In which things start to go a bit... odd.

[darkisrising]

Cometh Saturday afternoon, cometh the rugby matches. Arthur gets a good game with his team, Merlin gets to stand on the sidelines yelling abuse and cheering him on. It's not that different from the time Merlin was his manservant, only this time Merlin's not sharpening his daggers as he does it or doing the mending. The maids have been replaced by wives and girlfriends and supporters.

They get into a ruck, and Merlin yells "Put your back into it!"

"Christ, Arthur, is there any way to shut your boyfriend up?" Gav asks.

"I've tried, believe me, I've tried." Arthur says, head crammed under someone's armpit. "Feels like I've been trying to for lifetimes."

They get out of it, Carl makes a run for it, catches the ball, then gets tackled. it's a bloody good tackle, and some of the fans on his side actually make polite impressed noises. Bastards.

Merlin's yelling again in concert with Will's missus. "How is it they've been coming to matches this long and your other halves still don't understand how this game works?" Rhys asks as they get into a line-up.

"I think they specifically wipe all the rules they ever learn from their brains just to piss us off." Will says. "Seriously, the only time my missus admits to knowing anything about rugby is when she's watching Strictly."

"Or one of them appears in Attitude and there's a half naked photo shoot." Arthur adds. "Still liked it when we were watching Six Nations, I went into the kitchen, and Merlin yelled 'forward pass, ref, are you blind?' Came back out, he insisted I must've been hearing things. Then proceeded to narrate the rest of the game as 'white team throws ball, Ronon O'Gara's cheekbones catch the sunlight like this, does he carry it around with him?'."

"Well, he does." Rhys says. "You saw that Ireland - Wales match a while back? Ronon O'Gara came on in a game that'd been pissing it down, the first beam of sunshine comes out, it hits his face. We're sure he's not half leprechaun?"

"Nah, he'd be shorter." Will says.

Half time. Arthur looks for Merlin, and sees he's making his absorbed face. Which morphs into his fascinated expression. Tara, Gem, him and Lou are all looking in the same direction, which is Lee stretching his hamstrings. Arthur winces. He's not even going there. Or thinking about that.

Full time, and Arthur jogs off the field, slinging an arm round Merlin. "Blegh, get off me!" Merlin says, trying to get away.

"Don't see you objecting when I've just been in the water and I'm even more wet." Arthur grins.

"Muddy and sweaty is completely different." Merlin objects.

"You and the girls were perving enough while we were playing." Arthur says, batting his nose to get mud on it. "Thought you'd have no problem with this."

"It's called look don't touch." Merlin shudders, twisting out of it. "Stay. Over there. No touching until you've had a wash. Fantasy is different from reality as you well know. And I know you know how unpleasant mud is."

"I'm still never going to get how much perving you do over me playing rugby." Arthur says, pulling the hem of his shirt up and rubbing some of the mud off his face.

Merlin gives him a disbelieving look. "Arthur, let me put this in small words. Big muscly men getting sweaty and dirty and groping each other. They also make grunting sounds. Why do you think we're perving? Come on, I know you fancy Ben Cohen and I know you appreciate bodies in motion. The stuff coming out of your mouth during the Olympic diving was pure filth."

"That's athletics, it's not rugby." Arthur mutters.

Merlin covers his eyes. "It's like sparring practice all over again. I swear, you've got this giant really impressive blind spot."

Arthur shrugs. "I watch rugby like I watch fighting. I just... default to checking their technique. Too busy critiquing the strategy and next move to notice the people playing it."

"So do I. Very carefully." Merlin says. "You appreciate rugby in your way, I'll appreciate it in mine and wait for another torn shirt." He narrows his eyes, waving a hand and floating a water bottle over to Arthur and squirting him with it.

"Hey!" Arthur yells.

"You were coming too near." Merlin says, water bottle floating menacingly at the ready.

