9. Guard of Vambrace

a. Allows movement in the elbow while protecting the gap

Above them towered a dark, steep incline that comprised the mountain's lower reaches—barren, desolate rock face washed by the kingdom's perpetual rains and polished to sea-glass smoothness by the grit-laden wind.

It was raining and frothing with currents of warm wind from overseas now, and Arthur had to for a moment bury himself in his cloak, feeling as if his face and hands both had been scoured to bone.

"Arthur!" Gwaine shouted over the elements. "We have to set up camp. The chafing between my legs—"

"I don't want to hear it," Arthur growled. But when he looked over his men—Percy, Gwaine, Lancelot, Leon, and Merlin—he knew that Gwaine was right. They needed to stop. And they needed to stop soon.

Arthur wiped at the dripping strings of hair in his eyes before he grabbed onto the first of the small crevices they would have to pray were strong enough to hold them.

"There's an overhang a short climb upwards. We'll go in twos, make sure no one's left at the bottom. Be careful, will you? And watch your partner."

Percy and Leon tied in to each other, Percy leading. Lancelot and Merlin tied in together, Lancelot taking some of the pack weight off of Merlin's back to even themselves out. Arthur held out his belay rope to Gwaine.

"C'mon, Gwaine," he muttered darkly.

"Are we partners now?" Gwaine snagged his end of the rope.

"I'm half a mind to tie it wrong and watch you drop."

But soon they were both digging their stubby fingernails into the cracks and heaving themselves upward.

They reached shelter with relative ease, Arthur only slipping up and clanging his greaves a few breath-stealing times from the slickness of the cliff.

"Gwaine, get up," he said, taking Gwaine's arm and all but throwing him into the cave. "Let's go, Merlin. You climb like a girl."

They were too far down to hear him well over the storm.

Arthur walked into the mouth, hearing the rain become a rumble overhead and thanking his father for being oblivious to his years climbing castle towers.

Leon already had a fire started, and the inside of the dank portico nodded jovially in the orange glow.

Arthur started shucking off layers of armour, wet clothing, and gear, tossing it in a heap at the back. Leon and Percy followed suit, trying to revive the wet blankets they had tagged on their backs to a state of dampness at best by the flames.

They were huddled in the back around the fire, watching in amusement as Lancelot and Merlin hauled the heavy gear into the outcropping and settled miserably in a puddle that smelled like wet canine.

"About time. Did you get lost?" Arthur said, resting his chin on his fist, his elbow on his knee, sitting at the fire and feeling the warmth start to remap the blood in his toes. Their outlines in the darkness slumped. "That was a jest. I didn't mean to hurt your soaked feelings worse."

Merlin was fumbling with the belay rope with numb hands. "Prat."

"What, do you forget the cliffs I climbed to get that bloody flower back to you?"

"Repressing traumatic memories is my foremost way of recuperating from your earliest days." Merlin still worked at the rope.

"Prat yourself."

Lancelot drew his knife and snapped the rope. "It's still plenty long for the next climb," he said. Merlin sagged even more.

"We sleep here for now. But we have a lot of progress to make up for tomorrow. If the storm lets up, we may yet take the lower summit tonight." Arthur was wringing out his hair and hearing the sizzle as the water hit the embers.

His knights gathered in piles of wrinkled wool and hung their capes where they could to dry. Then Lancelot took first watch, and they fell into fitful sleep.

Darkness was fast evaporating by the time they had packed up camp, and were heading out of the outcropping with stiff clothes and creaking backs.

They tied in once again: Leon and Percy, Merlin and Lancelot, Arthur and Gwaine.

The second half of the climb was far worse.

There was no rain, no scullery wind. But the mountainside rose in sheer cliffs punctuated by the slimmest cracks and crevices, stuffed with mosses and lichens, to the point where Arthur was stooping low enough to ask Gwaine whether it looked like safe enough purchase from his vantage point as a second opinion before he lodged his fingers in to go higher.

The work bloody hurt, even with the assistance of belays and partners and a crisp morning, a dry day. Arthur prided himself on being a naturally talented climber, but not even he could make quick ground.

He risked a glance backwards, at Merlin and Lancelot, who were close behind by some miracle. And still on the cliff. Not in a fringe-and-bone pile at the bottom.

"Okay there, Merlin? Lancelot?" Gwaine shouted, looking back when he saw Arthur's gaze.

"Keep your big feet moving," Merlin shouted. "We'll pass you at this rate."

Arthur rolled his eyes, but grabbed the next closes handhold.

