Author's note: This is set after Summer Heat. I'm writing too many things again, I know, but I just have to share... :) And I had a great idea for Arthurian legend going completely wrong.

"What are we here for?" Diarmuid was starting to feel extremely frustrated with the World. What was with all the peculiar missions? Archer pulled a grey bandanna off his head, using it to wipe the sweat off his brow.

"I have no idea but if one more person calls me something uncouth…" Archer growled and the flash of temper in usually placid eyes was very real. Diarmuid sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"I know." It was shocking to think that ancient Ireland could be considered a bastion of tolerance but medieval England was making it look like it.

Diarmuid thought about it ruefully. In the Ireland of his birth, Archer's looks would have made him so exotic it was beyond the pale. Men and women would have whispered, stared and if he was wearing his red coat, treated him as foreign royalty. Even without it they would have given him great respect as a foreign lord and perhaps a fae. And if he'd showed them his magic they would have feared him but also held him in awe, thinking him a new Cu Chulainn.

Medieval England, alas, was more cosmopolitan and familiarity bred contempt. They knew people with dark skin here, mostly pirates and heretics. They had zero respect for Archer's coloring and in fact, Diarmuid had needed to protect his friend and lover on many occasions. Diarmuid did all the talking here, not because of Archer's sharp tongue but because no one would listen to him.

Not that Diarmuid himself got a lot of respect. His appearance was a bit beyond the pale as well. Diarmuid wore black leather armor, tailored in a complete new way. Patches of skin were bared, showing off the best parts of his scars. Black chains, more ornamental than functional, tinkled when he moved yet could become eerily silent when Diarmuid willed it. On his neck were seven black iron chains, each dangling with runic charms. Diarmuid knew they were seals against magic and madness. And despite that, they weren't flawless. Diarmuid sometimes had his voice grabbed by the runes which was… somewhat fine if a male voice came out. When a female one did, well…

"We need some food," Archer said and Diarmuid's stomach cramped, taking away any thought of his rebellious runes. God, food! They had trouble finding work which meant they had trouble getting fed. They'd both been turning to theft, particularly Archer, but neither of them much liked it. "Should we try to reach the village or forage?"

"Err…" Diarmuid checked the leather pockets sewn into the inside of his belt. "Village." They had a bit of cash and it was spring. Spring was a lovely time of the year to travel and it was a bit shit for foraging, when it came to plants anyway. Nothing edible was grown enough to be worth it. As for the animals, they weren't that abundant either. Archer nodded wordlessly and they continued. As they walked, Diarmuid examined his love.

Archer's appearance had changed as greatly as his own. He was wearing bronze colored leather armor, just a shade darker than his skin. Beneath it, he had regular cloth clothing in shades of grey, comfortable and warm. It was all very suitable for a commoner. Leather armor for perils on the way, mud-colored clothing because they weren't worthy of anything better.

Do you think we'll be able to make any money? Diarmuid thought and saw Archer's one-shoulder shrug.

We can only hope. Perhaps there will be buckets for me to mend, Archer's thought was humorous and Diarmuid chuckled softly.

Archer was the only one of them with a gainful occupation. He was a tinker, a wandering tinsmith. Every place they stopped he made a bit of coin mending broken tools. Diarmuid did all the talking for him and set the prices. Sometimes they even pretended Archer was mute, to keep people from being demon-damned rude. It helped a little, sometimes they got a tiny bit of sympathy. Although Diarmuid vividly remembered one blowhard priest going off about how it was his punishment for being a heretic.

Diarmuid wished he could make money but he just didn't have any skills. Well actually, he had plenty of skills but all the wrong ones. He could be a groom, a horse tamer – thank Hector for that – or a mercenary. Unfortunately, only the last one got him any jobs and they were sporadic at best. Sighing, Diarmuid shifted Vase Killer from his right shoulder to his left. If only he were a carpenter or something maybe he could find some work!

You're also a poacher, don't forget that. Archer's thought was full of humor and Diarmuid mock growled at him.