They make their way down the hill, down past a bunch of workmen digging up a bit of the road, putting in pipes and feeding something in. the back of their coats have got a Kernow Corp logo on them. Local energy company.

Merlin peers in, ever curious. "what's the problem? Gas main?"

"Ah, sod off." One of them says. "Dangerous stuff we're working with, don't want to trip on a pipe, lad."

"Something down there's setting off the sensors." One of them says. "Trying to find out what it is."

His mate nudges him. "Not supposed to be talking about this to the locals. Wouldn't understand."

"Why not, 's just the sensors." He turns back to Merlin. "Some of our sensors reported something blipping, so that's us sent off to make sure there's nothing wrong and people's power and telly doesn't go out. Proactive's better'n waiting til it breaks and customer services gets cursed from here to kingdom come."

"You have sensors down there?" Merlin asks, peering in. "I thought it was just the boxes or head office."

"Where do you think the boxes get their signals from?" The engineer asks. "Now shove off, some of us have work to do and your mate looks like he needs a shower dreckly."

Merlin turns back to Arthur. "See? Even strangers agree. men who spend their lives digging think you need a shower."

----

Merlin's down by the harbour where the fishing boats come in, tethered and moored to metal circles, plastic bottles caught in the seaweed and old cans of fosters. The occasional scrumpy bottle with its distinctive handle somewhere around the chains hanging from the steps, the ropes with their long trails of seaweed emerging from the water, with that scum of white salt on the edges. It's pretty in an odd, slightly smelly way. Still, could be worse. Could be shit, or down by that spot where the waste water hits the sea and it really fucking stinks. something about the concentration of scum that's formed, it smells worse than rotting seaweed, so it does. He sticks his hands in his pockets, poking the toe of his trainer into the stone beneath his feet, with only the occasional evidence of seagull passing through. For all they wheel about this bit, with its promise of fish and food, they don't shit much on it. Leave that to the roofs. Not so many unguarded chips here.

hunching his shoulders, Merlin blows out a slow breath as the light catches the edge of the seaweed. Not the water, the seaweed. Just enough to make it glisten a bit. And on that light, there comes in a boat. Jez, who does mussels and lobsters for the local restaurants. Just his little dinghy-type row boat, lets him come in further at medium tide. Something on the boat's clinking, wood against wood, the tonal music that's ever present out here with even the slightest breeze or rock of the waves. Merlin thinks of it like the constant baa-ing of sheep that you get on the hills, only much more musical. Lot more musical than the constant blare of horns punctuated by sirens and yells in the towns, at any rate. he wonders if it's ever been the case that someone's scored a piece for boats and their bits of wood banging in the breeze. Got to be.

Jez stops the boat in the shallows at the bottom of the steps, holding his rope up to Merlin, but not calling out. Like he's begging, almost. Gone mute with too much sea air and yelling at seagulls trying for his catch. maybe he has. Merlin shrugs and trips down the steps, holding his hands out for the rope. Jez tosses it to him, Merlin catches it and ties it to one of the metal rings. "Good catch?" Merlin inquires.

Jez tucks in on himself, looking down into the bottom of the boat for a bit, then away and past Merlin, then at the steps, like he's trying to remember what they look like. In the end he shrugs, reaching down and passing Merlin a crate. Merlin takes it, tripping up a few steps to stack it on the side so no-one'll trip on it. Looks like he's been designated unloading duty.

When they've got all out that's going out, Jez leaps out of the boat, grabbing a collapsible trolley from the boat, puts it up on the top of the step, then comes back for the crates, stacking them on the trolley. he sticks his hands in his pockets once they're done, rocking back and forth on his heels, looking out tot he sea, twisting his head on his neck like he's trying to get a crick out of his neck, then down at his shoes. Then out to sea again. He scratches his neck, and pulls out a note and sticks it in Merlin's hand. "Haul these to the Chandlery restaurant, will you? Beth'll kill me if she's short for the evening rush."

"..What?"

