By the waters of the Thames,
I resolve to start again.
To wash my feet and cleanse my sins.
To lose my cobwebs on the wind.
To fix the parts of me I broke.
To speak out loud the things I know.
I haven't been myself.
Wandering Rosebery Avenue,
I could only think of you.

- "The Angel Islington" by Frank Turner

ALONG THE RIO DI CANNAREGIO, VENICE, ITALY

FEBRUARY 1979

Merlin stared at the water's surface. It was dark, he couldn't see much, but he could just make out the outline of his figure, and the features of the mask he wore. It was simple, white with silver-gilded eyes and lips painted just enough to emphasize their existence. The frame of the mask stopped short of his hairline, but his dark hair, the longest he'd had it in a while, tumbled down just to the unmarked eyebrows. It stuck out slightly where the mask's ribbon ran over his ears, tickling the tips of them that it usually covered.

As clouds moved away from the moon, his image lit up clearer, and Merlin released a nearly unheard sigh. He looked away from the water, turning his attention to the quays around him. They were empty. They'd been empty for some hours now, except for perhaps the occasional lost tourist or the drunken students attempting to make their way to a hotel or perhaps another bar. Leaning back on his hands and closing his eyes, Merlin thought back to the crowds earlier that night, the lights, the laughing, the shows. It had reminded him a little of the Carnevale celebrations he'd witnessed during the Renaissance. Women in masks that hid their eyes but now revealed their painted lips still toyed with men whose noses had only gotten longer; masks with thin, reaching beaks, worn now by teenagers instead of doctors. Even his own mask, which used to be clean and white was now made to sparkle in the moonlight.

Things had changed so much, and yet, they hadn't really changed at all.

The wind picked up and docked boats banged against the wooden poles that protected them from the stone sides of the canal. Merlin sat up straight and looked just over the edge at his feet. They dangled perhaps an arm's length above the water. It was black as pitch, but the peaks of the shallow waves were white with the moon, and he thought about what was hidden far below. How deep is it? he wondered. There was something he didn't know. It had been awhile since he'd had such a question. It couldn't be too deep, he mused. Just deep enough.

He picked his legs up, pulling them in cross-legged. He undid his mask and laid it gently on the stone next to him. He undid one shoe, then the other, and placed the rather battered Pro-Keds beside his mask. He rolled his socks up together and shoved them into one of the sneakers. Finally, he pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, and then slid himself off the edge of the canal.

The water was cold, which he perhaps should have expected, since winter in north Italy was still going strong. Its biting chill reminded him of the North Atlantic, and he nearly lost all his air in a gasp. But he managed to keep his mouth closed, and, keeping control of his muscles, he opened his eyes. He dove down, the muddy water mixed with the soft, rather useless light of the moon making the canal seem bottomless. Merlin kicked with his feet, keeping his right arm extended, and he counted in his head.

... 5… 6… 7…

It was deeper than he had first thought, and his chest was beginning to burn a bit. He must not have held in too much air when he jumped in, but that was alright. Merlin had drowned before; it wasn't a particularly awful way to go. Though he'd spent days coughing up water after that fishing boat had picked him up off the coast of Newfoundland. That wasn't particularly pleasant.

… 12… 13… 14… 15…

His fingers brushed against smoothed rock, the muddy layer that covered it billowing up around his hand. Merlin smiled triumphantly, bubbles escaping from the corners of his mouth and the ache in his chest growing a bit more.

Despite this, Merlin paused. He moved his arms around in the water, feeling not just for the bottom, but what had come to rest on top of it. Rims of gondolier helms, long forgotten, carriage wheels and glass jars, bottles, metal buckets – some he felt, some he imagined, but here it all was, under the water of the thousand-year-old canal. It was all muddy and rusted, but otherwise unchanged since the night it had fallen into the Cannaregio.

A headache was blossoming and Merlin closed his eyes to dull their own ache, it making little difference one way or another. He retracted his arms and let the soft current roll him over. A part of him was a bit surprised when he made no move to push against the bottom of the canal, but then he shrugged, the last few bubbles floating out from between his lips. He was in no rush to return to the surface anyways.

A hand gripped Merlin's wrist and he was pulled through the water. Arms wrapped around his waist, but the headache made his sense of touch largely unavailable. Mostly what he felt was his aching, sore lungs. And tired; very, very tired.