He had estimated a few hours' climb to the summit. But by the time they were two-thirds up, the sun was setting behind them, painting the rocks beneath their sore and bleeding fingers with a magenta glow, burning as if they had been climbing downwards into death's realm instead of upwards toward the heavens.

"Bloody hell," Gwaine said for the hundredth time, one of his more milder complaints. "I'm starting to think not even vengeance against Morgana is worth this."

Gwaine took a step, and the shards of rock crackled and exploded under his boot, dropping like a torrent of arrowheads.

"Watch your feet, Gwaine," Arthur hissed, lobbing his arm over another crevice and relying on his bone structure to support the heave more than his aching shoulder muscles.

Arthur looked down at just the moment the shower reached Merlin and Lancelot.

"Look out—!" he started, but it was too late.

The shard heavy with motion came down off the center of Lancelot's nose, starting a gush of blood that leaped eagerly and immediately down his shirt and cloak. Lancelot bent over nearly in half, and Merlin scrambled up closer to him, their line hanging in a long, even u-shape between them.

Merlin shoved his fingers up to his knuckles in a crevice, then with the other hand free, took a closer look at Lancelot's face.

"Did you see what happened?" Merlin shouted up to Gwaine and Arthur.

"Rock shower. A sharp one hit his nose when he looked up," Arthur said, glaring at Gwaine. "How is he?"

Lancelot let Merlin wipe at the blood ooze. "A little dizzy, but I'll be fine. I can still see."

"Sire!" The call came from where Arthur couldn't see, over the top of the ridge the four of them currently clung to. "I think this is a false summit, but it's leveled out!"

Leon's news let all of them take an easy breath.

"I'll fix your nose when we get there," Merlin promised. "Just let me—"

He went to grab the next hold.

Arthur turned to resume the climb.

He heard a rumble, then a snap. When he whipped around again there was Merlin, loosing a sizeable boulder from the cliff side, and began a long decent with it still cradled against his pelvis and the crook of his elbow.

Lancelot let go his left handhold and seized Merlin's hand—the same one that protected the rock—as he slid past, clawing at the stone for purchase. Arthur saw as Merlin's weight wrenched at Lancelot's shoulder.

Merlin's mouth opened to scream, but nothing came out. Instead, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he went limp in Lancelot's grip.

"Another rope! Leon, Percival! Hurry!" Lancelot ground out, blood beginning to work its way down his cheeks again. "Hurry!"

Leon and Percival worked a length of knotted cord down from the false summit, passing Arthur and Gwaine who still held the same place, unmoving in fear of loosing any more rocks. When it reached Lancelot, it dawned on him.

They couldn't tie it. They didn't have enough hands to tie the rope.

"Gwaine, we've got to go back for them. They can't tie the rope."

Gwaine's frightened eyes met his. "We could kill them."

"They might die anyway." Arthur began to call back up to the top. "Give us another length! We're going back down for them."

Percival shook down another rope. "Be careful, Sire."

Arthur stared for another moment at the looming talus below.

They tied up and Percival pulled twice to make sure the rope would hold. Then they started to climb down.

"I… can't…" Lancelot was hissing. "Arthur!"

"We're coming!"

Hold on, hold on hold on hold on.

Merlin jolted back to consciousness as Arthur and Gwaine slid down another few feet of mountain closer to the two. His fingers of the loosed arm flexed and scraped for something to hold onto. The one in Lancelot's hand didn't move.

"Merlin—" Lancelot's whole body was shaking.

Arthur turned to the rock as they closed the distance. Gwaine snatched the dangling length meant for Merlin and Lancelot and began to tie and knot with sailor's precision. Arthur grabbed hold of Merlin's other arm.

They held each other's gaze. Merlin's eyes were perfect reflections of the setting sun, rimmed with orange, his own silhouette being framed by a halo. There was a surge of strength that went up his arm, and Merlin's fingers tightened around his wrist.

"Secure, they're secure! We're good," Gwaine yelled.

For a moment, there was only the strength of the cables holding them up as they pulled free from the cliff face. They traced a lazy half-circle in mid-air.

Gwaine started to laugh a breathless, crazed laugh. "Holy f—"

At the end of their tether, they slammed back into the unforgiving stone with more than a few curses from more than a few traditions.

Percy and Leon began to haul, the foursome helping where they could with their wound-up muscles and shot adrenaline.

"I can't get my arm to work," Merlin croaked. Arthur risked turning around.

From his shoulder to the tips of his fingers, his arm was covered in blood. The joints looked all wrong at the elbow, at the wrist.

