He could tell by the slack jaws that the 'bandits' weren't expecting them. They'd waited till after sunset on the justification that traffic on the road would cease with the light and the camp they'd found yesterday would have settled in for the night. It had also given them time to prepare for this confrontation.

Some of the refugees wielded stripped branches like clubs, others had worn staffs that looked like they might have once been the handles of farm tools and one man had a blade that was so rusty and notched that Arthur was wary of it because if it wasn't sharp, it was at least septic. After the initial cries of shock the clearing stood in a tense silence, even the child remained quiet. Arthur surveyed each face around him. The men shifted nervously and the hands that held their makeshift weapons shook visibly. Very slowly he raised his empty palms.

"We bring you no harm," He said clearly, keeping his voice even. He turned his head to the right and his men moved up around him, carrying the game they'd hunted throughout the day as gifts. It wasn't as much as he'd have liked, but pickings had been slim; a down of hares and a wild pig, which Pelleas had slung over his shoulder. His men dropped their burden into a heap and backed up. It may not have been much, but it was a sore sight better than what these people had probably had in quite some time.

Silence reigned heavily in the clearing, no one moved. It seemed like they'd be poised on the knife's edge eternally; waiting for someone to move, to strike, or speak. The rustle of leaves drew everyone's attention to the young boy who'd been standing, shielded by the woman who might have been his mother as he gently pulled his hand free of her grasp and walked towards the knights with a slow but determined gait.

Very carefully, Arthur dismounted, inching his way down Caesar's flanks in an effort to preserve the unsteady truce by avoiding any sudden movements. Anything could have altered the situation at this point. One of his men, he didn't see who, grabbed a hold of Caesar's reins as Arthur moved forward to meet the small boy. He knelt a short distance from him and kept his face open, eyes wide and hopefully neutral, garnering surprised gasps from all.

The little boy wore a tattered and filthy shirt that hung below his knees, cinched at the waist with a worn leather belt doubled round his middle, the sleeves rolled up to accommodate his hands. And that appeared to be the sum of his attire. The boy stood barefoot and decorated almost head to toe with mud swiped, flecked and spattered over his skin and shirt. His carer had made some effort to at least keep his face clean, though leaves and the odd twig clung resolutely to his thick, curly mane and his nose had a smudge of dirt across the bridge.

The boy regarded Arthur with vivid green eyes that were almost impossibly wide and clear. Coupled with the fiery red of his hair, one could be forgiven for thinking they'd come across a wood sprite or pixie. Arthur would guess him to be around six years old, but still small for his age. However, his gaze felt centuries old and Arthur suppressed a shudder. He was in tentative agreement with Pelleas; this boy was special. Only one other person Arthur knew had the same intensity in their stare, but Merlin hid it well. He'd only ever shown Arthur that expression on rare occasions. And those were the times that Arthur would have to pause and wonder at the cause of it. Looking back, that gaze had always been accompanied by an abstract forewarning, an oddly intense farewell or some unexpected pearls of wisdom.

It made him wonder what Merlin saw when he widened his eyes like that.

The boy crossed those last few steps to Arthur who remained still but kept himself relaxed. Any sign of tension could be misconstrued as readiness for attack and Arthur was loathe to cause unnecessary conflict among these people. It was one of the most overwhelming moments of his life; it felt like the child was staring through him, seeing his faults, his weaknesses and all his deep. dark, and dirty secrets. He only hoped that the boy also witnessed the good in him. Never had it seemed so important to be considered worthy, not even by his father.

The boy raised his hands and gently brushed them across his cheeks and Arthur tried not to flinch at the grimy fingers that explored the planes of his face as it was tilted and admired from different angles. After long moments the boy seemed satisfied and nodded. He withdrew and turned his face to his people and nodded his assent a second time. The tension broke in the clearing as the boy's verdict was delivered. Tentative smiles crept over faces as the refugees offered their own nod in greeting while trying not to eye the game too ravenously. Arthur stood with relief, his knees stiff from being so long on the cold, sodden ground.