"You'll be going that way anyway." Jez shrugs again, looking out to the sea like he's trying to discern some sort of meaning from it. He glances back at Merlin, looks out to sea one more time, then runs down the steps, jumping into his boat and untying the knot and starting up the engine before Merlin can move, hand still clutched around that note and mouth a bit open.

He spends a good couple of minutes staring at where Jez disappeared in the direction of before the blare of a horn shakes himself out of his reverie, the paper digging into his hand. He unfurls it, and it's a scrawled receipt of goods made out to the Chandlery. He folds it and puts it in his pocket. Then looks at the trolley of four crates of mussels and one of lobsters. As if on cue, Merlin's phone rings. It's Arthur. "Where've you got to? We need a new loo brush." There's a pause. "Actually, two loo brushes and two packs of kitchen roll."

"Yes, my master." Merlin says, then looks at the crates he's got next to him, then back out at the water. Absolutely no sign of Jez. Not a sausage. "Though, er, there might be a problem with that."

"What sort of problem?" Arthur says suspiciously.

"Um. Well, it's a bit difficult to explain. can you get down to the harbour? by Ray's. the pasty seller?" Merlin says.

"What did you do, Merlin?" Arthur asks. the long suffering tone is creeping in. "Is it anything to do with the sea beasts or did you just cause a hurricane in the shop?"

"That was once!" Merlin protests. "...This lifetime?" The problem with being endlessly reincarnated and having something who was there for most of it. Arthur never forgets any bloody incident. Especially ones that involve tiny eddies of wind. tiny ones. er. in a shop with lots of movable items. That may or may not have got broken? "Er it's nothing to do with the shop and it's nothing *I* did. I was just there when it happened. And there's no breakages. It just needs a bit of sorting out."

"You realise this isn't sounding any better." Arthur says, then makes a disgruntled sound. "All right, I’ll come fetch you. Do I need to bring anything?"

"No, no, the less you bring the better." Merlin says.

Merlin passes the time watching for possible signs of Jez. The problem is there's not even anyone he can ask, since most of the fisherman are out and most of the boats in have their owners off somewhere else.

Arthur fetches up about fifteen minutes later, suspicious look on his face. "All right, ell me the worst news." He pauses on catching sight of the crates. "What are those?"

"...shellfish?" Merlin says.

"Shellfish." Arthur states. "Why do you have a stack of crates of shellfish? Did you mug someone? trade magic beans for it?"

"Jez came in, I helped get him get it up the steps and then he fucked off." Merlin says. "Seriously, it was weird. You know how he's normally a bit of a chatterbox? Nearly silent. Like, three words. Really distracted the whole time. Kept watching the sea. have you heard anything about something happening out there?"

"not that I've heard, I’ve been cleaning the loos and the bathroom. If it doesn't involve suds I have no knowledge of it." Arthur says. "Did he look possessed?"

"Maybe?" Merlin says hesitantly. "Mostly like he wasn't there and couldn't talk. The constant looking out to sea was a bit weird, I'll give you that."

"So a distracted fisherman dumped a bunch of shellfish on you." Arthur says, poking the crates. "Did he want anything for it? We don't serve shellfish in the café, and I've got no fucking idea how to cook it. This is why we go to Beth's."

"It's for Beth, actually. I’ve got a chit and everything. Dunno when he's going to collect payment, though."

"So this almost silent fisherman somehow got over that he expects you to make his delivery. He does know you've got a job, right?" Arthur asks.

"Well, see the receipt. It's not like there's another Chandlery restaurant in town." Merlin shrugs. "We can't exactly leave it here, it'll get smelly." He bites his lip. "Plus if Beth finds out it was us who didn't deliver her mussels...."

"That's no free bread and brown spider crabs for months." Arthur says, grim faced. "Right, what're we waiting for?" He asks, grabbing the handle of the trolley and starting off down towards the town. Being cut off from Beth's bread is a serious matter. The bakers in town have a firm belief that Beth's got some sort of influence over the ovens since it's quite possible you could stuff yourself on the bread she serves and not leave any space for the lobster.

