Part II
by ElenaC

"I am not at all certain that this is a good idea, Sire," Hudson wailed in his restrained manner while trying to keep up with Prince John's determined pace. "Forgive me, Sire, but I cannot imagine what His Majesty would say if he knew about this." The servant allowed his voice to trail off meaningfully.

John was undeterred. "I shall depend upon you, Hudson, that he won't hear about it, then," he stated in what he hoped was a clear yet sufficiently vague threat.

Hudson made no rejoinder, choosing instead to mutter unhappily to himself.

John sighed. Here he was, outside of the Royal Palace in the fresh air, the green countryside in view, and still the courtly intrigues, constant back-and-forth of boons, favours, responsibilities, and above all, of upholding appearances was following him inexorably. It was becoming harder and harder to bear because of his growing conviction that he was not made for this life. Not a day passed when he did not yearn to leave it all behind and simply stop being heir apparent, required to learn more about courtly behaviour than about the actual skills involved in ruling a kingdom, being constantly watched by everyone, criticised and never able to fulfil anybody's expectations, least of all his father's.

There had been Words, again. The King failed to understand how his son could choose to spend so much of his time not in the Palace when there was so much to do, important things such as showing his face and his support for the King's policies. While there was some truth in that, it was, at the same time, a load of nonsense, but John had not found the words to express this. That was the worst of it; John felt unable to explain himself in a way that was not guaranteed to earn him lack of comprehension at best and laughing disdain at worst.

How to impart the sense of peace he only felt when he was close to the sea, as far away from the Royal Court as he could get without actually leaving Albion? The constant yet constantly changing face of the ocean, mysterious yet familiar, soothing yet dangerous; the wide horizon; the sky and clouds, always moving; the winds, sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh; the scents associated with wet sands, salt water and seaweed; the sounds of the surf and the cry of seagulls – it all served to transport him to some place within himself where none of his basic discontent could touch him. Even remembering his spot by the sea served to raise his spirits.

John sighed again, deeply. Of course, the King would never understand. Those, according to him, were boyish fancies that John had best outgrow soon. There would be no time to vacantly gaze at the sea when he was King, after all.

Hudson, meanwhile, was ordering the stable boy and a couple of footmen to prepare the wagon and the catboat for transport to the coast, never ceasing his grumblings and shooting John resentful little glances that the young man studiously ignored.

"But you cannot swim, Sire!" Hudson finally ejaculated, unable to keep his protest sotto voce any longer. "The currents are so treacherous. It would be impossible for swimmers to reach you if you encountered any mishap, Sire."

John looked at his servant in surprise. It was rare that the man expressed worry unconnected to appearances or reputation. He felt unaccountably touched.

"At least let me come with you, Sire," Hudson finished his appeal. "The boat is made for five. I shall hardly crowd you. I could take the oars for you if the wind flags, Sire."

The prince hesitated. On the one hand, solitude was the whole point of this endeavour. But he could not deny that Hudson's concern was justified, as John had no prior experience of sailing and no intention of drowning. "Oh, all right then, Hudson," he said less than graciously. "I suppose a little boating could do you some good as well."

Curious, Sherlock followed the dark shape of the boat several yards above him. He had watched the blue-eyed landman and another landman in less flamboyant clothes push the little sailing boat into the sea, and then board the fragile thing. It seemed incredible foolhardy to him, putting their trust into this wooden shell and venture out onto what was, for them, hostile environment. After all, these landmen drowned so quickly.

But the boat remained afloat, and nothing disagreeable happened. On the contrary – the little craft picked up speed, driven by the steady offshore winds, and was soon clipping along at a pace that had the merman flapping his tail to keep up.

He was aware that he needed to stay well away and, above all, out of sight. There was no telling what was in that boat. Becoming inadvertently entangled in fishing nets might prove as fatal to him as being spotted by Leviathan knew what looking devices these landmen might possess.

However, long minutes passed, and nothing happened. No strange things were lowered into the water. What were they doing? It did not look like they were fishing, for neither nets nor fishing rods were in evidence. The little sailing boat was moving on a seemingly random course, along the coast for a bit, then out to the open see for a few hundred yards, back to the coast, along the coast the other way, back out to sea, and back. Sherlock smiled to himself. Maybe they were incapable of steering? It must be hellishly difficult to harness the fickle wind, after all. But on the other hand, these landmen had grown up with it. They should be able to move in it, like any merchild effortlessly learned to move with the sea currents.

Finally, the boat slowed and began to drift. What was going on? Consumed with curiosity, Sherlock swam closer to the surface, but the water's refraction made it impossible to see into the air. Finally, taking his courage in both hands, he surfaced, pushing his head out of the water just far enough to get a clear view.

It took almost a full minute for his eyes to adjust to air-vision, but even while his sight was still blurry, he realized why the boat was drifting: they had struck the sail.