His manservant worked his good fingers—whatever that meant anymore— into a handhold, but couldn't manage anything past that stage.

Percy's voice came from above. "I can't lift them without their help."

The sunlight was failing, and the dampness of the night before was beginning to close down on the looming peaks like a smothering fist.

"Drop the pack."

Merlin glared at him. "This is all our supplies. For weeks. We need them."

"You need your skin more," Arthur growled. Merlin tried again to pull himself upward with no result. Arthur softened his tone. "It's my decision—I'm telling you to drop the pack and I'll take responsibility of whatever's to come."

Merlin hesitated.

"Bloody hell, Merlin, we're all going to fall!"

Merlin winced, then began to struggle and shrug. The heavy load of plummeted downward into the mist.

No one heard the impact.

The six men lay on the uneven plateau of the false summit.

"So," Arthur said, thoroughly out of breath, his heart still pounding. "We need the medical kit."

"Was in my pack," Merlin moaned.

"We'll make do with what's in mine," Lancelot said, shrugging off his own pack. His face seemed to be expanding, swollen to the point where his eyes were beginning to look small underneath all the inflammation.

"There'll be a shelter somewhere around here. We are not the only travelers that take that dangerous climb," Leon said, solemnly shouldering Lancelot's pack without him asking for someone to take it. "We should move while there's still some light, and we still have some vigor in us."

Arthur thought he had lost his vigor when he had taken Merlin's hand, and had seen the flash of his scared, almost golden eyes.

Percy threw one of Lancelot's arms over his shoulder, and it was an awkward arrangement, but in it Lancelot stopped walking so drunken-looking, and they could make faster ground. Gwaine put a coil of rope over each of his shoulders. Leon had the pack.

"Well, come on then, Merlin."

Merlin glared, posture stiffening as he held his arm out and Arthur pulled it over his shoulder.

"You smell terrible," Merlin muttered.

"Yeah? Well, fear does that to you."

It was out of his mouth before he truly processed how true it was.

The group walked at a shuffle for another hour, until the sky had gone the color of the bruises on their knees and elbows. Lancelot's face had stopped gushing blood. Merlin's arm was still pretty useless, and his steps were getting smaller, closer together. Arthur thought he was hearing a grinding sound, but he couldn't tell if it was his teeth or Merlin's bones.

Leon halted the group. "This was my mistake. There's nothing for miles around us. We'll settle where we can, use each other for warmth."

Gwaine groaned.

The men began to unload, creating a circle of cloths and swords and boots. Merlin didn't join them, only squinted ahead.

Arthur had to swallow hard to keep down the same feeling he got before he walked out of a tournament tent. "Merlin? Are you still with us?"

Just staring.

"I've seen men do this before, go into this stupor after an injury," Leon said from behind Arthur. "We need to keep him warm, let him lay down."

Arthur nodded silently. "Right. Do the men…"

But he didn't want to know the answer, so he didn't finish the question.

With a gentle hand, Leon guided Merlin into the small makeshift camp that had been created. They felt the night air as a knifing chill, a ravenous mouth gnawing at their already abused flesh.

"You stay with Merlin. I should collect some wood for a fire." Though there was nothing but the cantankerous sky and themselves, turncoat rocks, and long lengths of rope. Lightning flashed overhead, momentarily throwing his companions in stark contrast.

It also seemed to ignite the profile of a…

Merlin spoke. "There's a house up ahead."

All eyes turned to him.

"Merlin," Leon said quietly. "Come lay down. We'll take a look at that shoulder."

But Merlin continued to frown at the East, toward where he had caught a glimpse of a low roof.

Arthur looked up at the gathering clouds for patience.

"I say we go look for Merlin's house." Arthur couldn't believe he said it. Lancelot's puffy face whipped up from where he was arranging what supplies he could from his pack. "Whoever is there is used to this mountainous life. We don't tell them who we are, we stow our cloaks, and we take advantage of another kingdom's hospitality for one night. It's not the most dangerous thing we've done today."

There was some weary shoving of feet into boots once again, and more shuffling of weight and duties.

"On your lead, Sire." Lancelot's voice.

Arthur looped Merlin over his shoulder once again.

They made Gwaine knock.

It had begun to rain again, dousing them in their weight in water and making it nearly impossible to slug through the mountain brush. But the house wasn't some mirage concocted from their exhaustion and desperation. Gwaine's knuckles on wood assured them of that.

Two small faces appeared in the door, barely the height of Gwaine's knee.

"It's raining," the first small face said, confusion twisting his face. "Why are you outside?"