Arthur's very real fear of a lack of brown spider crabs in his life means that they start at a fair clip and just get faster, bowling anyone who isn't moving fast enough out of the way with a lot of swearing from them and arrogant glares from Arthur. Merlin feels like he should be apologising for Arthur, but like he said, their future supply of seafood is at stake.

They duck down one of the opes and manoeuvre the trolley down the steps with caution, fetching up in front of a blue door. Arthur raps on the door, and it gets opened cautiously to reveal an incredibly hungover Pasha, the head doer of Beth's bidding in the kitchen. Lucky sods don't open until 6 in the evening, so he'll have time to get over it. He blinks. "...Arthur? What're you doing here?"

Arthur shrugs, like he hasn't been trying for the gold medal in speed walks whilst dragging shellfish. "Jez dumped the catch on Merlin and told him to deliver it."

"Then fucked off." Merlin says, digging in his pocket for the chit. "And since our future supply of seafood might be at stake, here. I... think it matches the order but he was really spaced out, so you might want to take it up with him if there's nothing missing." He pauses. "Though I'd take a bit more ginger beer if I were you before doing it."

Pasha grimaces. "I've taken the aspirin and I'm just waiting for it to kick in." He studies the chit Merlin hands him. "Looks like our usual order. I'll chase him up if there's anything missing. He say why?"

"Spaced out." Merlin shrugs, putting his hands back in his pockets. "Give Beth our love, will you?"

"Yeah, yeah, you want free food. Fuck off and leave me with the dancing elephants behind my eyes." Pasha says, grabbing the trolley and getting it up the steps. "Fucking doorstep, why'd she have to buy a place in an ope?"

"Think it's called 'Jez normally delivers five yards down." Merlin says, pointing down to the steps. "Plus it's cheaper."

"Yeah, yeah, just mock, people with a place on the flat." Pasha grunts.

"We try." Arthur says, then tugs on Merlin’s arm. "Come on, you, leave him to recover. We've still got the loo brushes to get."

By the time they get to Wilkinson's, and Merlin's returned with the kitchen roll, and Arthur's finally found where they've moved the toilet cleaning bits - they had a store reshuffle and now the hair colour is where the towels normally are and it's a complete nightmare as far as Arthur's concerned. Especially when it's 9am and you auto-navigate to where you know the lemon juicers should be due to the bloody thing breaking last night and they're not there, so you just end up staring at the place they should be in incomprehension until one of the staff comes and rescues you. "I have to ask, what happened to the loo brushes? They were fine yesterday afternoon."

"Tried to use them this morning, both of them started shedding bristles like no tomorrow." Arthur says, picking two silver ones. "I'm suspecting something got in last night."

"Something that attacks loo brushes, seriously?" Merlin asks, readjusting his grip on the kitchen roll.

"We've seen things that make hairbrushes shed before." Arthur shrugs. "Remember York?"

"That was just weird." Merlin agrees.

Arthur scratches his chin with the handle of one of the brushes. "He's not got a mermaid after him, has he? Remember that one that got it into her head that the fishermen had it in for her at St David's?"

Merlin makes a pained expression. "Arthur, he managed to ram her one week and he managed to tangle her tail in his net the week after and insisted it was her fault even though everyone and their sister knew that that was mermaid territory. it even had buoys. decorated with shells. I wouldn't call it so much 'got it into her head' as 'entirely justified payback'. They actually got him under trespass laws when the twerp attempted to protest her slicing off his keel before the law men."

"Oh." Arthur says. "...Maybe I was ill when that happened?"

Merlin narrows his eyes. "You weren't ill, you were sulking about me telling you to fuck off from trying to get me on rebound from Gwen ditching you for Morgana."