Merlin coughed involuntarily when he landed rather hard on the stones. Water bubbled up out of his lungs and he rolled sideways as much as he could to spit it out. His coughs doubled when a hand began to pound hard between his shoulder blades. Merlin's sense of touch returned slowly, along with his breathing, which, after the coughs subsided, were large, heavy gasps.

"Si, bene, ragazzo, respira," a rough voice muttered, not soothingly. Merlin rolled toward the voice, sitting up slightly, and opened his eyes. Beside him sat a drenched man, with thick, dark hair, and a short, unkempt beard. A white, square-jawed bauta mask hung loosely around his neck, and the black t-shirt he was wearing draped heavily. Following orders, Merlin got his breathing to regulate.

"Uh, grazie," he muttered, attempting to sound grateful to ward off any thoughts the man might be having.

Quite unexpectedly, the man hit him. "Merda! Tu sei stupido, ragazzo!" he shouted, while Merlin flinched at the action. "You 'ave no sense!" the man added in heavily accented English. "No swimming in the waters, very dirty."

Merlin looked down at his muddied, light-colored hoodie, his chest and head both protesting the action. "Yeah," he agreed. Closing his eyes, he picked his head up again. "Very dirty."

The man was silent for a moment. Merlin, though he kept his eyes closed, could feel the man's gaze on him.

"You American?" said the man, and immediately Merlin let out a bursting, bemused laugh that descended into a cough.

"No, no," Merlin choked out after a moment, and the man began to hit his back again. "Okay, okay, alright!" Merlin snapped, pushing the man's hand away as he regained his breath.

"Where is your 'ome then?"

"Padova," Merlin lied. The man frowned, but didn't press for the truth.

"Sei curioso, very strange, bugiardo. Who swims in Venezia canals? Who swims in Venezia winter?"

Merlin scoffed, but didn't look at the man.

"You come for the Carnevale, yes?" the man continued, trying a different route. Despite himself, Merlin nodded. "Ah, an answer. You like the Carnevale?"

"I suppose it was alright," Merlin conceded.

"Alright? Solo bene? The first Carnevale Veneziano of two hundred years, and you call it alright? You are strange, bugiardo."

"Yes, alright, it was great," Merlin snapped. "Spectacular, even."

"Si, it was; but you say it was just 'alright.' Why?"

Merlin didn't answer, and eventually, the man sighed.

"Bugiardo, people call me 'Drago,' but it is not my name. They call me this because I do not like to lose, and because I am strong. I fought very 'ard for this name, and I wish to protect it, and what it means, for all my life. Capisci, bugiardo?"

"Please stop calling me that," Merlin growled through gritted teeth.

"Then stop lying, bugiardo, if you do not want to be called 'liar.'"

"You're the only one calling me that."

"I 'ope I am the only one that 'as ever 'ad reason to."

Though noticeably bothered, Merlin did not respond. Instead, he thought about what this man might do if he jumped back into the canal.

"Allora," the man continued. "You are not American. Sei Inglese, no?" Merlin sighed, but offered a nod in response.

"I travelled to Britain!" the man announced. "Very wet, cold. Ah, perhaps that is why you swim in Rio di Cannaregio, you are sick for 'ome."

"My home is neither cold nor wet," Merlin shot back indignantly. "And it's 'homesick.'"

"What is, bugiardo?"

Merlin was suddenly flustered. "Stop calling me that! I'm not lying! It's not 'sick for 'ome,'" Merlin criticized, copying the man's accent. "It's 'homesick.' I'm 'homesick!'"

Merlin fell silent again after this outburst, his words hanging between them like a sinking hot-air balloon between two mountains.

"Dì mi, ragazzo, what is your 'ome like?" the man finally asked, his voice surprisingly soft and kind.

"Green," Merlin responded immediately. "My home is green. With woods outside the walls as far as can be seen, and a lake." Merlin's voice dropped a bit as he repeated, "There's a lake."

The man laughed loudly, and Merlin shot him a look out the corners of his eyes. "It seems, ragazzo, you like the waters."

"Only some water," Merlin muttered in response.

"Allora, what should I call you, ragazzo?" the man continued on, unfazed by Merlin's cryptic response. "Non sei un ragazzo, this I can see. And you do not wish to be called 'bugiardo.' E quindi, che nome – ah, what name you wish?"

Merlin was silent, pondering his answer, pondering this question. He wondered why he was still talking to this man, who this man was, why he had sav— pulled Merlin from the canal.