"We've been asking ourselves the same question. Are your guardians within?" Gwaine wiped at his face, his dark curls flattening onto his shoulders and on his forehead. "My friends are hurt."

The second face scowled at Lancelot, who's face now resembled an over-ripe berry. "Did you make the climb up the Saint's cliff?"

"Barely," Arthur said under his breath. The child heard him.

"Fenrou will want to see you then."

The door opened farther, the children stepping to the side. They all but collapsed inside.

A wide-mouthed fireplace held wood but was not lit, a large fur rug on the ground housing a dog that may as well have been part of the rug as well. From the ceiling hung metal tools that Arthur couldn't name, different ropes of different thicknesses, and candles housed in clay containers. Water basins sat full in a corner, still quivering from the pattern of rain they once were.

The children ran to the dog, who only raised his head groggily before flopping back down, smothered by the two bodies.

"This is Fenrou," said the child who had opened the door, with the light red curls and big hands. Arthur caught Percy and Lancelot exchanging worried looks. "He protects the travelers who make it up Saint's cliffs."

A bell of a laugh. The other child, with lighter hair still, was giggling. "I've seen him swallow poisonous spiders whole. Is that what happened to your friends?"

Poisonous spiders?

"No, they were caught in a rock slide. It was my fault," Gwaine said. He sat sopping wet on the rug and started to itch Fenrou behind his ears. "Is Fenrou your guardian?"

Red hair nodded proudly. "He protects the travelers who make it up Saint's cliffs."

"That would be us," Gwaine grinned. "Fenrou, you'll protect us, won't you?

And if Arthur wasn't feeble-minded with exhaustion, he would have sworn the dog nodded.

The children's names were Caoimhe and Odhrán.

Percy helped them start their fire, helped them carry the large cast iron pot to its hook inside the flames.

Fenrou sat next to Merlin's legs, large nose tucked into his injured elbow with the gentleness of a mother's touch. His hot breath was lulling Merlin to sleep as he lay on the rug with the large hound.

Arthur sat looking through the small crack in the door. The rain hadn't relented, and it made a deep ache in his bones that almost rivaled his muscles protestations from the arduous climb.

"If you gentlemen—and humble hound host—can rouse yourselves sufficiently to eat, dinner is served."

Gwaine gave a flourished bow. Caoimhe snorted, took her spoon and clunkedhim on the back of his thighs. Odhrán latched onto his arm and pulled until Gwaine sat on the rug as well, all three of them settling in the tufts in a heap.

The mention of food was more than enough incentive for the group to reconvene, shaking off their torpor and squint at the now-roaring fire. Arthur was pulled toward the hearth as well, stomach growling.

Caoimhe and Odhrán crouched beside the pile of groggy knights with their lined faces glowing with windburn and warmth.

"Do you feed all of the travelers that come up the mountain?" Percy asked in his quiet voice as Caoimhe ladled him a bowl full of chunky stew.

"Fenrou does." A simple, heroic answer that didn't match the lazy dog that continued to drool on Merlin.

Percy only gave a soft smile, and began to devour the food with his fingers, barely noticing the scalding liquid on his chaft and calloused fingertips.

Food was distributed carefully so as not to burn the jutting knees and hands made clumsy by the numbing cold. They thanked the children and Fenrou (some more hesitant than others) and dug into the thick stew.

"Do you let travelers rest here for the night?" Arthur asked, the first time he had spoken since arriving at the house. The children studied him, then looked at each other.

"Yes," said Odhrán. "In exchange for payment."

Arthur could have figured. Just like any inn they may have stopped at on their way. He agreed to their terms through a mouthful of stew that burned all the way down his throat and tried to warm the pit of his stomach that was determinedly not looking at Merlin, who's fingertips were still blue despite the heat of the food and the fire.

"We want your best stories," Caoimhe said, forcing a bowl into Merlin's hands.

Merlin started. "I-I-sorry? What?"

"Your stories. Fenrou chose you, so you must have the best stories. Eat, and rest, and tonight we'll listen to your best tales."

Merlin looked to Arthur. "I-I surely, not me. I'm as boring as an old toad."

Odhrán shrugged. "Fenrou likes toads."

Arthur found himself smiling despite himself.

"If we are to listen to Merlin's wonderful, adventure stories tonight, we need to work to heal our wounds. Do you have bandages?" Leon had taken careful stock of what they had in their remaining pack, and it was not enough. Especially because Lancelot seemed to still be expanding.