Arthur winces. "Oh shit. ...Was that the point when the only reason I didn't break my neck falling down the stairs because I was that drunk?"

Merlin glares at him. "Yes. And I had no sympathy for you and still don't. I also refused to clean you up after throwing up on yourself."

Arthur cringes. "I did apologise. and grovel. A lot." he scratches his neck with the loo brush handle. "You eventually deigned to talk to me when I sobered up."

"The operative word being 'eventually'." Merlin points out.

"So, um, you don't think it was mermaids that caused Jez to go a bit odd then." Arthur says, coughing.

"I think the mermaids round here have better taste than to go after Jez of all people." Merlin says. "Mind you, maybe one just has odd tastes."

"True, seen worse." Arthur starts off down the aisle towards the tills. "What about Bucca?"

"Bucca don't try to possess people." Merlin says firmly. "And Jez leaves a few mussels in a hole down from the ope every time like a good fisherman who comes from a line of fishermen."

"I still don't know why they can't just go to the chippy after hours like the seagulls do. Plenty of free food there." Arthur says

"Cold. Chips." Merlin stares at him, then shoves his shoulder. "You're fucking certifiable, you are."

---

it's not every day you get to be spectator to a piskie chasing someone ten times their size down the street. Well, not in most towns. Not even in this town. Not every day, anyway.

The thing is, in days gone by, one of the banks employed a spriggan as a security guard. Spriggans are historically the branch of piskies who guard treasure hoards and against grave robbers, so it makes sense that businesses that involve an awful lot of money took notice of the bank's foresight and decided to employ them as security. Not a few would-be robbers, thieves, stick up artists and other such twerps have found themselves getting felled at the ankles by a spriggan, normally planting face first into either the pavement, cobbles, other people, or a mound of horse manure, depending on the era and layout of the town. People tend to append 'angry and bad-tempered' to the word spriggan. To which they tend to snarl 'I'm trying to do my job and some fucker who thinks he should be able to take someone's hard-earned cash - and grave goods, I might add, talk about disrespect - and you think I might be a wee bit pissed off about this? Big fucking leap there, mate.' Outside Cornwall, people tend to employ unassuming normal humans as security guards. sometimes it's very unassuming humans with big fuck off muscles. Inside Cornwall, it's piskies. Some of whom have been known to branch out into surveillance. which normally involves riding a specially trained hawk or kite of some sort, hovering above the roofs of the town with a tiny radio, and diving the hawk or rappelling down into the crowd, feet first, usually aimed at the head or back of the attempted thief. They may be small but when they're coming at you at speed from the height of four storeys this will fell all but the most steroidally abusing man. And if you hit them right - normally in the ear - it’ll normally fell them too.

They don't tend to join the police, as they feel they've found their niche, and policing tends to get a bit messy. Leave that to the piskies with little interest in defending items of monetary value and sacrosanct places. It's pointed out by several spriggans that over the years, their physique has evolved more into that designed for sprinting, not proceeding for hours. Short bursts of speed for pursuit of those with a foolhardy taste for others' property. Sending storms to blight crops is felt to be a little dated, and besides, it's entirely possible there was another spriggan guarding those polytunnels against thieves, so it's considered impolite. Better to send a threatening note.

However, like it was said, it's not an every day occurrence to see a piskie of any sort chasing a man down a street, mostly because most thieves don't tend to try to make a run for it, and stick em ups aren't all that common. The ones that do piss off spriggans tend to come to to find themselves trussed up and left for the police with a note scribbled across their forehead. Ever since spriggans and piskies learnt to read and write as a matter of course, admittedly a little earlier than their historical human counterparts, spriggans started a new time-honoured tradition of carrying around writing implements and ink to leave sarcastic notes on would be thieves. the forehead is merely a perfect spot, being broad and relatively flat and firm compared with the rest of the body, and most importantly, normally uncovered, as many a drunk person has discovered to their horror. The spriggan community was one of the first major early adopters of reservoir pens in Cornwall. As for when the felt tip was invented, well, this was a major advancement in the art of leaving notes on the human attempted thief forehead. The biro is not felt to be ideal but will do in a pinch, but the humble sharpie is felt to be the modern pinnacle in pens. Those involved in public security will also leave details of time and place of the crime for the police, which is considered extremely helpful by the rozzers as they just have to note it down, and once photography was invented, just snap a photo for the files. There is, of course, a gallery of foreheads on most police station walls and now photo and social media groups of the best comments. the art of the sarcastic note is a craft taught at their parents' knee for most spriggans, with annual prizes for the best. In the last decade or so with the advent of social media, it's quite common for spriggans to quote memes. A particular current favourite is 'they know what they did'.