A man who looked about Sir Liam's age approached him, arm outstretched in greeting. Arthur gripped his forearm and inclined his head to him. "I'm Jameth," the man spoke brusquely but with an indomitable note of good cheer that Arthur found surprising given their situation. "No need to ask who you be, Sire. Come, you must all join us by the fire and share with us this bounty you've brought."

They needed no further invitation. Sir Orlin offered to assist in skinning and gutting the carcasses and dragged Erst along with him. Arthur sent Pelleas and Daffydd out to find any more firewood they could in the dwindling light. Liam and Kay found spots close to the fire and Galahad wandered off, talking among the men here and there. It was one of the enviable things about him - his uncanny ability to fit in to almost any crowd at any given moment. Arthur had not that ease, which Galahad possessed in abundance. Being raised to believe that you're better or different than the every man had that effect on a person, but he'd been learning to temper that part of himself, with Gwen's encouragement and Merlin's goading.

Jameth took the spot next to Arthur by the fire who watched the interactions among the refugees with interest. Jameth appeared to be the leader, if that was what you'd call it. The women and the younger men deferred to him, the older men, though, only sometimes listened to his orders and would choose what they would and wouldn't accede to. Jameth took it all in good grace with a half-smile that hinted at his amusement. He seemed to run the routines and chores of the camp, but for the larger, more important decisions and for spiritual advice, everyone deferred to the child who'd been introduced as Liriderreaneleth, or Lirin for short.

The men would approach Lirin one at a time, sit with him for awhile and talk extensively about their problems, their worries and their fears and Lirin would sit and listen silently. He never spoke, which Arthur found odd, but with a slight gesture, a nod, a brush of his fingers against the backs of their hands or shoulders, their faces would ease, brow relieved from their anxiety. He couldn't understand it; he even began to wonder if Lirin was mute, but no. When Jameth had asked loudly when they should move their camp next, Lirin climbed from the log that he'd sat perched on and whispered into Jameth's ear, throwing a neutral glance at Arthur, who watched the exchange with blatant interest.

There was something thrilling about helping the people he'd been sent to kill and even more so when the warm glow of good hearty stew had warmed their cheeks and brightened their spirits that seemed to inflate Arthur's chest. Looking at his men's faces as they chattered cheerfully with their new companions told him they supported his choice. Though it flew in the face of his father's orders, he'd made the right decision, the one that Merlin would have tried to hug him for. Arthur's smile dipped a little bit and despite sitting so close to the fire, with the warm press of bodies around him, Arthur drew his cloak about his shoulders and wrapped his arms around himself. It had only been a couple of days and already he was mooning after Merlin like a love-sick girl. He shook himself mentally and looked about the camp, reaffirming to himself the rightness of his actions.

The men who had lain injured the night before had been helped to sit among the others, though by head count, one hadn't made it through the night. The meat would do them some good, would hopefully fortify them for the time being and their spirits were up, which Arthur knew was half the battle when recovering from wounds and illness. Though no amount of good cheer could cure blood-rot. It was a sad fact that most of these men, even the ones who were currently uninjured would likely not last the winter, not unless they could find some shelter and that was a scarcity even in this so-called 'golden age'.

Arthur found his gaze drawn to Lirin and there was a knowing in his eyes that equally awed and frightened him. It was ridiculous, that a child should make him feel that way but there were many strange things in this world and surprisingly, Lirin wasn't the strangest thing Arthur had ever seen. Lirin returned his gaze unflinchingly and something in it made Arthur curious. Lirin wanted to tell him something, but it looked as if now was not the time. As if prompted by his thoughts, Galahad chose that moment to produce several wineskins filled with ale, pulling them from only god knew where with a loud "Ta da!" and was met with applause and a round of hurrahs.

"Where on earth did you get those?" Sir Liam demanded a glint of suspicion narrowing his gaze.