Caoimhe rose from her spot on the rug, pointing to the ceiling. "We have many surgical tools and lots of supplies. Climbing is dangerous. Even we get hurt sometimes."

She said surgical tools like she knew how to use them.

"I'm sure we won't need surgical tools," Lancelot said, eyeing with his slits the saw dangling from the beams. "But our friend is training as a physician. Maybe you could show us what you have, and he could tell us how to fix what we need?"

Caoimhe went to a large chest in the back of the house, pulling out sealed jars full of crushed colors. Loading her arms full, she returned to the rug and set them out in three circles.

"These are for aching joints and climber's hands," she said. Percy helped Merlin sit up.

"Henbane and hemlock," Merlin identified. "Rose, lavender, sage, wormwood. This is an impressive stock, Caoimhe. Are you a healer yourself?"

She returned to the chest. "Fenrou is."

Right, Arthur thought. Fenrou is the healer. Of course.

More jars were placed by Merlin's feet.

"Mint, coriander, and…" Merlin hesitated, opening the lid and sniffing a clear liquid that swished around in its cell. He wrinkled his nose. "Vinegar. My teacher would be proud, he loves this stuff."

"For drinking?" Odhrán said, horrified.

"No! For cleaning wounds. Here." Merlin took off his neckerchief and dribbled the foul-smelling vinegar onto it. Then he placed it overtop of his torn elbow. Fenrou moved his nose to sit on top of Merlin's pelvis, his heavy breaths rippling Merlin's thin tunic.

Merlin himself was trying to match Fenrou's inhales and exhales, eyes squeezed shut. His ears turned red.

"It stings," Caoimhe stated.

Merlin exhaled. "Yes."

"But it staves off infection."

Inhale. "Yes."

Caoimhe tilted her head, taking in Merlin with a studied gaze. "Yes, that makes sense. Who else has wounds that need cleansing?"

For the next while, they passed cloths and vinegar between them, feeling the sting in their fingers deep, as if the liquid was trying to overtake their very veins by force. Lancelot hesitated before he went to put it to his face.

Merlin pointed to the circles of herbs. "Henbane and hemlock for you, Lancelot. Let's get the swelling and ache down before we go to scare your nose off of your face."

Caoimhe ground up the mixture, showing it to Merlin every so often, until he was satisfied, if not impressed.

"Really, not a healer?" Merlin asked again as the girl passed the bowl to Odhrán who marched over to Lancelot.

"Fenrou brings us what the next travelers will need."

Merlin subscribed himself coriander after he had Caoimhe test his temperature with the back of her small hand. Rose, lavender, and sage filled the one room house with a sweet, earthy smell as Odhrán mixed it with a stone against a stone. Then, that too was passed around for their sore muscles. They bound their hands and fingers the way the children showed them, loops around their fingers to protect their skin, thick pads on their palms.

Fenrou continued to breathe into Merlin's abdomen.

The stew settled heavily in their stomachs. The herbs and medicines were put away. Percy put more logs on the fire. Even inside, the fire did not entirely blunt the cold's edge—icy wind tore at the thin slats in their wooden refuge, seeping through the frigid ground beneath the rug.

A friendly silence gathered around them as the candles burned low, and the hearth chattered merrily.

"It's good to have guests on rainy days," Odhrán said, unbinding his hands after his tutorial was finished. "When travelers are inside during the worst, there is a much better chance we will not be burying them days from now."

Percy's face went white. "You bury the climbers that don't… that don't make it?"

Caoimhe dug her fingers into the rug. "Saint's cliffs are dangerous. Sometimes, not even Fenrou can protect travelers."

Arthur looked into his empty bowl.

It must have been well past midnight by the time dinner was finished and packed away, the leftovers giving in a generous helping to the hound, who ignored it in favor of snotting on Merlin.

The men all felt like drifting off, the pounding of the rain taking the last of their reservations and mixing them to nothing with the smell of lavender.

Odhrán sprawled out next to Fenrou, itching the top of the wolf-looking dog's head.

"He needs more time to work. Put your hand on him so it's more concentrated," he said directly to Merlin, who seemed to understand the nonsensical sentence.

Caoimhe pulled at Gwaine's tunic. "Will you tell a story first, then?"

Gwaine gave a mischievous smirk. "What kind of story?"

"One of bravery, and magic, and good over evil."

The room stilled, as if everyone took a breath in and held it. Arthur felt his stomach drop, heavy as the stone that fell from the cliff in Merlin's hands.

"Magic is evil," Arthur started the speech, his tongue moving for him, his brain not even needing to think for it to come out second nature. "We won't tell stories that will influence you poorly."

