A/N: We're gonna make this year a little mystical.

Hello, MKoTNN fans! I'm coming off of an immense Mystic Knights binge (here's credit to YouTube and the power of torrents), and that's brought me back to the world of FanFiction as I jog through some writer's block for my original story. I am so excited to get back into this show, and I know there's always at least two others lurking and ready. Get in touch and let's talk MK!

As a side note about the rating, I'm keeping to a nice 'don't hit M'. There are no words I like as much as profane words, but since activity in this area is slow, I'm not doing any future readers a favour by burying it in the default filter. Also, my goal's to keep this story as in-character I can, at least until the point where things go very, very south. That means the first couple of chapters are I-want-to-make-you-proud-Saban episode-esque. It'll - uh... darken. Let me know how I'm doing!

About the Story Format: For those of you who don't want to just dive in, here's a quick explanation. I've got a Present Prologue, Flashback Scene, Present Epilogue for each chapter, and because of the nature of flashbacks, the vast majority is written in an extremely noticeable past tense. Just to make it even harder to follow along, you'll get some present reflections as Rohan (our wonderful narrator) makes connections.

Do not feel like you're failing to see the picture. I'm planning to treat this like a puzzle and hoarding the pieces for a while. At the time of that 'while', we're gonna flip to the present tense and carry on from the scenes the chapter prologue/epilogue chunks have already started. On the bright side, I hate cliffhangers! Every chapter should feel like a complete scene.

So ask me any questions, point out any typos and demand any answers you're itching for. If not right away, I'll keep it in mind to sort out as the story unfolds.

~Qk

O O O O

Get up, Rohan. Get up.

Break the ice from your fingers - that's it, bend the first, then the next. Let there be enough fire in your heart to melt this hate.

Get up.

Get up.

They need you. They call on you. You're their only warrior, Draganta. You're their last hope against the hailstorm. They will freeze without you, Rohan. You can't let them. Not again.

Not like Angus.

Get up.

The frosted blood on his eyes caused them to stick by the lash. His chest heaved under the clench of his crushed breastplate. Despite it all, there, unmistakably, was the fierce, white light of the moon gliding off the Dead Lord's armour. Behind him spun the shadows of this great mountain, swelling with cries of twisted banshees and unholy knights sworn again to their immortal thirsts for blood. Angus - what used to be Angus - hadn't shied from the dramatic. This would be a glorious end.

Rohan did not intend to lose today. Die? Perhaps. Fin Varra said such was fate, and his fate may have already been sealed. The wounds he suffered... The dead king was not bound by mere mortal strength. But not losing. If Rohan died, it would be in victory. He owed his brother nothing less.

He had to get up.

O O

"If it is good magic, we must wield it. Would it bear ill upon my kingdom, it must be destroyed. I will not allow Temra a new weapon to use against us," the king had decreed. "This is why I sent for you, my Mystic Knights. Although Cathbad has done much of the work for us by merely sensing this magic while he gathered herbs, more remains to be done in retrieving the source."

"Of course, King Conchobar," Rohan remembered saying, far too glib for what he knew now. "We'll fetch that source for you."

The King nodded in his royal gratitude. There always had been a difference between it and the real kind. True relief should have spread through his words as he realized his wish was to be granted. The royals, however, saw it as formality, as a fine gesture of a crowned head that expected no less than obedience from the start. He remembered this moment as well, along with the twinge of absurdity he'd felt. Angus would share it, Rohan knew, but unlike him, who thought it was funny for the king to bother feigning thanks, Rohan felt as though it were a dream. Near two years defending Kells as the legendary Draganta, and he had not erased the orphaned apprentice who never believed anyone - least of all his King - expected anything of him. This was the only reason his battle-worn mind spat out for why he had been too eager to accept this quest.

"It is not as easy as it sounds, my boy," Cathbad warned. He was a lone voice of reason that morning in the throne room. "I cannot identify this magic, and yet I sensed its presence from fields around. Something so beckoning will not go unguarded. You must take great care to avoid the perils surely surrounding..." The druid paused. "... whatever it may be."

"If you noticed, Cathbad," Deirdre asked next, standing at her place by her father's side, "would Maeve not have noticed as well?"

"This magic is far from her, princess," Cathbad assured. "But even banished, time runs short until she does. I fear this power will grow out of the place in which rests and catch the eye of many familiar with these matters. If Maeve or some person inclined to free the former queen gained this strength first..."

"Perhaps Fin Varra would know." Ivar. His loyal friend. The steady tide. Seeking Fin Varra had been a good suggestion. Rohan doubted the Little People's caution would have swayed them, but they might have been entered the cave better prepared. At least he tried. "If this magic is as unknown as you say, we would do ourselves a disservice by not heeding his words."

"Riddles," came the grunt, too low for any but Rohan to have heard. Angus buried the rest under a lazy scratch at his nose: "And a drop down a hole my belly'll not thank you for."

