Chapter 1: Bran the Bear
Arthur didn't know whether to be grateful or furious that he had finally found the path. It was good that he had finally stumbled upon it. It meant he was going in the right direction. But then, many feet had trudged along this worn dirt path recently, tamping down the snow. And that partially melted snow had apparently refrozen each night since, creating a slippery slide down the hill. Arthur skidded and nearly lost his balance again, swearing. What was the point in even trying if he was just going to slip and fall and die in the snow? The pack and large shield on his back made him a human turtle and he doubted he could get up again if he did fall. He'd die, legs stuck up in the air, like creation's biggest joke. To be honest, he wasn't sure if he wasn't that already. His life had, by now, become pretty dedicated to being a farce.
He could hear voices now. Probably getting pretty close now. Arthur knew that the village he was looking for was down in a glen, beside a low-lying stream of some sort. He stopped a moment to catch his breath. His stomach cramped up again, reaching a talon of pain around inside his abdomen. The rumblings of an empty stomach had long ago stopped. Now he simply cramped up. Thank the gods he was near to the village, at least. His supplies had run out a day and a half ago. Frozen with cold and drinking snow was not the way he wanted to go, if he was going to die. He would prefer something a little… warmer, perhaps?
Arthur pushed himself forward again and began his descent down the hill again, grabbing a tree every so often as he went to steady himself. He finally reached the bottom and the smell of woodsmoke and voices of other human beings overwhelmed him. Every time. Every time it was a little bit harder to walk back into a village or a city or just simply look at people. Pulling himself back into humanity was, by now, a chore. After trees and sky and rocks and rushing waters, people just looked strange. They talked too loud, or too much, or just all the time. He shook his head and gathered himself, then pushed forward.
The village was small, compared to what cities he had seen before in his life, but it was decent-sized. The buildings were laid out radially, doubtless from a central firepit that he had not spotted yet. Arthur found himself walking towards this center. There were homes, some big and some merely shacks. Most were wavering in whatever breeze blew through the trees. A few stalls were dotted here and there, furs and meats were the main commodity. But there had to be a blacksmith somewhere; Arthur could hear the clink of his hammer somewhere in the village. He would have to remember that. His weapons needed sharpening, desperately. The whole villages looked like a trading post more than anything at first glance. It lay deep in a forest with no fields nearby in which to grow crops. No roads led to it, only small footpaths that, to be honest, looked fairly recent. This was not an entirely permanent settlement. And if it was going to be, it had not been here long.
People were walking about, tending to their homes or their businesses. Any of them would do. Arthur stuck his arm out and grabbed the next person who was passing him in the opposite direction, a young dark-haired man with a bow and quiver on his back.
"Your chief, I would speak with him." Arthur's voice came out hoarse. How long had it been since he used it last? He made sure to make eye contact with the man. It was hard. People looked so strange.
The man had jumped a little at being manhandled, but quickly regained himself. He didn't pull himself out of Arthur's tight grip though, matching his stare. "Through there." He jerked his head backwards, to the central fire pit of the village. "He's meeting with the others. Are you here to join?"
Arthur let go of the man and began making his way to the center of the village.
The man followed him, walking right beside him. "You look familiar, were you-"
"No." Arthur kept walking.
The man would not shut up. "But didn't you-"
Arthur wanted to stuff his hand down the man's throat and silence him that way. But it would make a scene. So he settled for making a slightly smaller scene. From his belt he pulled a knife, grabbed the man's shirt collar, and pressed the blade to his belly.
He growled his words, pulling them up from his stomach and forcing them through the days of thirst and exhaustion that rested like a dusty cave-in in his throat. "I'm not here to talk, I'm here to kill people, for money. Don't make me kill for free."
The man held up his hands, shying away from the knife. "My mistake!"
Arthur released him and began walking again. He didn't look back to see if the man left him alone. Didn't matter. He did. They all did, soon enough.