Today's chase by spriggan is a little different, as it doesn't involve a human being chased. Rather, the inhabitants of the town, visitors and tourists are treated to a sight most surprising and unusual. A police horse, complete with rider clinging for dear life, moving backwards at high speed, only not moving its legs and not under its own volition. The crowd, naturally, are scattering. A horse is rather a large prospect, and better at moving crowds than a car, since it's not a guarantee that they'll stop and might get scared, and so cause more damage, an inbuilt fear no matter how highly trained they are. Amongst the yelling of the crowds is the sound of an angry spriggan security professional, yelling "Fucking well stop, you Glaswegian fuckers, or I'll string you up your bollocks and drown you in the harbour!"

Merlin turns to Arthur where they've gathered in the doorway with the two customers who've dropped in for a cup of tea and a sandwich. "We have to follow this." He says with glee. "Oh, come on..."

Arthur looks at their customers. "Well..."

"We're coming with you, we're not missing this." The girl says, and the man who came in ten minutes after her nods." they grab their bags, Merlin gestures to turn everything off and lock the door behind them, the sign turning in the door to say they'll be back soon as they exit, and everyone races off in the wake of the horse and rider. And pursuant spriggan.

"Glaswegian is different." Merlin comments as they follow after the rather alarmed horse and rider. It's not moving that fast, so after the initial trot to catch up with the following crowd they just have to walk a bit faster and weave in and out of people. "Normally it's local lads or yachties and rich tossers on holiday."

"I suspect we'll find out when they stop." Arthur says. "At least the horse is easy to follow."

"The thing is, I can't see the Glaswegians." Merlin says.

"Maybe they're towing it?" Arthur suggests.

eventually the horse stops somewhere around Pizza Express, and visibly lowers in height with a bump, as though... someone's put it down? The police officer on its back scrambles off, immediately going to the horse's head, making soothing noises, even as she's visibly shaken. It's probable that calming the horse down is a bit more important. Around her and the horse's feet the shouting really starts as the spriggan security guard catches up.

"You utter fuckers, do you have nothing better to do? What's wrong with a pub?" the spriggan yells.

"Aye, well, we were in the pub, y'see."

"And we thought it'd be a grand caper to do a bit of traditional sheep rustling."

"only we're in a town, it's a bit of a stretch to find any sheep beasties."

"Plenty out in the country though."

"Aye. But we heard the clip-clopping of hooves outside the pub."

"And even better, attached to the poliss. No offence."

"Aye, no offence to the poliss, it was just so tempting."

The security guard groans. "Officer, take them away for my fucking sanity, will you?"

The crowd eventually parts enough for Arthur and Merlin to see what's happening. The security guard has his hands on his hips, glowering at four - no, five red headed piskies. Heavily tattooed ones at that. Which isn't any sort of useful marker round here, except it's easier to spot the emmetts by the fact that they don't have visible tattoos. At least in summer. It's a bit odd that all the tattoos are blue, though.

"You're kidding me." Merlin says. "You're telling me we've got Feegles?"

"Nae Feegles." one of them says, turning their gaze to the big people intruding on their argument.

"Aye. Pictsies." The other said. "Not to disparage such a fine author, but -"

"The McLopez clan're a very old established family." The other nods vigorously.