He could have said, the only stories he had with magic in them he was the one to destroy it, snuff it out. He could have said those stories didn't feel very brave anymore, or that good and evil were getting cloudy for him, mixing into grays and browns. He didn't say any of it.

"I'll tell a story." Gwaine waved the awkwardness away, batting at Arthur's ear which he dodged. "About a race on an island where the horses could run so fast that their hooves would hover for seconds at a time over the sand."

Odhrán flew to the back of the cabin again, this time coming back with a small, silk pouch which he opened, and handed a silhouette to Gwaine.

"It's a puppet. Like this," the boy showed Gwaine how to move the shadow man's arms and legs. He pulled out a horse, and a woman, and a fish. "Will these do to tell the story?"

Gwaine nodded, his features gone as soft as Arthur had ever seen them, those shadows sitting in his wrapped hands.

"Tell it then, Gwaine."

And he did.

He was not always so clever. Gwaine learned his cleverness from a stable full of race horses, their muscles powerful and stringy. One horse in particular, with a coat the same color as the sand on the beaches beyond the stable, would nuzzle young Gwaine's neck and try and eat his long hair.

There was a day that when the boy snuck into the stable, his friend was gone.

He looked all over the island, in all the places a horse could hide. Finally, when he thought he had lost his friend for good, he met a drunk.

There were lots of drunks where young Gwaine lived. Gwaine was usually one of them. But never, never when he went to visit the stable.

"Horses?" the drunk man slurred. "Horses? I ain't seen a horse around here since I was a boy. Your drunk—" but Gwaine wasn't drunk, because he was going to go visit the stable, the man was drunk, you see. "—go home, and die in a hole."

That's truly, that's what the drunk man said to a sober Gwaine.

So young Gwaine thought he might as well follow the drunk man's advice. He at the very least was good at digging holes, he had some practice because…

Because young Gwaine lost a lot, which is why he was sometimes drunk.

But never when he went to the stables.

When he arrived at home, though, he found the horse that was the color of sand. His father had bought him, put a saddle on his back and a bit in his mouth. They were going off to fight some other drunk man's war, two of the… two of the bravest…

Young Gwaine couldn't let them go. Stealing one would stop them both, and young Gwaine very well couldn't steal his father. So he stole the horse.

At first, riding was strange. Gwaine couldn't get his feet to flop against the horse's sides, then when he could, he couldn't get himself to sit down right. They had traveled half the island by the time he was in sync with the beast.

They had reached the beaches. And there were other boys, and even a girl, who had stolen their fathers' and brothers' horses to stop them from leaving.

And none of them were drunk. Though usually they were.

But not that day.

One of the fathers found them, drew his sword and pointed it at them. He yelled at them, told them to go home and return the horses so that their fathers and brothers could fight a war.

So they raced.

And the horses went so fast that their feet didn't touch the ground. They were flying—sand spraying up on every side like cannon fire was upon them, in perfect rhythm with the horses that weren't theirs but were as surely in tune with their spirits as if they were just an extension of themselves. Gwaine road his horse into the water's edge, and salt spray tickled his nose and stung the sides of his legs.

The island wasn't very large. In a half an hour of hard riding, the children had circled the whole place—took in its giant, stretching cliffs and green mossy hills, rocky beaches, sandy beaches—and they could have kept riding.

Can you imagine it?

They could have kept riding like that for eons, for as long as they were old.

And Gwaine had never been so glad he hadn't followed the drunk's advice, that he was awake and could feel every sensation around him.

Because you know what? You know what?

When they reached the farthest edge from home, his horse stopped. And Gwaine could tell he was meant to get off. He was drawn to the edge, still feeling like he was flying so his legs were all wrong. His toes touched the sea.

There was an eye. Gwaine had seen it, as clear as anything he had ever known in his life.

And you know what it was? It was a whale.

The horse walked in behind him. Until the horse was up to his belly, and Gwaine was up to his neck. The whale was small, just a calf, but it was still larger than both Gwaine and the horse.

I touched it, right besides its eye.

I didn't get to win the race, if it was a race you could win. All the horses were taken away the next day, even the one I rode that was the color of sand, taking the fathers and brothers with them.

But I had looked into the eyes of a whale.

Gwaine set down the silhouettes, looking down shyly.

"What did the whale say?" Caoimhe whispered.

"Nothing," Gwaine said choppily. "Whales don't talk. Not even on islands where horses can fly. If you run them fast enough."

Percy added another log to the fire.