The village was becoming more domestic and less wild as he moved towards the center. This was the home of the innocents, women and children, those that tended hearths and prepared food. Children would run past every so often. Women with babes in arms sat by cookfires. Dried herbs and flowers hung at every doorway. Small clouds of frozen breath, hovered, appearing in a strange rhythm from the mouths of those who worked and played and spoke. Music from somewhere, someone was singing. Arthur could not see. The singer must have been behind a hut, beyond his view. But a woman's voice with some kind of harp playing along. Music. Music bouncing off stone walls in a chamber sounded very different compared to out here, with the notes flying off into the sky and trees. Smoke hung low in the air over the village, like a blanket over a corpse.
Arthur sighed. Too many bodies. Too many soft, warm, vulnerable bodies, all together, in one place. This village was a bright red target. What was he getting himself into?
The central fire was closer now and he could see an older man standing by it. Probably the chief, since his robes were well-made; they weren't gaudy and were functional, but elegant. Plus, he was wearing robes. Anyone engaged in matters of the state, and not anything else, wore robes. They were so damn easy to trip on obviously. Anyone else with a real profession wore trousers.
Around the robed man were a few figures, men like him. Men like Arthur, with swords on their hips and darting eyes. He knew that any of those men saw him coming well before the chief did. He didn't care. Let them know it.
Arthur drew level with the group. All their eyes were watching him now. Let them look and dare him to speak. They were talking but he opened his mouth and spoke over them anyway. "Bran the Bear. I'm here to offer my services."
Emrys could not remember the last time someone had called him by his real name, the name his mother had given him. He closed his eyes and lifted his head towards the sky, feeling the warmth of the small floating fire by his head that he had conjured a moment ago because of the cold. It cracked and popped quietly, right into his ear. Always a calming sound. His shivers subsided a little. He tried to remember his mother saying it, his name. Or saying anything at all. It was no use. Emrys had thought he could remember her voice. But nothing was there now. How many more memories were gone without him knowing it, leaving like thieves in the night?
"Merlin." He whispered aloud, to himself.
"Lord Emrys!"
Well, that didn't last long.
Emrys opened his eyes and turned around at the sound of his name, snatching the little fire from out of the air like a butterfly and stuffing it, fluttering, in his pocket. A dark-haired young man was striding towards him, shin-deep in snow, and a bow and quiver on his back. Emrys bent over and picked up the robe he had shed and dropped in the snow, pulling it back on over his head, struggling for a moment or two. See, this is why he had taken it off in the first place. Tromping out in the woods was no place for robe-wearing, no matter how well they kept you warm. Who needed wool robes when you could just carry flames in your pockets? Once he'd gotten the wool away from his eyes he saw that the man was beside him now.
"Just gathering kindling." Emrys explained and bent over, picking up the bundle of sticks that he'd collected.
The man grabbed a few of the branches that fell from Emrys' stack. "Aren't you cold? You're in the snow up to your knees."
"No." Emrys shook his head and held out his hand for the rest of his kindling. The man handed it to him. "I have this fellow to keep me warm." He then, with some difficulty, balanced the sticks he carried in one arm and pulled the small floating fire out of his pocket. It rested in the palm of his hand for a minute before floating up and hovering just above his right shoulder.
The man nodded, eyes wide. He stood there a moment, staring at the flame, before he shook his head as though to clear it. "Yes, well, Lord Iseldir sent me. Said that you aren't to go alone anymore."
"I'm just about within shouting distance of the camp." Emrys shrugged, then straightened his bundle as he grumbled. "He worries too much."
The man took the bow off his back and held it in his hand. "I suppose he'd prefer you entirely within shouting distance, you see, if you had to shout. For help, for instance." The man raised an eyebrow at him.
Emrys could not help but grin. The archer had a point. Emrys didn't care. But the man had a point. "I'll try to remember that next time, uh…" By the gods, who was this? Emrys stared into those large brown eyes for a moment or two, taking in the, rather tall but in no way large, man. He'd seen this man around camp for the past few days; talking to Iseldir, playing with the children. Had they actually met yet? Emrys had been making himself scarce lately. Too much attention on him. "What's your name again? You've just gotten here, I think."
"Lancelot, my lord."
Emrys laughed, nearly dropping his load of kindling and slipping a little in the snow.