When Sherlock could finally see clearly, he spotted the two landmen calmly sitting in their fragile little ship with their backs to him, and their voices drifted over to where he was floating, some dozen yards away.

They were talking! This, he told himself, was an incredible opportunity to study their speech. He should take it, learn as much as he could. After all, knowledge was infinitely preferable to prejudice. With no-one nearby to tell him that it was too dangerous or to advance any other objection, he was going to do what even the research scientists refused to do, were forbidden to do.

Letting himself slide back completely into the comforting embrace of the water, he swam to the boat, propelled by one or two powerful strokes of his tail, and surfaced again beneath the cover of the boat's rump.

Now, they were directly above him. His heart hammered with excitement. So close! Never, in several hundred years, had a merman dared venture in such direct proximity to the landmen. If they discovered him, what would happen? Would they try to kill him on sight, just for being what he was? Would the blue-eyed one's noble face contort with hate and rage? Somehow, Sherlock did not think so.

Still, it would not hurt to be too careful. He made only the movements necessary to hold his position and strove otherwise to be absolutely still and silent, awed by his own audacity. Now and then, when breathing air became difficult after fifteen minutes or so, he submerged his head to re-moisten his skin and gills before surfacing again, ignoring the peculiar sensation of his long hair sticking to his face and shoulders.

Despite the strangeness of their speech, Sherlock felt an increasing sense of connection the longer he listened. They sounded calm, relaxed. Whatever they were talking about, there was an undertone of friendliness to their voices. They certainly did not sound like bloodthirsty brutes. Also, he began to notice patterns, almost like recurring words. There was a melody to their speech, also recurring, and probably containing meaning, just like merspeech. He also realised after a while that he could distinguish their voices from each other.

Suddenly, he was consumed with the desire to know which voice was the blue-eyed one's.

This, however, would mean looking in his face, to see his lips move while he spoke. It would also mean that there was an excellent chance that Sherlock himself might be spotted. But he needed to know!

He let himself sink back down, pondering the problem. He had to see them and they must not see him. Some sort of cover, maybe, something that would not be noticed nor cause comment. A patch of loose seaweed, or driftwood. Yes.

But finding something appropriate took longer than he expected, and when he finally returned to the shore with his newly constructed camouflage, the little sailing boat had disappeared.

Panicked, he began a frantic search. Had the boat capsized? Had the landmen drowned? Had they been attacked by one of the rare sharks that occasionally wandered into these waters? It would be unusual for the creatures to be so aggressive, but that did not mean it was impossible. He swam back and forth in increasingly wide circles, sensitive nose sifting the water for the scent of blood, sharp eyes on the lookout for helpless drifting bodies or pieces of the boat.

He found nothing.

Finally and quite by accident, he spotted the abandoned boat, pulled onto the shore near a peculiar rock formation, and he felt weak with relief.

This gave him pause. It was not like him to be prone to such violent upsurges of emotion. Shaking his head ruefully at himself, he returned to the deep sea and his abode. Maybe Mycroft was right. Maybe he really should stop thinking so much of the blue-eyed landman, or he would develop an ulcer after all.

In a shark's eye.

"Of course I am certain, Hudson," John remarked placidly. "We've been doing this for weeks. I have been doing the steering myself for the last half a dozen times, and I do not remember you faulting my technique." He smiled. "Your concern does you credit, but in this case it's misplaced."

"But, Sire, look at the skies! There will be rain before evening, maybe even strong winds! I really don't think –"

"So I may get a little wet. So what? These are hardly my best clothes. I'll keep close to the shore, and if it really does get unpleasant, I'll be on dry land within a few minutes."

Hudson continued to look unhappy, and John was moved to place a comforting hand upon his servant's shoulder. "Do not worry yourself, Hudson. Return to the Palace and divert the King should he ask after me, would you? I really need this time alone."

It may have been this last remark that finally persuaded Hudson to do the prince's bidding, even if it was Not Done to leave the heir apparent to his own devices like this. With a final nod of assent, the servant withdrew and walked towards the horses.

Smiling happily, John pushed the small boat into the water, sloshing along until he had passed the breakers, and then he pulled himself aboard. The sail took the slight wind readily. With a sigh, the prince settled next to the rudder, took off his sodden boots, wriggling his naked toes in the sea air, and felt entirely content.

Unknown to him, grey eyes were watching him from beneath the sea.

Indeed, the wind was stronger today than before, but John relished in it. The little boat sped along, waves crashed against it and sprayed him, the sun sparkled off the waves, blinding him. It was thoroughly exhilarating. Without the cautioning presence of his servant reminding him of his everyday life, John felt utterly free, unfettered by his station, reckless and invincible. If only he could bottle this moment and take it out during the next courtly function! If only some fairy would appear right now, to grant him a wish!

