A/N: I'm changing the rating on this story to T for language right now. It'll probably stay at that rating.
I was going to try to come out with a chapter once a week, but since there's not a huge interest in this, I'll just play it by ear according to how much free time I get and how much I have to work on the story I'm co-authoring with BillatWork.
Reviews are amazing, especially if you favorite or put this story on alert. Because there must be a reason you like it enough to do either one of those! :)
Morgana sits with a blanket over her knees, staring out the window of the jet. Arthur likes to keep the jet cool, and she's had no desire to argue with him since his injury, especially since she knows how much he's hurting both physically, with his knee, and emotionally, without football, the one thing that makes sense to him in his life. He's not one to talk about his feelings, but she's known him long enough to realize that if she pushes him too hard right now, she'll only drive him away.
The engine of the jet whines, and her ears pop as they start to descend. They break through the pure white cloud layer, revealing what she can only describe as a tropical oasis. Glistening ocean meets sun-bleached sand in a perfect blend of light and heat and wonder. The beach is dotted with resorts and gives way to more developed land, but she can see jungle ahead, leading to the heart of the island. It's mysterious, and lovely, and it sends a shiver through her. She doesn't much like surprises, prefers planning her life so she will encounter as few of them as possible. But this place, it holds secrets. The only question is: what kind?
"Arthur," she says and turns her head to look at her brother, on the other side of the cabin. His eyes are closed and he has his iPod earphones in, once again oblivious to the world around him. "Oi!" she shouts, balling up a piece of notebook paper and launching it at him.
It hits him smack in the face.
"Wha-what?" he says groggily, stirring to consciousness.
"Wake up, Arthur. We're here. We're in Costa Gravas."
"Drop us right here," Carina instructs the helicopter pilot.
He nods, lowering the chopper until they're hovering about ten feet above the blindingly white sand. Sarah grabs one of her bags and tosses it out, where it lands with a soft thunk on the shore, scattering the sand. She looks over to Carina, who's already taken her headset off. Off the redhead's nod, she takes her own headset off, hangs it up, and jumps out of the helicopter after her bag, executing a barrel roll landing. She stands, brushes the sand off her legs, and looks up to watch Carina's descent.
But her friend doesn't jump.
"Sorry, Walker!" Carina shouts over the whip of the blades as she tosses another suitcase down.
"What the hell, Carina?" yells Sarah, straining her voice to be heard.
"This is for your own good! Tough love and all that!"
"You are not leaving me here alone, Miller! Land this helicopter right now!"
"I'll see you in a month!"
With that, Carina signals to the pilot, and the helicopter begins to rise.
"Don't you dare leave, you lying little whore!"
But she's already too far away to hear, not that she would care much anyway. Carina's been called much worse, by people who love her much less. Sarah lets out a growl of frustration as she kicks at the nearer bag. And then she sinks down onto the sand, pulling her knees up to her chest, a fiery scowl on her face. She and Carina have had more than their fair share of fights, both with words and with blows, but they've been as close to sisters as spies can get, and Carina's never pulled a stunt like this before.
She's never sided with Graham before.
The list of things Sarah Walker is losing just seems to keep growing.
Not having inherited their father's easy acceptance of luxury, Morgana is more impressed with the suite than her brother. Everything's state-of-the-art – the light, temperature, television, and everything electronic controlled by one central remote or a larger wall panel – which doesn't clash as much with the period décor as she expected. The resort, simply called Camelot, is full of corridors that twist and turn. It's odd, but oddly interesting against the tropical background, and it sets her mind alight with ideas. It'd be the perfect type of setting for a book. They've been given double suites that feature coats of arms and knightly tapestries, though she's particularly fond of the suit of armor that stands in the small hallway separating their rooms. She thinks she'll call him Howie. But the best thing, unquestionably, is the view – the beach gleaming in the sunlight, dotted with palapas, stretching to meet the turquoise sea. It really could be paradise, and it's all here at the tip of her fingers, if only she'd stretch out her hand.
She wanders over to Arthur's room, expecting him to have situated himself in front of the couch with the telly remote and the room service menu. Instead, he's on his feet, supported on his crutches, and barely managing to make his way from the bedroom through the living area towards her. He's changed his clothes, from his traveling jeans and t-shirt into khaki shorts and a striped polo, and, judging from the droplets of water still in his blond hair, he's even showered.
"Wait, are you planning on going somewhere?" she asks curiously.
He nods. "Didn't you hear the concierge when she told us about the party?"
Right. The weekend gatherings in the hotel bar for all guests. Great music, a few drinks, good company were all promised.
"Of course. I just . . . didn't think you'd actually want to go. Especially on your leg."
"Well, I didn't come here to hide out in my room," he shrugs.
There's a taut pause, because that's exactly what she's been doing for the past five months and thirteen days. She used to be social and active and successful and popular. Now, she's just another hermit writer who favors solitude over the remote chance of being hurt again.
"Why don't you come with me?" he asks. "Come on. It'll be fun."