He could paint this morning. Every detail, every breath, every light as it flowed in around them spared itself in his memory. King Conchobar, with his golden crown and fine cloak of red furs, lorded over them from his noble throne. His beard had grown grayer as of late, but still it looked majestic. At the King's left was Cathbad, worrying into his staff and robes, and at his right, his daughter. For all the elegant gowns she wore and already glowing cheeks of moon-kissed silk, the princess grew lovelier each day. Rohan had it timed then: four beats to stare at the King; three beats, to Cathbad; two beats to watch the others. The last was spared as a swift glance to see she glanced at him. Most often, she wasn't, but those few seconds when their eyes met…

Deirdre was in green that morning. It suited her. He had yet to find a colour that didn't.

Facing them, Rohan wore his usual garb. The fashions of the age were, Draganta or not, too rich for his blood, but the clean stitches in his yellow shirt and brown, leather vest looked alright. Just alright. Were Garrett here, he might have changed his review to 'acceptable'. At any rate, King Conchobar hadn't complained, and Angus would have laughed if Rohan asked him for advice. The princess wouldn't be wooed by a shirt, and Angus gladly brought those truths to light.

Tears or blood. He didn't know which stung him.

Get up.

Ivar fared better. Common dress for his land involved well-knit cloths sewn to practical belts and pouches. If nothing else, he looked ready. The blue and his beard, trimmed as closely as his black hair, lent itself to both formal wear and battle. Ivar had a stern face, as though constantly teasing a frown, but the warmth of his eyes gave it away to them. He had always been fascinated by the man - not, as most would think, because of Ivar's darker skin, but because the prince could be this far from his kingdom but walk as comfortably as if he'd never left. Maybe it'd been how he stood. Rohan put his shoulders back, like Ivar had his. He lasted three minutes before he grew tired and slouched again.

Then Angus.

How Rohan thought of this now and how he thought of it then could not have differed more. Should he have lived to go through with his painting idea, Angus would appear the same, but the meaning behind his brushstrokes would change from a silent contest to quiet respect. A plain shirt with pockets, a plain vest with pockets, plain pants with pockets and plain bracers, cut from the same leather as Rohan's and trimmed with fur for warmth. And pockets. Angus either hadn't thought to try or didn't care to impress the royal family. Being a thief meant even less was expected of him, and he wore this freedom like a cape of precious threads. Rohan had hoped Deirdre would see the pair and marvel at the effort he had gone to, versus the almost intentionally dull clothes of his friend. Now, as his teeth scraped on ice, Rohan wondered if he shouldn't have been as brave and simply stood as himself, equally plain.

They understood that. King Conchobar, Princess Deirdre, Cathbad, Ivar and Angus all understood the best garb was honesty. In Angus' case, yes, also stuffed with coins Rohan knew perfectly well were warmed by the guards they first belonged to, but that was true to who he was. Rohan strained to carve a name the Draganta for himself, until the commoner was lost and only knight remained.

The lesson came from hindsight.

Rohan'ss answer to Angus was loosed as an answer to Ivar instead.

"We can't run to Fin Varra for each challenge we face. He gave us what we need to fend for ourselves. Isn't it enough to say it'll be dangerous and brace for what we find?"

"I second that," Angus chimed, very nearly not slurring. He might have lost their drinking game from the night before, but at least Rohan wasn't as green as the half-asleep victor. "What he said."

"I would still feel more at ease were we to go to Tir Na Nog."

"Ivar has the right of it," Cathbad told them. "The Little People are versed in tricks a wayward soul can befall. Their aid may be the difference between a sure success and tragic negligence."

"Then we shall take Aideen with us -"

"I'd love to go!"

The pink fairy spiralled out, trailed by an excited cloud of gold dust from whatever hiding place she'd taken to watch. Aideen was curiously reliable that way. Rohan saw her as an easy fix to their detour.

"We'll take Aideen," he repeated, deciding it. "She can guide us through the traps her magic eyes catch, and we won't lose the time it'd take to speak with Fin Varra." Rohan pulled his shoulders back like Ivar's once more, fiirm. "You said yourself, Cathbad, that time runs short."

"Rohan is correct, father." Deirdre hands found their way to the side of the king's throne. She held it as if it were his arm. "Send us now. We have fought to rid ourselves of Maeve. We can't sit back and let her use this magic against Kells."

Maeve. Months since she departed to her own, forsaken island and her name continued to strike fear. Temra wasn't the hostile nation it had been, but their lingering resistance did not go unnoticed. Rohan, as had the others, as had King Conchobar himself, wondered whether they would raise her as their queen again if she reappeared. He didn't like what his mind came up with.

"That's three of you," the King noted. "Prince Ivar, have you other thoughts on the matter?"

"I…" Stern most days, but occasionally a fish. Ivar's mouth hung open on the verge of voicing those other thoughts. The consensus, however, seemed to weaken his resolve. The foreign prince gave a nod of consent at last and finished, "I will follow Draganta."

