Merlin's heart stopped. Dammit, he swore. Merlin made a pained expression he couldn't control. Mr. McCreedy's neat mustache quivered as his lips turned into a smile.
"S'pose this fellow is a bit of trouble for you?" Merlin sheepishly shrugged, and smiled slightly.
"Yeah. Met the bloke at a coffee shop. His real name isn't Arthur. It's Wilbur Potts," Merlin explained, "but he must have seen that BBC show and got attached simply 'cause my name's Merlin. He likes to pop around and discuss the legend." It was true he called himself Arthur Pendragon, but it was a sentiment that hurt Merlin deeply though he hadn't the heart to stop him. Wilbur was a lonely boy and Merlin knew too well the pain of being lonely.
The elderly gentleman signaled to Merlin to grab a serving plate so he could laden it with wheal rose sausages and lamb racks.
"Ah," the old man sighed, "it's not every day one makes a friend. The half cannot hate that which makes it whole, you know."
"Yeah, you're ri—," Merlin stopped mid sentence, almost dropping the platter.
"Whoa! Merlin, you almost done me in from fright! I got those meats from Tregullow! Took me all day!" Mr. McCreedy eyed Merlin.
"I'm sorry Mr. McCreedy, I got dizzy. But, what was it you said?"
"The half cannot hate that which makes it whole. Don't rightly remember where I heard it from, but it works for you." The two men gathered supplies and made their way to the dining room in the cottage.
"The way I see it Merlin, is you're a lonely fellow. You come and help us every summer, but you're always distant and if you ask me, I've seen you talking to yourself a few times." Merlin burned with shame. Mr. McCreedy sat the plates down and grasped Merlin's shoulder. "Ain't nothin' wrong with it. You just have to realize one day that the half you keep pushing out is anyone who tries to be your friend. It's like you're waiting for something when what you've been wanting is right in front of you." Merlin lay a hand over the man's own and smiled.
"You're like our grandson, you know. You're welcome here any time."
—
The rest of the evening passed merrily. The meat was juicy and the company sweet. Gertrude and Mauve succumbed to slumber on the couch and London lay on top of them like their very own fur blanket. Merlin and the elderly couple retired to the porch to sip tea and watch the stars twinkle over the fields before them. They sat in silence and in it Merlin thought heavily of what Mr. McCreedy expressed. He was right. He did talk to himself. Merlin was ashamed to admit it, but he did it often and any conversation he had with himself wasn't really for himself. He was speaking to an absent Arthur. He thought that if he spoke to him as if he were there, he would appear. And, sometimes, when he spoke he spoke so fervently he came to believe he really was seeing Arthur there. Yet he wasn't and Arthur never materialized. The cool night air blew gently, but it did not cool Merlin's burning cheeks. What a fool he must be, pitiable for trying so hard for something so hopeless. Yet, if he did not hope, what more was there for him? Perhaps it was time to let go. He had two twins he cared for during the summer and a lovely elderly couple who saw him as family. He had waited for so long and never enjoyed a season of it. What if he could settle down and finally live beyond existing?
—
"Alright dearie, enjoy your flight to Cardiff, we'll be sure to pick you up next summer." The McCreedy's gathered around Merlin and hugged him close. Twins Gertrude and Mauve cried and clung to Merlin's legs. He coughed to hide his tears and walked around with them attached to his legs until they began to laugh. Laughter really does heal the wounds of the heart, he thought.
He went through customs, waved goodbye to his summer family and then headed off to the plane. He exchanged the lovely coast of Cornwall for the rolling hills of Wales and then set off for his flat.
The building was nice. Not posh, but cozy and enough for him. He checked his mail at the front and asked the lobbyist if he had any messages.
"Yes, a gentleman came calling for you," she chittered. Prunella was a flighty girl. She wore her hair in a strict bun, and hid her grey owl eyes behind large round spectacles. "He said his name was Arthur—"
"Pendragon. Yes, I know. His name is Wilbur, really. I'm sure he'll be by again. Just send him up please."
Prunella nodded and hastily scribbled a note as a reminder. Merlin exited left and went up the stairs to his corner flat. He juggled for the keys, slid it in, and pushed through to his living space. It was a simple space, bare, but warm. The walls had meaningful artwork reminiscent of Impressionism and the furniture was worn to comfiness.
"Time to put the kettle on," he said to the absence.
He set his carry-on down at the couch, and left to the kitchen. It was small and tidy, yellow themed to bring in some cheer. He filled the kettle up and was about to place it on the stove top when he heard a knock at the door. He quickly turned the burner on and went to answer it.
Merlin grasped the knob and turned, bracing himself for Wilbur's unending energy and paceless conversation. When he opened the door what he found was not Wilbur, but a blond man with blue eyes and a firm jaw. A man with an air of responsibility and dignity which made him appear as royalty. When the man saw Merlin his eyes widened and his jaw went almost imperceptibly slack. He seemed to choke on the words he was trying to summon.
"Merlin, it's me. Arthur."