She bites her lip. She really does need to look after him. That's her one job here, and how can he maneuver through a bar on crutches? But she's come to despise the attention she gets in public, even when she goes out in her sloppiest clothes. The thought makes her hesitate just long enough for Arthur to catch it.
"Morgana," begins Arthur, his voice much softer than usual, "you can't hide out forever."
"Arthur."
"No, it's okay. Stay in for tonight. Write. I can take care of myself."
"I'm not so sure about that."
"Hey, I know I give Leon a hard time, but that's because he's a pompous idiot," he laughs. "I promise, Morg, I'll be fine."
"And you're sure?"
"Positive."
"Thanks, Arthur."
He clomps past her on his way to the door, then stops to say, "Tomorrow, though, I will drag you out to do something fun. You won't get away from me that easily."
She lets out a laugh and gives him a gentle push on the shoulder. "Get out of here. Go have fun."
"All right," Merlin says with a nod as his eyes rove over the outdoor bar. Guests are clustered in small groups all around, at the bar, around tables settled beneath huge umbrellas, all talking and laughing and drinking. Even with his tenners on, he can already feel the sand squishing beneath his feet, and the sensation sends a ripple of disgust through him. Why'd he let Gwen talk him into this again? "We've seen it. Now let's go."
"Oh, come on!" she pleads, already grabbing hold of his arm. "You're being ridiculous. Come on, let's get a drink. A beer will help you loosen up. And look, there's a band!"
Indeed, there's a platform on the other side of the bar with musicians in dark suits playing instruments like ukuleles and steel drums. But then he does a double take, because there's a lute in a stand towards the back of the stage. Maybe this place really does try to live up to its name.
He lets out a sigh as he follows his friend to the bar. Gwen's job is backbreaking and full of annoyances, and yet she rarely complains. Considering that and how little opportunity for fun she has, he could stand to be a little more compliant about this trip. As they traipse across the sand, Merlin notices, out of the corner of his eye, a man with messy blond hair and a brace on his leg following their progress, his mouth hanging open stupidly. Merlin shakes his head, turns away, and puts it out of his mind, but only after making a mental note to keep a close eye on Gwen this week, if only to keep her away from creeps like that.
"I'm sorry, all right?" he offers as they take side-by-side stools. "You know I've never been much of a beach guy." He lifts a hand for the bartender and orders two beers.
"Well, if you ask me, you could use a bit of sun."
He chuckles. "Fair enough. So, do you like it so far? Better or worse?"
"Oh, it's lovely!" Gwen says with her characteristic enthusiasm, taking a sip of beer. "It's not much different, I guess. The layout and decorations and everything. But it feels different. Does that make any sense?"
"Sure," he nods.
"Like this place is full of, I dunno, magic."
"Gwen . . ." he begins with a smile.
"I know, I know," she says hastily, waving away his next words. "There's no such thing as magic."
"Okay, okay, okay," he says with a shake of his head. "So, I assume you have activities planned for us this week?"
Gwen shrugs. "Not really."
"No?" Merlin says, pulling back in surprise.
"I don't know. I just thought we needed to slow down. I barely have a day off, and you never pull your head out of those books of yours. So our prescription for this week is sun and relaxation. How does that sound?"
He chinks his glass against hers. "Sounds perfect."
"Answer your damn phone, Carina," Sarah bites into her friend's voicemail, angrily tossing the phone onto her bed as a knock sounds at the door of her suite. She pulls her robe tighter about herself, realizing only now just how little it conceals.
She's scowling as she peers through the peephole and opens the door to a man in a dark suit and a pink tie.
"Miss Walker?" he says.
It's Agent Walker to you, she nearly barks, but then remembers that's not true for at least 27 more days. Instead, she merely says, "Yes?"
The man smiles, revealing blindly white teeth against his charmingly tan complexion. "Premier Goya requests your presence at breakfast tomorrow morning promptly at 8 o'clock. What shall I give him as your reply?"
"Does it matter what my reply is?" she chuckles, but the joke falls flat with only the premier's lackey for an audience. "8 o'clock?"
"That's right."
"I hope he plans on serving pancakes, then."
"Then I shall send someone to pick you up precisely at 7:30."
Morgana sets down her mug of tea with a heavy sigh. She'd given up on trying to write hours ago, because apparently paradise is no more inspirational than her home in London was. She's forgotten how lonely a room can seem with just empty thoughts for company, and spending the last hour just lounging on the balcony and staring off as the sun drops beneath the ocean line and the sky slowly deepens to a twinkling purple hasn't helped matters.
She can't remember the last time she's had this much uninterrupted time, and what a pity she has no idea how to utilize it. No matter how big his posse gets, Arthur's forever bursting into her study with inane questions or pleas to hang out. All this time, she's been attributing her inability to write this book, her fifth and so far the only one she hasn't had a lick of inspiration for, on the interruptions her pesky baby brother makes in her life, but Arthur's been gone for hours now. Surely she should have been able to come up with at least a sentence. Her editor Morgause has been calling every week wanting an update on her progress, and every week she's had to disappoint her. After all the writing exercises and thought prompts she's been sending, she can only imagine what Morgause is going to say when she hears that not even a vacation to a gorgeous, relaxing beach is giving her that extra push she needs to organize her thoughts into something resembling a readable story.