"Hey! I paid for it!" Galahad called back. "Most of it, anyway," he added in a mumble, much to the wicked delight of those close enough to hear. Liam rolled his eyes in response but poured a measure into his own cup before passing it onto the next man. And like - dare he say it - magic, a lute was produced and tuned and plucked and one of the women joined her voice with the instrument. She proceeded to sing one of the bawdiest barroom ballads Arthur had ever had the good- or ill-fortune of ever having heard and she sung it so sweetly that if you ignored the lyrics, it would have been one the most beautiful things he'd heard in a while. Morgana sounded like a wounded cat whenever she attempted to carry a tune.

The people from the camp clapped their hands and stamped their feet along with the music and it wasn't long before people were dancing, despite the lack of female partners. Even Arthur was coaxed to his feet by a little old man whose eyes were bright with mirth and not a small measure of ale. Arthur's faced burned red among the heckles and catcalls of his men, but he felt vindicated when they too were drawn into an energetic jig. Arthur nearly split his side laughing at the picture of Pelleus quite seriously waltzing with a youth who was staring at the knight with awe and admiration and maybe even a little bit of infatuation. The other two women who weren't singing were never short of partners and ended up retiring early from sheer exhaustion, but the smiles on their faces was worth any embarrassment Arthur had suffered twirling the old man about. Galahad had crashed almost as quickly as the women and the knights had each gone to their bedrolls sometime after that, leaving only a few to keep the campfire going. As each man gradually departed for their bedrolls, the songs became melancholic, the air filled with the tang of loss and regret but under it all was a thin sheen of hope. It wasn't long after that Arthur stumbled to his tent, dragging his feet as he went, yawning widely.

He collapsed heavily onto his furs and stared at the roof of his tent, light from the fire flickering over the canvas and though exhausted, found sleep elusive. He heard the last of the men retire and night crawl in about them and he turned from one side to the other as he waited for his mind to stop buzzing and offer him respite. It seemed like hours before his eyelids drifted shut and the moment they did he heard the crack of a twig underfoot - the sound of someone trying to move about quietly, shuffling through the camp. Alert, hand flying for his sword beside him, Arthur was on his hand and knees before he'd even fully awoken. He had no time to grumble but peeled aside his tent flap in time to see Lirin step over a prone, snoring body and weave delicately towards the tree-line surrounding the clearing. As the boy reached the edge of camp he looked back, directly at Arthur's tent, and laughter carried across the clearing, but not across the air. It was like it was in his head and it echoed between his ears oddly, sending a shiver down his spine. Lirin smiled eerily before he turned and vanished into the trees, a hand gesturing for Arthur to follow. Arthur stepped lightly, though quickly across the clearing narrowly missing fingers and side-stepping sprawled out limbs to arrive at the place that Lirin had disappeared.

He peered into the darkness but saw little under the feeble light of the moon. A mist was swirling about the forest floor, making visibility even poorer, but a glimpse of movement further ahead and the soft echo of laughter drew him forward.

With the practised ease of a seasoned hunter, Arthur navigated the terrain with little incident, spurred on by a flash of colour that stood out oddly bright against the dull world around them and the tantalising sound of laughter that pulled him back whenever he seemed to drift off course. It felt like an age he'd been stalking the boy; a small part of him was amazed he hadn't been able to catch sight of him yet. The sound of a brook painted the air and suddenly the laugh was aloud on the wind. Arthur cleared the trees and stumbled into a small clearing that presented him with the source of the water; it was trickling gently down a ridge, trapped in small pools surrounded by crumbling rocks before draining off into the creek that flowed through the centre of the clearing and meandered back through the forest in a direction Arthur had not yet been. Lirin was bent towards the rock wall, hand cupped to collect the water, which he brought to his mouth.

Arthur's breath puffed out in shallow pants as he fought to catch his wind. He almost missed the moment when Lirin turned while Arthur wiped his brow and nearly dropped his sword when suddenly the clearing was lit with two images. One of the little boy Lirin spinning on the spot to face him, and one of a tall spindly young man standing, laughing where Lirin stood.