Fenrou still breathed into Merlin.

"It was a good story," Odhrán said, beaming. "I've never seen a whale."

Gwaine's eyes twinkled. "Sometimes I see its eye again, but only when I'm drunk now. Never when I'm sober, like I did then."

Lancelot's arm found its way to Gwaine's shoulder, and he pulled him into a sideways embrace.

"T'was a good story. Let's hear another," he cheered. The room agreed.

Merlin was starting to look less peaky, the tips of his fingers sitting on the dog's head looking less blue. He still held his arm so as not to disrupt the healing wounds and joint. But he sat up slightly, mindful of the sleeping dog.

"All right, I've got one." He had on his cheekiest smile, and he met Arthur's eyes. He took the silhouettes from Gwaine and handed two women to Percy for assistance in the telling, then handed the broad-shouldered shadow to Arthur.

"It starts not long ago, back in a kingdom that raises the bravest of warriors the world has ever seen. It was the first and last time I've ever worn real armour."

The raiders came at the stroke of midnight, at the very beginning of the harvest season. It wasn't the first time raiders had threatened this small village named Ealdor—which is why a kindly farmer saved some of the harvest in his house so that his village wouldn't starve. My mother stood up to a raider named Kanen, first by trying to stop him, next by going to the leader of a place called Camelot.

She pleaded with the king of Camelot to protect Ealdor, but because the village was not part of Camelot he couldn't send soldiers. So I went back with my mother, leaving behind my friends—my best friend, whom I served.

But my friends are stubborn. When I went to find a sword, they all said they would come with me. Because I was their friend, and my home was in danger.

When we arrived, Kanen and his raiders had arrived also. The men were twice our size, with big, bulky arms and fat necks and armour pieced together from the other villages they raided for money. He threatened the village, saying he would destroy it and everyone inside of it unless we gave up every last bit of our harvest.

My village was a peaceful one, and my childhood friend Will did not want to see his people suffer. He wanted to do what Kanen asked. Arthur said no.

Arthur was a new friend, one I served then and still serve today. He's good all the way down to the marrow of his bones, and deeper still. He's a complete idiot though, but I can tell you that because you seem like the kind of people that can keep a secret.

He said, "Unless we fight today, all of your tomorrows will belong to fear."

Arthur, you should be talking your puppet. Like that, there. Better.

The next morning came, and Kanen's men left to get weapons to destroy the village with. But they had unwittingly lent us time to prepare.

Arthur started with lessons in sword fighting, and farmers took up their rakes and hoes and fists. The men weren't all that good, so my friends Gwen and Morgana thought the women should take up arms. Arthur was an idiot, though, remember, so he said no.

Even while the village prepared, we lost one of our own. One of my neighbors was killed on watch for the raiders, and with his body was a note saying that there would be a massacre in the morning. William blamed Arthur for his death.

And remember, Arthur is an idiot, so he believed him.

But I knew my village, and I knew Arthur, and Gwen and Morgana, and Will too. I knew they were stronger than they thought.

When Kanen's men came, you should have heard Arthur's speech.

He said: "This is your home. I'd be honoured to stand alongside of you if you stay and defend it. Look around you—in this circle, we're all equals. You're not fighting because someone's ordering you to, you're fighting for so much more than that. You fight for your homes, for your family, your friends, for the right to grow crops in peace. And when you're old and gray, you'll look back on this day, and you'll know you earned the right to live every day in between! So you fight! For Ealdor!"

And there was cheering—like I'd never heard before, loud and somber and joyous all at the same time. The women cheered and raised swords and tools too.

And not just the women got swords. I got a sword.

And a full suit of armour—greaves to vambrace—that was so heavy I could barely move around. We helped each other dress. I couldn't buckle anything, I was shaking so badly. I thought that maybe… that would be the last time we saw each other like we always had.

But I was wrong.

When Kanen's men arrived, the village looked empty. But we had rigged gates to trap their horses, and fire to scare them away. My friends fought side by side. There was so many of them—forty, maybe fifty men trained to kill—but Arthur was an idiot, and didn't know when to admit defeat. He fought, and fought.

And then… my friend, Will…

A thunderstorm was conjured, and the bandits knew they could not win against a storm and Arthur, and a village full of brave people. Arthur knew the storm was magic. But Will saved his life in the end, sacrificing himself when Kanen went to shoot him in the back.

We couldn't save Will.

But when the clouds parted, the sun came back up. The villagers of Ealdor wouldn't starve. My friends and I traveled back to Camelot, and my mother would live in a village where they weren't threatened by bandits or raiders for a long time to come.

