legends. Only partially successful, before the quakes had begun to destroy what there was, and the endeavor abandoned to preserve what was left below the surface.

Now, the tips of the towers rose above the waves, dashed and rubbed and washed into shapeless reef-rocks that the ships of the humans avoided as another barren obstacle dangerous to their wooden hulls. A single watchman waited to alert the inhabitants of a braver vessel's approach, but as far as Dyn-emris could figure, a man would have to climb to the jagged top of the dry rock to look deliberately down the narrow and obscured chimney and blocking his own light to see – what?

It was so improbable a chance as to be well-nigh impossible. He wasn't worried about the eventuality, and he'd heard the guards commenting that it was the most-boring and therefore the least-desirable of all their duties.

As it lacked several hours until the evening meal, there were only a few present, occupied in a leisurely way with various chores of preparation. The chamber was a stone's hard toss wide; while their conversation wouldn't be private, it also wouldn't be overheard.

He broke surface slowly and carefully, approaching her obliquely – to see and study her in a whimsical might-be-the-last-time way. His decision to go made him feel very noble and tragic – and a bit scared, wasn't too late to change his mind, but no – and wish that he might confide in her for a bit of comfort.

The rubble of upper floors and ceiling alike had fallen long ago into a mound in the center of the tower, around which various more-or-less-even surfaces were utilized for the banquet-chamber of the sunken palace. He watched her lean on one elbow as she plied the short curved blade of a flint knife against the stubbornness of the oyster in her other hand, gracefully half-in and half-out of the water. A woven basket-ful of the shelled delicacy waited at her hip, a tarnished silver tray – relic of their ancestry - lined with dried weed likewise at her elbow to receive the half-shell.

Purple suited her, he thought now, and always had. The deep almost-black color of warm midnight shot with a shimmer like stars at the delicately-fringed tip of her tail, fading upward along her lithe body to a soft pale lavender glow in the hollow of her throat, like the inside of one of those shells she handled so dexterously,

"If I cut myself, it's your fault," she told him over one shoulder, showing the corner of a smile.

He huffed in mock-annoyance at being caught out, and discarded stealth to move up beside her, leaning over the rough stone slab she was using for a preparation surface. "How did you know I was there?"

Her dark eyes twinkled at him. "You were watching me," she reminded him archly. "I can always tell when you're watching me."

"It bothers you?" He smiled because he already knew the answer.

A wave of faint pink crossed the skin of her face, and she lifted one hand to move a lock of tousled damp hair with the back of her wrist, to keep the mess on her fingers from tangling the strands further. She flipped her tail only slightly to emphasize her point. "And you were making ripples."

"That was not me," he protested, but grinning – they both knew he was lying; he was such a poor liar he didn't often try. Neglecting to mention something, he was better at, but hiding his feelings was next to impossible for him. He supposed he'd have to work on that, for the time when he would be king. "Freya…"

"Don't," she stopped him immediately, proving his inability to hide his feelings and thoughts. Especially from those he cared about, and who knew him best. "We can't, we're too young – and you know you shouldn't, anyway."

"I don't care about that."

None of the other girls attracted his attention the way Freya did, and it was more than her subtle natural beauty. It was her refusal to be intimidated by his rank, the assurance that his title didn't enter into her enjoyment of his company. It was how she could tease and laugh – or listen in serene stillness – how she could take an incoherent rant or a few uncommunicative grunts and sum up what was bothering him – or delighting him – in a single intuitive sentence.

"You should." She didn't look up at him, eyes on her work. "You'll have to marry from among the noble families, not –"

"There's no law requiring that. When my father chose my mother –"

"That's why, though, don't you see?" She pitched an oyster that wouldn't open down the slab that tilted between them, and it splashed into the water beyond. "Everyone wondered, if common blood would dilute the magic of your ancestors, and –"

"It didn't." He was irritated now, himself, though not with her. They were young, which was why they hadn't yet addressed the question specifically, but now that he was going on a dangerous mission, he didn't want to leave having said nothing, or after an argument. He spread his arms to offer himself as proof. "The magic is just as strong for me as for my father."

"They say he got lucky."

Very rarely, Freya was stubborn – Why now? he pleaded silently.