Then the light faded and it was the man, not the boy that remained. The man laughed and the sound was deeper, more resonant than the voice he'd been following. Arthur fought to swallow and stood there, unsure of how to act. The man laughed again, then jumped, clearing the space between them as if they'd only been a step apart and floated across the distance. His eyes were a burning vivid green and his hair curled and grew like flame, wildly about his head. He was dressed in leaves and vines with a string of nuts about his neck in adornment and his smile was congenial and knowing. The saliva dried up in Arthur's mouth and he wanted to bring up his sword, but couldn't even manage to raise it, his wrist limp by his side.

"Lirin?" he croaked. The sound was almost offensive in the silence of the clearing. The man's smile grew wider and beneath his laugh was the sound of chimes. Around the clearing, the noise was answered by soft, high-pitched giggling and the sounds of rustling, like many tiny wings shaking with mirth.

"Liriderreaneleth, but it is somewhat of a mouthful, I suppose," the man - Lirin, replied warmly.

"Who-" Arthur managed to choke out before he was interrupted.

"More like what, actually. You could say I'm a pixie, an elf, or a woodland spirit, but I'm not...Not really." Lirin placed a finger thoughtfully on his pointed chin as he contemplated his own existence. "I guess the best word is demon."

Arthur's sword came up immediately at the word and he fell into a ready stance. Lirin laughed and jumped backwards, drifting back to the ground, out of the reach of his swing.

"Humans," Lirin tutted fondly. "I'm not evil, not a demon in the biblical sense. It's just how we refer to ourselves. Fine, consider me a grateful spirit." Arthur opened his mouth to ask, but sound never passed his lips. It seemed that this Lirin had been dying to talk this entire time and had only been waiting for the opportunity. Now he shushed Arthur with a gesture.

"I know you want to know, so I will tell. You don't have to ask and the faeries don't like the sound of human voices, at any rate. It hurts their ears," Lirin informed him, winking conspiratorially as if he'd shared a great secret. From the titter that came from the bushes it seemed as if he had. Lirin stared pointedly at Arthur's sword, and taking the hint, he slowly let it hang by his side. Lirin smiled indulgently at Arthur's hesitant compliance and then settled himself lightly on a rock. He gestured to the clearing like a host inviting his guest to find a seat in a drawing room and with a sigh, Arthur humoured the...spirit and found a log to sit on, laying his sword across his knees.

"This is my true form, what you see before you, and I am thousands of years old. Not the oldest by a long shot, but I've lived in these woods longer than humans have inhabited this land. I've seen species thrive, while others die and when humans first came, we demons or sprites or spirits - or whatever name you wish to call us by - we were like your gods. You worshipped us and we grew fat and powerful off your belief and in return, we taught you humans how to cultivate the land, to find nourishment from the forest and live in harmony with the world. Those first humans were the druids and they lived in harmony with us and with the wilds.

"But they were not the last to come. Others arrived and they brought with them their one god. They brought their different ways, their 'better' ways. Humans began to abuse the land, and lose touch with the magic we so generously offered and we spirits dwindled and became nothing more than whispers. The few druids who remained sustained the gods they worshipped and I suppose I should be thankful that I lasted so long, but in the end I could feel myself dying and never so swiftly as in these last few decades." Lirin paused and favoured Arthur with a meaningful look that he could not misconstrue. Since his father's arrival.

"I knew I was dying, so I thought, well why not. I'd live out my last days in a mortal shell; I'd walk among the humans and learn the 'wisdom' that had driven them from us, but I was weak - weaker than I had anticipated and the form you saw before was the result of all my efforts. And when I managed to create that form, I couldn't use it like I wanted to and I became lost and confused and sick, then injured.

"I was due a much earlier death than what I had planned. I'd expected to walk the world for many more decades to come, but there was little hope for me. Then they found me, that group of men and women and even though they had nothing to spare, they took me in and healed me and gave me shelter when they could scarce afford another mouth to feed. It reminded me of back when man first came to this land, filthy and crawling and weak and I realised why they had treated us like gods when we taught them how to walk.