"I wish to trade my life with that of a humble fisherman," John said aloud, over the gentle sounds of the surf somewhere far behind him. "I despise being the King's son. I wish to spend my life like this. Just myself, the sea, and the sky." He fell silent, considering. "Well, maybe I should like to share my life with someone. But that someone should be anything but a princess who married me because I slew a cyclop, or because I managed to find her lost footwear. Well," he allowed, "she probably wouldn't like this kind of outing anyway. It would ruin her hair and stain her glass slippers."

These and other inane comments were duly given to the patiently listening seagulls while the Prince's small boat left the coastal shallows and began to cross into the open sea.

Several yards beneath the small boat, Sherlock was moving in parallel. He had watched as the landman, whose name, as he had gathered from the conversations he had overheard, was "Sire", boarded the little craft alone. This had prompted the fruitless speculation that the two landmen may have quarrelled, and the more substantial thought that this time, there would be no conversations to listen to and, therefore, no need for his tried and tested camouflage.

And indeed, he had barely had time to pry one of the house-carriers off a rock and put it in his mouth, crushing the shell between his strong teeth and enjoying the taste of the soft flesh, when the sailing boat began to make for the open seas.

Sherlock followed, chewing, watching its progression worriedly. If Sire held this course, he would soon cross the current that was used by the merfolk for heavy goods transportation. A good, steady current near the sea bottom, its effect consisted of erratic and unpredictable vortices along the surface that could very well become dangerous for the small craft.

But what should he do? Attach himself to the little boat's rump and attempt to push it back to shore, against the wind? Impossible. Surface, and give warning? Possible due to his recently acquired grasp of the landspeech, but potentially disastrous.

Below him, his sharp eyes could just discern the glow of fluorescent lights marking the current with its steady stream of containers pulled by whales of burden. Already, the surface waters were becoming hard to navigate. The landman must surely be feeling the effects, and would turn around soon.

Besides, Sherlock himself was in a precarious legal position this close to a ship, and he had better not be spotted up here.

He had just finished thinking that when several things happened at once.

There were shouts from below; a large dark shape detached itself from the ground blue and made for the surface. Simultaneously, the sailing boat encountered a strong cross current, pushing the rump around and the sail out of the wind, which caused the boat to gybe and the boom to swing across, hitting its occupant and throwing him overboard. With Sherlock's attention diverted by the escaped whale of burden, he did not immediately realise that the little boat had become unmanned.

It took the transporters down below a few minutes to regain control of the situation and recapture the whale while Sherlock watched, worrying that they might ascend far enough to see him up here. At last, it was safe once more for him to direct his attention skywards. It was then that he noticed the splashing shape of the landman in the water above him, and the gold ring he had worn upon his head was sinking into the blue depths, coming straight towards Sherlock.

There was no question about what he would do, edict or no edict.

John surfaced, gasping, coughing, panicked. His clothes hampered his movements and seemed intent to pull him down, his eyes burned with salt, and he felt like he had swallowed half a gallon of seawater. Desperately, he tried to keep his head above water, forced to acknowledge the fact that he was about to die. He could not swim. The boat, a dozen yards away, was out of reach, and even if he could by some miracle manage to cross the distance to it, he would never be able to hoist himself aboard.

At least, he had lost his hated crown. He would die a normal man, not as heir apparent to the throne of Albion. That was something.

And then, during the last seconds granted him, he was graced with a vision.

The light filtering down into the water was reflected off metallic-looking scales and pale, hairless skin. A narrow face with a strong nose and square chin, framed by flowing black hair, was turned towards the light, and bright grey eyes looked up at him.

The vision faded as his head sank beneath the surface, and he knew he would not have the strength to regain the air. This was it – the moment when death came. He prayed that it would be quick. Should he deliberately inhale the water, or should he keep in what air he had in an effort to delay the inevitable?

Suddenly, strong arms wrapped themselves around him. Without questioning its presence, he instinctively clung to the powerful, hard, sinewy body, and then, just as he was about to lose consciousness, there was blessed air upon his face again.

He breathed gratefully, feeling himself propelled at extraordinary speed towards his boat while he coughed and choked, then his rescuer effortlessly heaved him aboard, where he lay for a while, gasping, simply glad to be alive.

When he finally found the strength to push himself upright and look over the side, the seas were devoid of any sign of his rescuer. He was alone. Nevertheless, he scrambled onto his knees, leaned over the side and called out, again and again, until a splashing sound behind him caused his voice to get stuck in his throat.

He turned around. There lay his crown in a small puddle of seawater. He threw himself to the other side and looked into the water. A single metallic glint upon a long, fish-like shape that quickly disappeared into the blue was all he saw.

"Thank you!" he yelled after it, but it was gone.

To be continued...