Arthur was still stuck in Ealdor when the story finished.

He remembered it so differently, that even holding the shadow of himself with his shadow sword, it felt like a foreign tale. Will had taken that arrow for him, that much was familiar. But Merlin had all but taken out his role in the battle, the way he had hard tested his armour by running across the battlefield to start the blazing fire, the way he had convinced Arthur to keep going, keep faith that he was doing the right thing after the body of that man had been dragged back in from the outskirts.

"That was the perfect story," Caoimhe breathed.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Yes, well. Bravery. Magic. Good and evil. A protagonist that wins the war because of his stupidity."

"It was pretty good, wasn't it?" Merlin said, letting the Merlin shadow do a jig on Fenrou's head. "The hero's in the story make all the difference."

Arthur turned away, watching Lancelot's eyes droop closed (though the distance wasn't far to go), then Gwaine's fight the same fate.

"That's not how it went," Arthur worked up the guts to argue. He made his shadow swing his sword back and forth, looked at the shadow Morgana with a sword and tried not to feel the pang his heart did.

"Well, how did it go then?" Odhrán asked.

"Merlin was at the center of it all. The idiot Arthur? He might've taught the village how to fight, but it was Merlin that helped win the day."

"Tell it again then," Caoimhe said, pushing shadow Merlin back into his hands. "Tell it the way that Arthur saw it."

Arthur shook his head. "I'm not a good storyteller."

There was a moment where the rain seemed to scold him for his cowardice.

"Another story," Odhrán said, letting Arthur off the hook after a long moment, looking from the dog to Merlin. "Please. You must stay awake while Fenrou works."

Merlin rubbed his eyes, but obliged.

He told the story of Arthur's melee. Then the story of the time Gwaine and him stole a cake from the cooks. A story about a hunting trip where he found a burrow full of thirteen baby rabbits so young their eyes hadn't opened. A story about the most beautiful lake he had ever seen. A story of him and Will as children. The story of how Arthur and Merlin met.

"It's funny now," Merlin protested as the children giggled behind their hands as to not wake the knights. Arthur was lying on his back, his eyes closed, but not sleeping. He wondered how many others were doing the same. "But then I thought I was headed to my funeral pyre."

The fire was dwindling.

"How are you feeling?" Odhrán asked.

"Better, thank you. Will he help Lancelot too?"

Arthur stilled.

"He might." Caoimhe said, quieter still. "You helped him help you. But you already knew that."

Merlin grunted. It sounded as though someone was prodding him. "Through the stories?"

"Yes. And through who you are."

There was the near-silent patter of feet as the last of the candles were snuffed.

Breakfast came before Arthur had truly felt as though he had fallen asleep, stuck in the in between world of thoughts and dreams.

Gwaine was testing his stiff fingers as they packed and re-wrapped their hands just as the children had taught them. Arthur found it easier to follow their instructions now. They seemed older in the sunlight.

"I'm glad that Fenrou will see us off," Gwaine said, looking at the dog, who was still in the house. "Are you sure he's not part of the rug?"

Odhrán laughed. "We're sure. Be careful."

They don't want to have to bury us.

Their single pack had been re-stocked with flint and medical supplies, more lavender for their aching backs and shoulders and calves. Merlin's arm was in a sling around his neck, but they taught him how to wrap the rope around him so that he could get more weight in his legs, less stress for his wounds.

"Thank you for all that you've done," Arthur said, putting a wrapped hand on each of the children's shoulders. "Saint's cliffs are in good hands. Though you're sure you'll be all right alone?"

"We're not alone," Caoimhe amended. "You're stories will keep us company until the next travelers come along. And Fenrou will protect us."

"I suppose he will," Arthur said. He pulled a rope into his arms. "Ready Merlin?"

Merlin paused to bury his face in Fenrou's fur one last time, breathing a thank you into his neck. Fenrou's ears twitched.

"I'm coming," Merlin called. He tugged on one of Odhrán's curls, then flicked at Caoimhe's ear. "If you ever see her, the lake I mean, will you tell her hello for me?"

The children nodded. And Arthur thought for a moment, they looked like the mountains themselves.

But them Merlin was at his side.

"That was real, wasn't it?" Merlin said, his voice bolstered by a sunlight day and a full stomach and a night full of storytelling with a dog in his lap. Arthur could hear all of it, spilling out of him and lifting his spirits even as he tried to tamp them down.

"Merlin, I... I hope it was."

They left to reach for the summit once more.