"I felt worshipful and grateful and that is a feeling that is new to me." Lirin laughed and stood with a spring and a pirouette. "I am a demon or a spirit or a god or whatever, and we remember our debts, so I in turn helped them as I could, pointing them to water sweeter than any wine, showing them the plants which can help heal their wounds and putting their worries to rest if only for a fleeting moment. It's all that I could do in return.

"But they knew, somehow, that I wasn't really human, so they look to me a little like a god and every day I grow stronger. The stronger I get, the more I can help them and the more they worship me. It's an endless cycle. One day I will be strong enough that I won't need my mortal shell, but that day is far from now and only by moonlight can I manage to regain my true form." Lirin looked fondly at his own hands then laughed and danced, spun and pranced wonderingly around the clearing until he stood in front of Arthur, shining with an ethereal light that Arthur could only now perceive. If this had been any other time, he would have found it ridiculous, but that it seemed natural spoke well of the strangeness of the night. Lirin smiled down at Arthur and it was both condescending and sympathetic.

"Half those men will die this winter. I cannot stop illness and I cannot magically provide food, no matter how much I wish them to survive. Their survival means my own, after all; my actions aren't altruistic, but I care for these people and it hurts me to know that there is nothing that you or I can do to prevent their fate. What you did for them tonight meant so much to them, I don't think you can even begin to imagine how much, but it's not enough and that's not your fault. I will look after them as best I can. Know that, Arthur Pendragon. We magical creatures aren't the evil things you've been told to believe. Not all of us, anyway...

"I actually brought you here on another matter," Lirin said as he leaned in close. "Emrys."

Arthur raised a quizzical eyebrow at him, but sealed his mouth so as not to offend their eavesdroppers. Arthur had dutifully followed Lirin's story thus far, but now he'd lost him.

"Emrys. You know...Emrys?"

As if repeating the name would make things any clearer for him. Arthur huffed and glared.

"Oh, you know him by a different name. He's never far from your thoughts, I can see him so clearly in your mind... Merlin... you call him?" Arthur reared to his feet, startling Lirin, who nearly got hit in the chin by the crown of Arthur's head.

"Where?!" He almost shouted. the clearing filled with angry shrieks and the fluttering, rustling sound of leaves and many tiny wings. Arthur clicked his teeth shut and slowly the indignation around the clearing quietened.

"He isn't ready to be found yet, but you will find him when he is. I know you're not really one for it, but patience must be your watch-word. He is not what you think, Arthur Pendragon. He is not who he thinks he is. The one thing you need to know is that your fates are intertwined and you need each other.

"Now listen, my time is running short and when I'm in my mortal form I don't have the same knowledge and won't be able to aid you further. The journey to finding Emrys is one you must take alone. The knights, they accept you, but they won't understand him and he must not be put in more danger than he already finds himself. There's one last thing, Arthur Pendragon.

You have to wake up..."

"Arthur, Sire? It's morning." Arthur blinked his eyes open and stared at the roof of his tent, two different voices echoing in his head, one growing dimmer as he groggily blinked the sleep form his eyes. He groaned involuntarily and rolled over scrubbing at a head that ached, climbing to feet that were unexpectedly sore and running palms with unexplained scratches over his face. He'd been dreaming...maybe...

Already he felt the dream slipping from his mind like sand through his fingers. All he knew was that it had been vivid and strange, but he couldn't remember why. He pushed open the flap and was greeted by the miserable grey light of day and the temptation was so strong just to crawl back into his tent, roll himself up in his furs and stay there till the sun was well overhead. The faces he met were ashen and grief stricken and without having to ask, Orlant informed him that the old man he'd danced with the night before hadn't woken up. It was like a kick to the chest.

After several attempts to clear his throat, he ordered his men to dig a grave, which they set to, silently and without complaint. The camp was quiet except for the noises of labour and the people stood about, looking lost, deep in their own private thoughts.