Shut up you dirty peasant, he thought back and saw Archer's shoulders shaking in silent laughter, the short bow slung over them quivering with the movement. That was what they'd been called when some forest rangers had caught them trying to supplement the food supply. They'd been lucky to get out of that one alive. Penalties for poaching in these times ranged from the stocks to hanging.

They kept walking and finally made the village. Immediately, they both knew something was very wrong.

Too quiet, Archer pulled his shortbow off his back and knocked an arrow as Diarmuid nodded, gently balancing Vase Killer. No fires.

Yes. The village was still as a tomb.

Diarmuid deeply regretted that thought a moment later, when they came across the first body.

"…" Diarmuid looked at the dead woman blankly. She might have been pretty once, but she wasn't now. Her face was purpled and ugly. Dead carrion birds were lying around her and Diarmuid swallowed at the sight. This was a version of the plague, newly come to Britain and currently ravaging the isles. Archer sighed softly before slinging his bow back over his shoulder. Vase Killer went back to resting pose. "Well, it won't be trouble anyway." There might be a survivor or two but they wouldn't be any trouble. "Should we loot the place?"

"Sadly, yes." Archer said with another small sigh. They both found it distasteful but leaving the money for the dead was simply idiotic. Soon they were practicing breaking and entering, tearing open doors and going inside houses. As they searched for valuables, they also looked for survivors. But they didn't find anyone. "Very unlucky," Archer muttered and Diarmuid nodded.

"Yes." The disease usually wasn't quite this thorough. "Unless the survivors fled." Unlikely, they'd still be sick and recovering. The bodies were fairly fresh. "At least we can't catch it." They might be enfleshed and sealed to human levels but the Counter Guardians couldn't get sick. Diarmuid was very glad of that, it was well known that the living could catch this sickness from the dead. It also affected the scavengers, which was rather terrifying. They were calling it the Ghost Plague, because it was rumored to be carried by ghosts. It was also said – whispered actually – that the plague was particularly lethal to those with mystical skill. If that was the case Diarmuid thought Merlin ought to watch out.

The misfortune of the villagers was their gain, though. Before they were half-done the two Counter Guardians had a lovely lot of coin and many small valuables. Diarmuid thought this little nest egg would easily get them through the winter. Could they parlay it into something more? Set up a business? Archer was an excellent smith. Even as he thought it, though, Diarmuid dismissed the idea. No Guild would accept a brown smith and without that they might as well throw their money down a well.

Resigning himself to endless penury, Diarmuid searched a corpse. The woman's golden hair had been very beautiful and she was wearing many rings of fine gold. He had to cut the fingers off to remove them, a ghastly thing but absolutely worth it. Hm.

"Odd," Diarmuid muttered to himself as he examined this woman more carefully. Her clothing was rich too, not silk – that was unknown to medieval Europe – but very fine linen. In brighter colors than a peasant should wear, too, a soft blue shade. Diarmuid wondered if he should strip the corpse before deciding against it. Diseases could be harbored in cloth and he'd wish this on no one.

"Diarmuid, this is strange," Archer said and Diarmuid looked up. Archer had a cash box in hand and was frowning at it. "This is locked and warded with magic." Say what?! "Can you open it?" Diarmuid took the box, frowning.

"I think I can, but I'll need to partly unseal," Diarmuid warned and Archer grimaced. They always hated that. "Two chains, and make them… stars and shadow." Each of his chains sealed a different runic element. Stars were willful but intelligent, shadow was calm and intelligent. They could work together. Archer nodded and Diarmuid held still as he worked at the chains.

"My, my. Finally deciding you need us?" Stars spoke through Diarmuid's mouth, a disturbingly feminine tone. "With something that small? This is beneath me."

"Everything is beneath you. You are the stars." Shadow replied and Diarmuid reached out to pick up the box. He turned it in his hands, examining it along with the runes. "This is not just warded but cursed." Joy. He'd rather thought so. "Something valuable lies within. Come Stars, we must work together."

"I shall not!" Then the two of them began wrangling, using Diarmuid's mouth to do it. Archer leaned against a wall, staring patiently away. Diarmuid wished he could tune them both out. This was the annoying thing about unsealing. For him, being Berserker was all about being a conduit for the runes.