She taps her pen against her notebook, half the page covered with scribbled-out sentences. She'll get no further tonight. With another sigh, she stands and heads back inside the suite, deciding to go discover where Arthur's been hiding for the past few hours. After all, he can't get very far with a bum leg and he's always been good at getting her mind off troublesome things like deadlines.
"Chuck," Ellie begins as they walk through the lighted archway leading to the resort bar, "Devon and I are gonna go check out the beach a little bit. Will you be okay by yourself for a little while?"
Chuck tilts his head and gives his sister an irked look. "El, I'm not a kid. I'll be fine."
Smiling, she holds her palms up. "Of course, right. Sorry!" Still, she puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it a squeeze before saying, "We'll be back in a few."
Devon claps him on the shoulder, too, and booms, "Hey, man, don't forget – bars are great opportunities to make friends. Just show 'em the old Chuckster smile."
"Wait," Chuck says, suddenly alarmed. "Is this a trick to get me to meet people?"
But they're already walking away from him. He can hardly blame them. An evening stroll along the shoreline is much more exciting than babysitting him. He wills the frown off his face as he stalks over to the bar, his Converses sliding over the slippery sand. He finds an empty stool between a woman fending off the attentions of wannabe suitor and a thin, pasty man with raggedy black hair and a plaid, button-down shirt.
"Could I get a grape soda, please?" he requests, sliding into the seat.
The bartender raises a questioning brow, but gets the drink and sets it before him. The dark-haired man beside him, though, chuckles.
"You have the right idea," he says in a thick English brogue, "but your execution's all wrong."
Chuck turns his head to make sure he's the one being spoken to. His neighbor has a grin on his face, one hand wrapped around a stein of amber beer.
Chuck clears his throat. "Excuse me?"
"Let me guess. Someone dragged you on vacation and you'd much rather be in the hotel room playing video games."
He lets out a disbelieving chuckle. "Uh . . . what gave me away?"
"Look at us. We could be brothers, mate," he says, indicating with one vague sweep of his hand their similar outfits – button-downs and jeans, sneakers, nothing at all remotely appropriate for enjoying beach weather. "Not to mention the tape on your fingers and the fact that no one orders grape soda at a bar unless they're being held there against their will."
"Ah," he mutters as he removes the tape he'd forgotten was there.
"I'm Merlin Ambrose, by the way," the man beside him says, sticking a hand out.
Chuck takes it. "Chuck Bartowski. It was my sister and her boyfriend who made me tag along, actually. You?"
"Best friend," says Merlin. After a slug of beer, he elaborates, "Who has given up on all my pathetic attempts at conversation and left me for . . . Oh, they've run off on me." He notices as he turns around to gesture to them that Gwen and her new blond admirer are not in the corner where he left them. He frowns in consternation. He's supposed to be keeping an eye on her after all, and he wasn't entirely sure that guy was trustworthy. "Erm, well, she was here."
"Ellie and Devon ditched me, too."
"Suppose we should be used to it by now, right?"
Chuck laughs. "Yeah, I guess we're not exactly life-of-the-party type of guys. In fact, my last birthday, my sister invited all her doctor friends. To be nice, you know? But I was too scared to go and meet any of them. And when I finally got up the courage to talk to a few, it was like speaking a different language."
"Oh, man," Merlin commiserates, shaking his head, "the worst is when they don't get your jokes, isn't it?"
"You can say that again. Is it really so unbelievable that there are females out there who could like us for who we are, pale skin and high scores and all?"
Merlin drops into a contemplative silence, then says quietly, "You know, I spend most of my time reading medieval literature. Do you know what medieval literature's about?"
"What?"
"Love. Courtly love, blind lust, it's all there. But the thing is, the more I read about it, the less I believe in it."
"Well," Chuck frowns, "I guess it's a good thing we'll always have friends to fall back on, then." Thinking of the bearded gnome he left back in Burbank, the friend he can always count on to cheer him up when he's down with all-night Legend of Zelda gaming sessions, he lifts his glass of grape soda toward Merlin.
With a smile, Merlin toasts, beer against grape soda. "Here's to making new friends."
As their glasses chink together, Chuck's gaze is drawn toward the bar's archway entrance as a stunning brunette appears, and his mouth drops open. He's pretty sure he's drooling. He's always had a weakness for brunettes, and, minus the silver streak in her dark hair, this one calls to mind one of his favorite mutants from one of his favorite comic book series.
"Who is that?" he murmurs, almost to himself. "Anna Marie?"
"Anna Marie . . ." Merlin repeats absently. He turns to look and then immediately wishes he hadn't, because he finds himself mesmerized by raven-black hair, stunning emerald eyes, and it's like a drum being struck inside his head, like a fire being set to his heart.
The woman moves through the bar area like a ghost, disappearing nearly as swiftly and silently as she came, and Merlin suddenly feels as if the light has gone out of the room, out of the world, out of his life. What a trick for Fate to play on a man who doesn't believe in love, how cruel to make him understand the beauty and the agony in one fell swoop.