It hurt Rohan as much now as he swelled with pride then.

"There. Glad that's settled," Angus said. "We'll be home in a few days."

"So it would appear." Angus was the first to step off to leave, and therefore the first to have to whirl back in line. King Conchobar wasn't done. "Cathbad? Your final assessment?"

The druid thought. The uneasiness during his silence should have been Rohan's best clue to what lied ahead. Instead, he assumed it impatience, and spent the moment willing his mentor to get on with it.

"I wish you all the kindest fortune in your quest. This magic," Cathbad murmured, trailing away. "I fear that whether for good or evil, it is wild." His ancient fingers tightened their hold, and he leaned his staff towards them, pointing with it and his hand. "If you cannot control this power, you must destroy its source."

"We can handle it, Cathbad," Rohan assured. "I swear."

"Our warrior has sworn to his ability, Cathbad," the King said approvingly. "We have trusted him before and he has shown himself worthy of such faith." Rohan didn't have a chance to let the words flatter him. His eyes were suddenly locked with the King's, and a regal finality entered the next words. "Draganta has led the Mystic Knights through many daunting tasks. As your king, I await good news." The stare broke off to drift softly down to Deirdre. "As a father, I expect it."

There was that smirk that lit the princess' face. With a tone Rohan could never dare to use, she objected, perhaps too proudly, "Have I not faced those same daunting tasks?"

"Yes, my dear, and triumphed," their King granted, "but you are my daughter nonetheless. So long as I breathe, I shall worry. It is every parent's duty to their child."

Ivar seemed relaxed in front of this tenderness. Rohan wasn't. Cathbad almost counted as his father, or at least as something beyond a teacher, but these moments felt lost on him. He stood mute, hoping to play his awkwardness as a polite reluctance to interrupt.

Angus followed a different approach.

"So… now it's settled. And we can go."

Sentiment interrupted.

"Yes, yes. You are dismissed," King Conchobar said. "Mind you return with the source, Angus. If I find you've taken it for yourself, I will be most displeased."

"Angus has reformed, your Majesty," Rohan promised his King.

"We'll return with the source together, father." Deirdre meant the same as, "I'll watch him."

"Good." Though Rohan was trusted to face danger, King Conchobar failed to hide his greater belief in the princess over Angus' habits. "Away with you then, my Mystic Knights. Ride to victory."

Ivar bowed. Rohan bowed. Deirdre curtsied. Angus gave a short bob of his head and a half-hearted wince of a smile, then stepped off as he'd planned to the first time. Rohan followed straight behind to hissed at his ear, "Don't run. You're in front of the King."

"If I walk," Angus hissed back, "I'll be sick on the King. I think that's a touch less polite, even if he called me a thief."

"You are a thief. Or did you happen to find my apple's twin, right down to its bruise on top?"

"I didn't see you eating it," Angus said. "Can't have you wasting a good apple."

Rohan let that comment lie and ushered his friend away from the throne. They waited there in the hall for Ivar - who joined quickly - and Deirdre, who stayed to leave on gentler terms. This struck Angus as the perfect time to eat the apple he'd swiped who-knew-when. Rohan got another "Can't have you wasting it" when he glared at the reformed criminal.

"I would still feel more comfortable consulting Fin Varra," Ivar told them.

"Why? We're the Mystic Knights. We've got the armour and the weapons," Angus said, gnawing on the core. "Unless you've got a hankering for a headache, we're better off alone."

"But we aren't alone. Aideen," Rohan called. She appeared in another blur of pink. "Aideen, you can help us, can't you? These traps that Cathbad spoke of - will you be able to find them in time?"

"I'll do my best," she sang.

"That's all we can ask for. You see, Ivar? We've got help." Aideen fluttered at that, tickled to be of assistance to the group. He noticed Deirdre pulling a face, but carried on, explaining, "Fin Varra would only give us puzzles we might not solve 'til it's too late. With this much unknown, we can't afford those distractions. Aideen is someone who'll guide us as we search."

"I suppose."

"Cheer up, Ivar. If anything goes wrong," Angus said, "I'll be there to save the day."

"We'll all be there to save the day," Deirdre said, in exactly the same voice as before. "Now come along. We didn't argue to leave this instant to burn daylight talking it over."

She left as swiftly as she arrived. Ivar left second, heading toward the stables. They would prepare the horses while the princess prepared herself. Gowns were not well suited to these adventures. Angus clearly planned to leave third, but Rohan yanked him back with a heavy hand. In his other hand was an apple core.

"How did this," the mighty Draganta inquired, "find its way to my pouch?"

Angus shrugged. Not at the knight of legends, but at his oldest friend.

"Sounded like you wanted it back."

O O

Blue. Hands are not meant to be blue. After this comes black, and then you will lose your hands forever.

Rather that than gray. Hands weren't meant to be gray. Skin was not meant to be gray. Angus wasn't meant to…

Rohan pressed on the snow, far past feeling it.

He had to get up.