Finally, though, Shadow and Stars got their act together. Stars broke the locking spells while Shadow dispelled the curses. Utterly relieved, Diarmuid let Archer put his chains back on. The runes tried to rebel but it was half-hearted. The one person who could utterly control them was Archer.

"Now, let's see…" With his magic safely contained, Diarmuid opened the cash box before whistling. "Woah!" It was filled with gold coins. "Here, let's split this." Diarmuid said, scooping them out. "This is going to set us up for years!" At least four, by his estimation, perhaps longer.

"Hmm, yes," Archer said, preoccupied. Diarmuid could guess why. This stank of something the world wanted of them. "We need to search this house thoroughly." For any sign of what the world needed.

They searched the place from top to bottom and almost didn't find it. Fortunately, just as he was leaving a bedroom Diarmuid heard a soft shuffle.

"…?" Turning back, Diarmuid looked around. A bed, very neatly made. A wardrobe that he'd already thoroughly checked. A chest of drawers, also checked. The window was closed. There wasnothing in the room that could have made a sound. Diarmuid frowned, rubbing his cheek before blinked as he realized. The bed had a skirt on it. Could there be…?

Kneeling on the floor he swept the skirt aside and gazed directly into wide green eyes.

"My god!" Diarmuid reached under the bed and the person – a child and my god it was small – crawled away. "No little one, it's alright. I'm here to help you," he tried to soothe. Archer, I've found a child!

Coming, Archer replied as Diarmuid kept trying to coax the little one out. Finally he gave up and just grabbed her, his long arm making short work of her efforts to keep away. At least, he thought it was a girl. He wasn't entirely sure. The child was bawling when he dragged her into the light.

"Most definitely a girl," Diarmuid murmured as he looked the child over. Golden hair, matching the woman downstairs, gleamed in the dull light filtering through the window. Archer appeared in the doorway and the child bawled a little louder, making Diarmuid wince. "It's alright child. It's alright, we promise," he said, trying to comfort her. Diarmuid knew himself though and knew he had no knack with children.

Archer, though, did. It took him an astonishingly short amount of time to get the child calmed down and sitting in his lap, as he sat on the edge of the bed. Diarmuid could only envy it as the girl sniffled into his leathers, curling up against him.

"What is your name child?" Archer asked gently and the little girl sniffled again before responding. To Diarmuid's eyes she couldn't be any older than two.

"Mord-wed." Archer's indrawn breath took Diarmuid's attention from the child and he saw utter shock in Emiya's face, his eyes wide as he stared at the child in his arms.

Mordred. The woman downstairs must be Morgan le Faye. This was supposed to mean something to him? You insular barbarian! Hey now, he'd died before this place existed! In Arthurian legend Mordred is the one who will kill King Arthur. Or rather, Arturia. Diarmuid had heard of that and considered it stupid as hell. In Cu Chulainn's day Queen Mebd had held a throne. Why was medieval England so intent on making old Ireland look good? Keep basking in your superiority.

"Stop reading my mind," Diarmuid grumbled. Archer was good at that by now, a bit too good sometimes. "We can't leave her here." That was unacceptable. Mordred or not, the child was just that, an innocent little girl. Archer met his eyes, a deeply troubled expression on his face.

We've killed children before. Are we here to kill her? Diarmuid's heart lurched as he looked at golden curls. Could he bear to do it? Could he –

Then abruptly his vocal cords were highjacked.

"This is your geas, children of stars and earth. Raise this child as you will, love her and hold her and protect her from harm. Help her realize her dreams. Break this geas and all the rage of the world shall fall upon your heads," the Earth runes spoke in the voice of a mature woman, with absolute finality. Then Diarmuid was released and he stared at Emiya, meeting shocked honey-brown eyes.

"I… think we just became fathers," Archer said after a long, stunned moment. Diarmuid looked down at the child, cuddled against him so trustingly and felt half-hysterical laughter bubbling up.

"I think we did." Diarmuid couldn't help it then. He laughed, long and loud and then Archer was laughing with him.

What was with all these crazy missions?