"A 'ard demand, ragazzo?" the man asked after a moment, clearly amused.

"No," Merlin snapped. "It's not hard. I've got a name, of course, I've – You can call me, ah, my name is – "

"Nessun problema, mascheraro." Merlin looked over at the man, who, for the first time that night, wasn't watching him. Merlin let out a small and quiet laugh.

"Macheraro, mask maker – I don't know if I like that one any better," he said. The man gave him a surprised glance.

"Ah, you know Italian? Molto bene, mascheraro."

"Sorcerer," Merlin corrected. "And I know more than you think."

"Sors-ceh-re? I do not know this word."

Merlin smiled to himself. "Molto bene," he murmured, and the man laughed.

"You are strange, sors-ceh-re. Very, very strange."

The sun rose quickly over the strings of Venetian houses. Despite the winter, Merlin felt warmed as it climbed higher, and he was finally dry.

"Bene, il Sole," the man said. "The sun." Merlin nodded in agreement as he closed his eyes and lifted his chin, letting the warmth of the rays wash up and over him.

The night had passed slowly while the man told Merlin of his travels. Merlin himself had barely spoken at all; he'd lived hundreds of lifetimes but beside this man, he felt small and young in comparison.

"The War came when I had fifteen years – you were no dot in mama's eye," the man had recounted and Merlin laughed a bit at that. "Ma, it started before I was, also. That is 'ow the world works, sors-ceh-re. Not all at once, over years. Explosions come when people are too tired to fight more." The man had laughed at the irony of his own statement. "The people, they are too tired to fight, e quindi, they stop. But soon, they must fight 'arder than before, simply so they can live," he had explained, but Merlin understood this already. It was a pattern he'd see repeatedly over the past millennium.

"You know the War I talk of?" the man had asked skeptically, and had been satisfied to see Merlin nod.

"I can imagine a guess," Merlin had replied. This response had amused the man, who had let out a deep, roaring laugh. From somewhere around them, the sound of a window slamming against stucco wall had echoed, and they had heard a shout. It had demanded, not terribly kind, that they, drunken wastes of space, be quiet.

"Si, si," the man had said, catching his breath, "What other war would I talk of?" Merlin hadn't responded, but he could think of a few.

The man had continued to talk for hours, telling tales of occupations and resistances. Of brothers fighting brothers fighting cousins fighting friends. He had told Merlin how his parents and sister had died too young, and how his wife had joined them. "The world 'ad lost all sense, sors-ceh-re," the man had whispered. "If it ever 'ad any to start." Merlin was inclined to agree with the latter.

But as the sun rose, they had sat in silence. They were appreciating the prospect of a new day.

"Allora, sors-ceh-re, I am alive now, e that is a blessing," the man spoke. "I am alive and Italia breaths and the world 'asn't stopped spinning."

"Yes," Merlin replied. "Nothing has really changed, has it?"

For a long minute, the man did not respond, and Merlin looked over at him, wondering if he had said something wrong. The man's gaze was unreadable, but it was not kind.

"Tu hai torte, sors-ceh-re. You are wrong. Everything 'as changed, that is why I can be 'appy to live."

"It is the world that has changed?" Merlin asked. "Or just people?"

"Neither, or both, I think," the man replied. He shook his head suddenly. "Merda, sors-ceh-re, it is too late—ah, early, for such talk. I am confus'ed, and very, very tired."

Merlin laughed. "A swim in the canal might wake you up."

"I think, sors-ceh-re, it was not the swim, but our long talk that woke you up." At this, Merlin said nothing, only shrugged.

The man grunted, his weight shifting as he stood up and stretched in the sun. He let out a heavy, world-weary sigh.

"I must rest, sors-ceh-re, so I can get up and fight again today. Do not forget your mask, or le tue scarpe, on the bank there," the man added, gesturing across the canal. "But, ah, perhaps use the bridge, this time, si, amico? I cannot always be there to save you."

Brow furrowing a bit in confused recognition, Merlin looked up at the man. For just a moment, in the glare of the sunlight, Merlin could have sworn the man's hair glistened a soft, hay yellow, and that his eyes shone a deep, storm-tossed blue.

But he was mistaken; the man ran a hand through his graying, but dark hair, his dark green eyes glittering, and gave Merlin a lazy smile as he turned away, disappearing into the narrow, twisting alleys of old Venezia.