The newly-named Lancelot frowned. "I'm sorry?"
Emrys started the hike back to the village, trudging through the path that Lancelot had just made. The little fire followed along, still hovering just above his shoulder. "Just Emrys. Don't worry about the 'lord' bit." He shot a look back over his shoulder at the archer, who was following single-file behind him. "So, why are you here?"
"Iseldir sent me-"
"No, no. I mean," Emrys was huffing and puffing now, clouds of his breath swirling up and away. The snow was unyielding. "Why've you joined us? Are you a warrior?" He glanced back again.
"Oh, yes, well. I want to be one, a warrior, one day." Lancelot was panting now too. "I heard the rumors of the journey Iseldir plans to make, and I thought it would be good…practice. Do you want me to carry that? The sticks?"
"I've got it. Why do you want to fight?" Emrys slowed a little. There were puddles of refrozen snow as they neared the small village, and it was slick and uneven. "Money?" He slid suddenly on some ice. The world became weightless for a moment.
His companion's hand shot out and steadied him. "You ok?"
"Yes, thanks!" Emrys stumbled a little but soon righted himself. "So?"
"What?"
"Do you fight for money?"
"Oh…you know, not really." Lancelot was watching his footing now too. "Protect the innocent, defend the week, all that…stuff. Money isn't really a part of it."
Strange… Most of the warriors they were attracting were mercenaries, soldiers left over from past battles that were a decade old by now. No masters, no pay, hungry for food and work. Emrys hadn't encountered many men ready to fight for a cause rather than a full belly.
They finally got onto solid ground, the snow mostly trodden down or away in the muddy streets of the village. The smell of smoke and herbs floated about like a cloud over the small buildings. Emrys breathed it in and sighed. Back home. He turned to Lancelot and smirked. "Thanks for the protection."
Lancelot nodded and replaced his bow on his back. He rubbed his hands together for warmth. "Better safe than sorry, especially after the attack couple days ago."
Emrys watched Lancelot for a moment, then answered. "Yes." He looked around. "Well…help me take these to Widow Emrah?"
"Of course." Lancelot held out his arms and Emrys gave half the burden to him.
Emrys reached back to his shoulder and snuffed out the fire like he would a fly. "Follow me."
They wended their way amongst the small stalls and lean-tos, the muddy street churning with ash and snow and refuse. As they moved farther in, the shops disappeared and the small, well-built cabins appeared and the warm, smoking huts. Cookfires sat outside of many homes. Every fire they passed was a welcome wave of warmth. Emrys watched Lancelot as they walked, or least, as best as he could without being noticed. He seemed nice. But these days it was a frightening affair to have strangers wandering about, near homes, near children. It felt like it was becoming harder and harder to protect everyone. And soon, it may become impossible. Every new person that was invited into the fold was a potential danger. Emrys had learned this by now. And he wished he hadn't. He wished he could trust again. He wished-
"You call this sharp? I couldn't kill someone with this if I wanted to!" He heard some man sneer, voice raised.
A chorus of laughter rang out, muffled slightly by the snow on the ground.
"I'm sorry, sir, I really don't have- aah!" Another voice, another man, frightened and quivering. He cried out.
Emrys looked around. Must be coming from behind one of the huts there… to the right. He slowed and stopped.
"Emrys?" Lancelot stopped beside him.
"You're no more blacksmith than I am a king! Honestly! Look at this?!"
More jeering. Insults, like "Idiot!" and "Soft 'n the head!", joined the laughter.
Emrys felt himself frown and started walking towards the commotion.
"Is this sharp?"
A yelp. Followed by another.
"Is this sharp?"
Emrys rounded a corner. He heard Lancelot following him, slipping and sliding in the muddy snow. The archer was asking him something but Emrys wasn't listening at this point. Probably wasn't saying anything useful. Doran's small smithy came into view. Yes, just as he suspected. Emrys groaned inwardly.
