A medieval AU of John and Sherlock from the BBC. Approximately 14th century.

WIP. I will update sporadically until I get the other big WIP I am doing done - this is my mental break from the other, in fact.

Based on folk stories and songs - Twa Corbies, Witch of the Westmoreland, among others.

Warnings - There will be points in the story where medieval Christian viewpoints crop up (i.e. burn witches, homosexuals go to hell, etc.)

There will be a scene of a sexual nature between two young men. In the 14th century, males of 17 years of age were often betrothed or already married. I will not debate whether this makes it 'underage' - by modern standards, yes. By 14th century standards, a 17 year old was more than capable of being responsible for his actions and choices.

If you disagree, then please do not read further or flame me with comments. Just go and do your own cursed research.

I do not advocate these views, they are representative of their time period.

The fic is Mature and beyond.

There is also blood, gore, battle, some Paganism, and historically correct (read: cruel) treatment of animals. Yes, animals will die. Again, I do not advocate these.

This is a work of fiction based upon another work of fiction.

For notes on language, see the end of the fic.


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Pale was the wounded knight

That bore the rowan shield

Loud and cruel were the raven's cries

That feasted on the field

Sir John reined in his horse hastily, aghast. All these people, lying on the cold earth, the blood still steaming gently. He crossed himself hastily, mailed gauntlet clinking. Unshriven they had died. Below, his brindled lymer whined piteously. His goshawk, perched on the forward bow of his saddle stirred under her hood, belled jesses ringing. John's eyes travelled over the scene, noting the bodies and their positions. Tendrils of early morning mist clung to the ground.

Here lay a youth, throat red and open to the sky, eyes wide and blank. There, an old man lay crumpled. There, a woman, struck down as she ran. As he looked, the first of the flies landed on the boy's face, crawling over his face to taste the blood drying there. John's gorge rose. He felt soul-sick. His steed's hooves pranced nervously, drumming on the hard ground. He murmured a reassurance, patting the blood-bay neck.

A movement amongst the trees caught his eye, and his hand dropped to his sword hilt. A man stepped out - his lord's chief man-at-arms, wiping his sword blade clean on a scrap of linen.

"Sir John," the tow-headed man called. "Well met. I trow thy journey was naught long. Dost thou go now unto our liege?"

John's eyes tightened. He did not like the Erinman - the lust for violence was like unto a frenzy with him at times. So. His dread lord had commanded this heedless slaughter. And in Cumbria! 'Twould be war. John had known that his lord lusted for power and land, but this - was this envy of other's holdings? Avarice for conquest and land? Pridefulness in his power? An entire hamlet - all souls cast adrift. Evil, the small voice within said, and John knew it for bare fact.

"Well enow," replied John laconically. He dismounted with a clink of armour and threw the reins over the high cantle of his saddle, motioning his hound to remain still. "Victory was mine. All honour to our lord. Tell me true - what wert the purpose of this?"

Sebastian sneered slightly. "Our champion. Be thou careful, Sir John. Dangers abound in these woods."

"Art there bandits, in troth? I see but thou. One man against untold numbers of villeins?" enquired John. "Best I come prepared, then." He pulled down his battered rowan shield, painted with his crest - a sable tree, leafless, uypon argent.

"Nay, good Sir," the arms-man demurred. "My men haf gone on. We lost but one - luck were with us."

"Luck?" said John angrily. "Against such as these?" His arm swept the scene - people who were clearly not warriors. His sudden movement caused his war-horse to shy back.

"We haf done our duty, as our lord commanded," said the man, unperturbed. He sheathed his sword with a clink.

"Thy duty. Aye. Thou hast sent all these souls unto their Maker. For such honour, wear I our liege's chain of fealty and carry his shield." If John's voice betrayed his soul-deep bitterness, the Erinman did not show he had heard. He only smiled the peculiar smile which did not touch his pale eyes.

"Flyest naught these souls unto the Lord in Heaven, Sir John."

John wrinkled his brow, and pushed his straggling dark blond hair back under his coif. "What mean'st thou?"

The arms-man's eyes were fanatical. "Their souls wert given unto our liege-lord. He doth enjoy them."

John's eye widened, and he backed away. "No... thou canst naught mean..."

"Our lord doth serve a dark master. Surely thou did a-perceive it long since, Sir knight." The Irishman held up his misericorde, the stiletto thin-blade gleaming with a strange darkness that oozed and writhed sickeningly.

John felt faint. "Witchcraft..." he breathed in horror. Behind, he heard his horse whicker in alarm and wheel about to flee. Leaper, his steadfast hound - who had once faced a bear down - growled and cringed away from the evil radiating from the blade.

"'Twere not witchcraft, but magic," corrected Sebastian. "This beauty did dispatch many this day. The souls be collected here, to be used in rites. Ne thoughten ye upon how our lord did become great? Not merely through coin and influence."

He eyed John. "Thou hast stood always in my path, Sir John. Thou must go, and should ye die... 'Twill be no great work to tell our liege thou hast perished by the hands of bandits. 'Twill please me greatly to have ye removed, and your soul in agony."

John's hand fell to the hilt of his sword. "Darest thou!" he ground out.

The man's eyes flickered, then went up past his shoulder. He gasped, and fell to his knee. "My liege!" he cried.

John spun around to see not his lord, but another man-at-arms. His left arm relaxed in surprise and his rowan shield drooped.

The crossbow bolt caught him in the left shoulder, punching through mail in the space between his pauldron and breastplate. He fell, agony beyond comprehension racking his body. With a grin, the Erinman knelt, planting a knee on John's chest. He grasped the butt end of the quarrel from where it protruded from John's surcote and twisted it viciously. John cried aloud, and screamed again, voice cracking as the bolt was torn free, leaving whatever foul magic it carried behind - a dark seed planted within his shoulder. As the darkness consumed his hearing and vision, he heard Sebastian speak.

"I wouldst finish this now, but I would haf ye know the agony of having thy soul consumed whilst thou yet live. Go thou to hell, Sir John."

And John saw no more.