The tip of a boat bangs softly against the shore now, touching emotions Merlin had long felt buried... with...
The blondish man in the boat stands up and bows, his long fingers bending suspiciously into the bowels of the shallow vessel, tapering along the lines of the bracing beam nearest his booted feet for...
Playful, idiot, sensitively densely insensitive Arthur straightens, a gleam in his youthful and maleficent blue eye as he quickly hides a shadowy something behind his back, stuffing his spying elbow into a bit of his shirt near his hip.
Merlin eyes him, scratching his new grey woman hair and pleading with every fiber of his underclothes for Arthur to stop.
“Arthur? That was you, wasn’t it? How many times have I told you to stop sleep-pitching for the Mets? They’re never going to hire you. You’re too blonde.”
Arthur smiles and waves, then withdraws his hand back, farther and farther, until the instrument of Merlin’s doom becomes clear.
Merlin cries out, “PLATYPUS!” but it’s too late; the furry creature blinks forward, sent by Arthur’s arm, it’s little limbs shivering in glee, its flat tail making aerodynamic wibble sounds that call to mind Saturday cartoons as it flies.
The platypus’ beak impales Merlin’s right heart, and again the gold of regeneration threatens the somber tone of the moment.
When the light is gone from Merlin’s new body, he touches his hips. His hair. His breasts.