A few of the warriors that Emrys had seen around the village for the past few days were circled about Doran's smithy. They were large men, encrusted with age and experience and who knows how much dirt, and they had been trickling in for the past week. Iseldir had elected to keep the less wild-looking ones. Emrys had stayed out of that process; not wasn't really his area of expertise. Besides, hadn't been particularly pleased to hire any of them. And here was his proof. One man, blonde and young, held his sword-point to Doran's belly and was poking him, hard. He laughed as the smith shied away from the blade, terrified for his life. The rest of them laughed and jeered. None of the villagers had stepped in yet. Thank the gods they hadn't. He had to deal with this himself, no one else should. Emrys sighed and opened his mouth.
"Hey, come on, that's enough!" He called out.
They all turned to him. Doran's eyes flashed from the end of the sword that was poking his stomach, to Emrys, and back again.
Lancelot, still standing behind him, put a hand to Emrys' shoulder and squeezed. Emrys knew he didn't look intimidating. He knew he was dealing with dangerous men. But damn it all if they thought they could just pick on anyone in the village. Especially if that village was feeding and sheltering them. They were just a bunch of prats. Dumb prats. Doing prattish things.
The blond man doing the poking smirked. "What?" He asked.
Emrys' knees trembled, his body telling him he was scared even though his thoughts were calm and collected. Funny how that worked. "You've had your fun, my friend." He answered.
"Emrys…" Lancelot mumbled from just behind his shoulder.
The blond arse sheathed his sword. "Do I know you?"
Emrys stared the man down while taking a few steps forward. A couple of the other warriors chuckled, and Emrys suspected it was because they thought it was funny for a small boy to challenge a man, like a mouse taking on a cat. He'd been dealing with that misconception for years.
Emrys held out his hand. "I'm Emrys."
The stupid blond man shrugged and wouldn't take his hand. "So, I don't know you."
"No." Emrys wasn't sure where the blond arse was taking this conversation.
The blond boar grinned. "Yet you called me 'friend'." A couple more laughs.
Ah. I see. Emrys dropped his hand. "That was my mistake."
"Yes, I think so." And the blond dunce leaned on a column supporting the smithy roof and folded his arms.
What a smug toad. Emrys smiled and shook his head. "Yeah. I'd never have a friend who could be such an ass." He looked over to the blacksmith. "Doran, come with-"
The warrior interrupted. "Or I, one who could be so stupid." And the laughter started up again.
Emrys turned back to the blond menace.
"Emrys…" Lancelot called to him from somewhere behind.
Your concern has been noted, Lancelot.
"Tell me, Em-Reese." And the man, hand on his sword hilt, sauntered towards Emrys and stood before him. "Do you know how to walk on your knees?"
Emrys did. He supposed maybe the arse was talking about showing some respect. But right now he didn't see anything before him worth showing respect to. So he just answered, "No."
"Would you like me to help you?"
This man wanted a fight. He wasn't going to be talked out of it. He had come looking for one. And now he had one.
"I wouldn't if I were you." He warned. Last chance, clotpole.
The blond stinging fly chuckled and leaned in. "Why? What are you going to do to me?"
I have no idea. "You have no idea."
And the warrior grinned. "Be my guest! Come-" He didn't have a chance to finish that sentence.
Emrys threw out his arm. And pushed. Hard.
And the man flew. Damn! It was satisfying, seeing that body tumbling through the air. The blond arsehole flew a few yards and landed deep in the mud of the street, leaving a gouge in the street as he slid.
Emrys strode forward, whispering, and a fire popped into life in his hand as he approached the fallen warrior. All the others had fallen silent, watching, some drew back. Some walked away. The blond man was just starting to pick himself up when Emrys drew level with him. He put his muddy foot on the man's chest and pushed down, hard enough to send a message.
Emrys growled. "I'll have you thrown out of this village for that." And the flames sprang a little higher in his hand.
The man coughed a little. "What, who do you think you are? The Chief?"
Emrys pondered this for a moment. "Yes, I think I am." He nodded. "Lord Emrys, Chieftain of the Druids, nice to meet you, you slimy git." He extinguished the fire. "What are you called?"
"Damn." The man sighed and laid his head back into the mud. "Bran the Bear."