Merlin raises an eyebrow. "They made a Pratchett and a Hamish Macbeth gag in the space of one sentence. I'm impressed."

"We keep up on our television and reading matter for all possibly terrible jokes, not-so-young wizard." The first pictsie says, eyeing him beadily. "Let me remind you of our verra verra complicated legal documents."

"And suspicion of witches?" Merlin asks.

"That's just sensible behaviour in general, Merlin." Arthur says. "Especially any that claim to be related to you."

"My sympathies, laddie." The first pictsie says. His beard's plaited, so that's one way to tell him apart from the others. "a witch in the family is a terrible thing, they tend to know far too much and be sensible at you."

"Aye, terrible indeed." One of the others says.

"Now we're finished with the pop culture references, I believe there's someone you should be at the very least apologising too, if not spending a night in lock-up at her convenience." The spriggan security guard says, folding his arms.

"Aye, sorry." The Glaswegian pictsies say, turning to the police officer, and looking at least a bit contrite.

"And the horse." The security guard says. "Pity we can't get you for his therapy bills."

"The horse doesnae need therapy, surely?" One of them queries.

"Yes it bloody well will." The copper says, finally pausing in clinging to - sorry, soothing - the horse. "You lot're spending at least one night in lock-up." she frowns. "We're going to have to get the really small fingerprint tabs."

"Can you even keep piskies in lock-up?" Merlin queries, curious. Give that they're fairly tiny in their normal form, and the ones around here can shrink or grow, not to mention their magic, he's not sure how well this night in the cells is going to go.

"Pictsies! Get it right!" One of the not-feegles protests.

"We have special cells." The police offer says darkly. "Long, long experience with drunk and disorderly charges."

"Oh come on...." The pictsie says.

"And assaulting an officer." The police officer adds.

"There was nae assaulting of the poliss!" They protest.

"I was talking about the horse." The copper says darkly. "He counts as a member of the constabulary."

"He does?" The second pictsie asks, surprised. Quite a few of the surrounding crowd share looks as well.

"Yes he does." Arthur says. "As do the dogs."

"Oh, forgot you've done the policeman thing a few times." Merlin says.

The police officer gives them the side-eye. "A few times? What are you, an actor?"

"Nah, lots of research after too many police dramas." Merlin says, waving his hands dismissively. "It's a bit messy. Fortunately it never gets existential, so there's that." He pauses. "Um. How're you going to get them back to the station?"

"There are techniques." The police officer says firmly, pulling something out of a saddlebag type thing. "Now move along, everyone, the fun's over. Everyone get back to what they were doing, and you lot, you're coming with me."

The crowd sighs a bit, but doesn't really move. Behind Arthur, someone clears their throat. Arthur turns to see the customers who came with them "We really need to get back, I think I left my notepad in your café." The bloke says, looking a bit sheepish. "Not that this wasn't fun and all."

"Okay, everyone back. We have food to serve." Arthur sighs, turning round and starting the gradual process of elbowing the way through the crowd and back to the café.

"Feegles." Merlin says. "Who knew?"

"Your beloved Terry Pratchett, that's who. Obviously." Arthur says.

"Don't say mine like you haven't read all of them too." Merlin says. "You spilled cider all over my copy of Unseen Academicals."

"The very shabby battered copy you'd found at the bottom of your rucksack during a clean up." Arthur says. "It'd been through at least two festivals and been soaked once already."

One of their customers adds "It's not like it's one of the good ones, even. The Victoria Beckham bit doesn't really work."

"I was never sure if the footballer was supposed to be Rooney or Beckham, actually." Merlin says.

"Goblin. Totally Rooney." She says.

"Dunno, it's not like Rooney married a model slash fashion designer with a glamorous career of her own..." Merlin says hesitantly.