"They say you'll have to marry from the higher blood to be sure your son –"

A flick of muscle against the resistance of the water he was still half-submerged in, and he surged forward, hands bracing the weight of his upper body on the rock slab, to capture her lips with his. It wasn't their first kiss – nor their second – but the move took her by surprise. Her resistance soon melted and she returned the kiss – though briefly, and sadly, before drawing back.

"I will choose," he told her firmly. "When it is time, I will choose."

"What if I don't say yes?" It was a feeble joke, spoken so mournfully, but he smiled anyway.

"Then I'll have to find a way to persuade you."

She didn't meet his eyes, but her lips quirked in a smile so sweet he dared another light kiss. "Go on with you," she scolded fondly. "Some of us have work to do, today."

He swallowed. Goodbye was not good enough, suddenly, but anything else might be suspiciously significant. He settled for a light, "Love you."

She tossed her head, but she was smiling as he ducked below the surface again.

Will, too, he'd wondered about. Because if his friend guessed, there was no way Dyn-emris would be going alone. But Will had no magic, and the prince knew that was likely his only chance against a beast even his father would take warriors with him to face. Then again, Will's position as perimeter-sentinel was right on his way out of familiar territory – he hoped that wouldn't get Will in trouble when his departure was discovered. As it would be, sooner or later.

"Where are you headed?" Will called out, startling him. He hadn't seen his friend resting half-hidden among the rocks that rose from the sea-floor.

"Out." He gestured nonchalantly, but paused in place.

Will resumed sharpening his knife – an action which he'd probably suspended on seeing Dyn-emris approach, as the ripples of the action and friction would have given his position away. Even to a friend, and Will did enjoy a bit of harmless mischief like startling his prince.

"By yourself?" Dyn-emris gave him a look – amused condescension – and Will gurgled a laugh. "Magic doesn't make you invincible, you know?" he added. "When are you going to be back?"

"When are you going to be off-duty?" he shot back.

"Not til late. It's too bad, I'll probably miss dinner."

"That is too bad," Dyn-emris told him, grinning. "Freya was doing oysters."

Will moaned disappointment and longing, but his eyes twinkled. "Really, M, when are you going to be back? I can't let the prince pass into unpatrolled waters without at least an idea."

"It –" he hesitated – "might be a while."

Will shoved himself out of the rocks – his muddy-orange coloring helped to conceal him at his post - to come closer. "How mysterious. But Freya's doing dinner – so you're not sneaking out for a romantical reason – where are you going, and why?"

"I can't tell you." He attempted a princely aloof, combined with a parental-style eyebrow.

"Hm." Will looked him over skeptically, glanced behind him to either side to emphasize the prince's lack of companion. "Secret, is it? Official? Does your father know?"

"Who do you think informed me of the situation to begin with?" He tempered his almost-lie with a bit of fond sarcasm. "Don't worry, Will. It's just – something I've got to do, and then I'll be back."

Will watched him a moment more, then spun his knife in his hand to offer hilt-first. "Take this with you, then, I've just finished the second-edge. It's better than yours any day, anyway."

The instinct to scoff was stifled, the gesture recognized for what it was. Dyn-emris yanked the small braided tie fastening his own knife in its double-shoulder harness under his arm, and handed it to Will, replacing it with his friend's gift. "Thank you. Very much."

"Take care of yourself," Will told him. "Seriously. Because your father will gut me if anything happens to you."

"It won't."

More promise than assurance, but with another grin, he left his friend behind and headed out into the chill and murk and anticipation and danger, beyond inhabited territory.

A/N: So here's the first chapter of the new fic. As you can see, it's going to be very different; mostly it will take place off-shore. I'm not the first to write a merperson!merlin, or this sort of enemy/monster/challenge. But I think a few of the other elements of this story will be unique… don't let the difference in Merlin's species or name put you off the story, though, I'll 'fix' it later on, you'll see. (spoiler! *wink*)

Let me see, what else. No other characters from the series will be entering the story later on, sorry – who you see is who you get. Also, updates posted as written – when I have 'em, you'll have 'em. This one feels a bit short, but the next section takes place a few days later on, and I did say I would try to get it out today, and I do try to be a writer of my word…