Arthur learned that the man's name had been Phillip Weaver, but everyone had just called him Gammy. What little belongings the man had owned was divvied out among the camp. His blankets would be a blessing to any one of these men and women but the hole he'd left in their lives would only mend with time.

Gammy was laid in the soil and covered by midday, rocks placed atop the freshly turned earth and a crude cross was made from moss-covered ends of wood, tied together with twine. Arthur used his boot knife to score 'Gammy' onto the cross and the group stood and mourned silently, no prayer uttered aloud. Jameth stepped forward after some time had passed and his voice breaking around the words, said simply, "He died with a belly full of ale and a s-smile on his face. And there ain't no finer way to go." He wiped his face and stalked off ahead to the camp site, shoulders shaking. The rest followed at a more sedate pace.

Arthur and his men stayed to help break up the camp and promised to travel with them a ways. Erst remembered seeing an old abandoned farmhouse on the trip to the forest and everyone agreed - with Lirin's consent - that they would hold up there for the winter. Arthur took his men out to hunt for what they could as they slowly made their way through the forest, catching up to the group easily once they'd regained their mounts. They hadn't found a great deal, but it would do if the group managed to ration it well and supplement it with roots and whatever vegetation they were able to pick up along the way. At least with winter the meat would keep. Arthur left them with one of his finest crossbows and a few lessons for some of the younger lads on how to use it. It wouldn't be unheard of for wolves to come here, isolated as this farmhouse was from the the outlying villages. Pelleus surprised everyone when he unloaded hefty bundles of wood for kindling that he'd collected as they'd walked. Orlant offered up his whet stone, so any knife or blade could be kept relatively sharp. Galahad produced another two wineskins that had somehow come out unscathed from last night and told them to use it wisely. Liam, Kay, Erst and Daffydd each donated one of their own blankets and brooked no refusal.

"I wish there was more we could do..."Arthur murmured as around him, his knights readied their mounts for the ride back to Camelot. Jameth, Lirin and his guardian among others were there to see them off. The rest had stuck in to making the farmhouse halfway liveable again. It had fallen into a rather large state of disrepair, but the roof and walls were mostly secure, and though it was by no stretch a large space, at least it would keep the heat once they patched the holes.

Jameth reached his hand out and Arthur gripped his arm in response. "You've done so much, Sire, we can't thank you enough. If there was any way to return our gratitude, we would," he responded.

"There is one thing...no mugging passers-by, please, otherwise I might have to explain to my Father why I didn't kill the 'bandits'," Arthur said with an eye roll. It garnered a smile from Jameth and a sheepish duck of the head.

"We made horrible thieves, anyway. Much better farmers, we are. We'll get this place up to scratch, and make no mistake."

"You do that."

"It's a promise."

"It's been an honour," Arthur said by way of farewell, grasping Jameth's forearm companionably.

Jameth responded with, "the honour was ours." On impulse, Arthur leaned over and ruffled Lirin's hair. The young boy giggled and ducked his head, for once looking his age.

With final good-byes said Arthur and his men mounted up, their journey back towards Camelot begun and their hearts light with relief. They were headed home.

Magic filled him to the brim, poured out of him, searing every part of his body until he felt everything and nothing. He knew not night nor day but by the same token he was aware of every moment, every truth and every possibility. He witnessed the moment of his birth and of his father's and even the Great Dragon's hatching and he saw their deaths and every way in which it could eventuate. He watched as Arthur and his men made farewells to a group of bedraggled men and women, mounted their horses and headed south towards home. It was like he was a part of the soil, in every leaf of every tree; a voice upon the wind and in every mind of every creature, great and small. He lost track of himself; all he could do was give in and wait and hope that it would stop, while dreading the moment he would become deaf and blind to the wonders that he was being shown.

The last image he saw was a sword piercing Arthur's chest and knowing, without a moment of doubt that he would be destined to watch it happen and be completely unable to stop it. Just before he subsided into empty unconsciousness, a tear slipped down his cheek and an anguished cry escaped his throat. Then silence enshrouded him and darkness held him. His eyes closed and every thought dissolved.

He slept.