"True. It's a bit hazy, though she does have a bit of a Colleen vibe." She says, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. "Maybe an amalgam? Or possibly it's supposed to be Scholes and his missus. She's a model, right?"

"That works." Merlin nods. "he could be a very tall goblin."

"Are we seriously having a discussion on exactly which overpaid Man U footballer and WAG are having the piss taken out of them by an admittedly very talented author?" Arthur demands. "Can't it just be a generalised commentary?"

Both Merlin and the customer turn their heads and scowl at him. "Now you're just taking the fun out of it."

Arthur face palms and turns to the other customer, the one who thinks he left his notebook at the café. "I can't take him anywhere."

The customer shrugs. "Could be worse, he could have a Downton fixation. My sister can't stop watching it even though she's a history nut and spends most of it yelling at the screen at all the inaccuracies. Something about even the premise of the story they started with being utterly ridiculous and not workable or possible in the slightest. She hates Fellowes with a passion."

Arthur shrugs. "Posh twat writer, what can you do?"

Merlin gives him a look. "Glass. Houses. Arthur."

"I had empathy!" Arthur protests.

"After I and multiple people had a go at you." Merlin points out. "Several times as well."

The customer raises an eyebrow. "How long has this argument been going on?"

"Lifetimes." Merlin says, still giving Arthur the side eye. "Many, many lifetimes."

"At least that's what it feels like." Arthur says, rolling his eyes.

Back a the café, once the customers have had another cuppa and left, Merlin starts poking the coffee maker that makes dodgy noises every Thursday They've searched around the local shops and houses to ask if anyone's doing anything with the plumbing on Thursdays, but no joy. "Still impressed the feegles went quietly."

"Suspect that was due to the spriggan." Merlin says. "Home territory and all that. Not so much respect as knowing he'd be able to haul them out of wherever they'd got to. Though what they were doing down here is anyone's guess, how often do you hear any Scots accents down here?"

"Students? Artists? People who moved here with a bit of a pagan or druidic persuasion?" Arthur suggests.

Merlin points at him vengefully. "We do not use that word unless in their presence, Arthur."

"I never get why you hate it so much." Arthur says. "You were one. several times. You never moaned about it at the time."

Merlin narrows his eyes. "Do you want to sleep on the couch tonight? It's the modern pagan stuff I object to." He shudders. "seriously, do you not remember our last trip to Stonehenge?"

Arthur thinks back. "All right, it was a bit painful, but they were mostly just funny."

"you never had to actually go through the full training, just be involved in a few rituals to get blessing." Merlin grouses. "It's like seeing someone completely - argh, what would you know, even Hollywood’s attempt at scottishness isn't so cack handed as that." He huffs. "I kept getting this itch to push everyone off the centre stone, raise all the others and then sacrifice one of the so called pagans as the sun came up. But keep everyone partying, at least that's accurate." He looks thoughtful "Maybe teach some of the old songs to them."

"First, that would get you arrested." Arthur says. "Human sacrifice is frowned on. Anything that looks like sacrifice is frowned on. There's even the movement to get rid of halal because it's animal cruelty. I'm sure you could teach them the old songs at any rate. Get the drummers and morris dancers involved."

"It's doable, I suppose." Merlin says sceptically.

"Next project?" Arthur asks, coming over and putting his hands on Merlin's hips. "Get into the pagan community, influence them a bit, make them at least do it right during the festivals. After a year or so it'll become tradition, and once it's tradition, you might even get them into worshipping the right concept."

"Get rid of the fluffy ideas and crystals." Merlin muses, leaning his head back against Arthur's shoulder as Arthur’s arms slide around his waist in a hug. "It's a thought. At least they're so harmless that they've got no idea about connecting with the magic that lurks there or the actual gods they're supposedly invoking."

"Possibly it's the lack of blood." Arthur shrugs.

"Please, you've seen the weather lot, they're more powerful than they ever were during the pre-Christian days." Merlin says. "Sacrifices aren't the answer, getting it right is."