Someone commented that they wished that I kept the original posted. Do a lot of people want me to as well?

Also Reviews are lovely and inspiring

For months, bordering on an entire year, serenity had been feeding Camelot's complacency. Silence had been the case for so long that the people had begun to allow their idleness to disrupt their cautious nature, which itself had been carefully crafted from years of constant dangers. For so many consecutive years, weekly attacks had forged a sort of vigilance and distrust of strangers, but as of late, barely even minor disturbances—ones common for any sized kingdom—caught the attention of local lawmen; even their knights' patrols had grown accustomed to the silence, so that they only venture into the woods occasionally to scatter bandits or the odd group of Saxons. Only a single man was sent to settle disputes between quarreling farmers, and any complaints actually brought before the king and his council were heeded or resolved—the more ludicrous the annoyance, the less covert the smiles and downcast gazes. Merlin knew it was merely a matter of time until the next threat stumbled across his path. It was a pleasant change of pace in the meantime, with no mentions of magic or of sorcerers. Even Morgana had been oddly silent after her failure in acquiring the Diamair.

Winter was nearly finished, with even a few spatters of spring flowers already poking through the frozen ground. The court physician found the lull in activity beneficial. With the pleasant weather and lack of violence, he found himself able to follow old interests and forgotten paths of pursuit, such as herbal cures to scurvy and crossing one plant with another in order to fool a blight. He had even been able to further Merlin's own medical studies (as well as the in the magical arts)—that is as long as he was able to keep up with his other prescribed duties. Merlin tried to hide the truth, but he actually found the extra studies and training to be quite enjoyable. It was not often he had been able to spend a few hours with his mentor, and the older of the two had intertwined traditional medicinal practices with more forbidden ones.

The knights and squires also restarted their weapons training, breaking more than one stained-glass window to the vexation of everyone involved in the castle's upkeep. With the upturn in the weather, drills and repetitive instruction were not as tedious in the glowing sunlight. Although, most recently the sky had opened up into a violent deluge, loosening the trodden grass and seeping deep into the patches of dirt. With every step, the knights' boots sunk lower into the hungry mud and took that much more to be pulled free. This new development did nothing to spoil their amused glee, when one or more of them lost the battle and fell into a particularly soppy puddle.

Merlin, who had taken to studying medical journals on the side of the field, scowled.

"Oh, cheer up, Merlin," Arthur chuckled, gulping down a quick sip of water. "We're training for the inconceivable." The king snatched up his sword and jogged back to the center of the field with a grin. The word 'inconceivable' had been discovered by Arthur not too long ago, and since then, he had been determined to use it on any occasion. Merlin was nearly certain that most of the time, he did not use it in the proper context.

The servant narrowed his eyes as the flock of newly washed red capes and polished sets of armor were immediately tarnished by the sopping ground. He forced his eyes back onto the brindled pages of the Culpeper tome. "Besides Amara dulcis, some call it Mortal, others Bitter-Sweet; some Woody Nightshade, and others Felon-wort… Take a pound of the wood and leaves together, bruise the wood then put it in a pot, and put to it three pints of white wine…a most excellent drink to open obstructions of the liver and spleen, to help difficulty of breath, bruises and falls, and congealed blood in any part of the body…"

A wave of brown sludge erupted from the ground. Merlin's head shot up, his neck creaking horribly, to see the king standing before a human-shaped crater in the mud. Gwaine grinned up from the sea of mud, his teeth glittering brilliantly in contrast. He pointed a finger accusingly.

"That was new."

Arthur grasped the outstretched arm and hauled the other knight to his feet, the hungry earth squelching in protest. Merlin watched as the two struck up their fighting stances once again and each took to goading the other into striking first. He shook his head annoyedly, vowing that if either had "difficulty of breath, bruises and falls," or "congealed blood," neither would be getting a Mortal white wine tonic from him. It was their brilliant idea to train in man-eating mud, and it would be their brilliance that would heal their broken ankles and wounded pride.

Farther down the field, other pairs—Percival and Leon, and Elyan and Mordred—similarly were trading blows. With every step, their strides, swords, and shields ate away at the castle's meticulously maintained field until there was nothing but a thick, mucky sludge. Although their exchange of blows was strangely graceful, like a choreographed dance of inevitable demise, Merlin found himself glad that he had no part in it. That and that cultivating the grounds did not fall under his list of duties.

Another knight hit the ground, followed by the squelch of boots and cheers of laughter and encouragement. Mordred had taken the fall this time, and half of his face was caked in the mud. He refused to admit defeat, and instead rolled to his feet, waving his arms ferociously in an attempt to regain balance. Elyan pushed forward. His sword arced down and deflected against Mordred's own. The young knight lost the battle with momentum and toppled.

"My foot slipped," he grinned, laying back against the ground.

Merlin thought he stifled his snort just in time, or perhaps hoped that the other were too far to hear, but it wasn't to be. Arthur, who knew him all too well, cocked his head and flicked his sword in his servant's direction.

"Something to say, Merlin?"

The others turned to watch, their amusement as obvious as blood in snow.

Merlin blinked at him innocently. "Me? No, I just had a bit of a tickle in the back of my throat." He cleared his throat pointedly and waved his hand. "Lots of pollen in the air out here."

Arthur hummed. "You know, I can't believe I hadn't realized this earlier," he remarked in that falsely contemplative voice that never boded well for anyone involved. He strode towards the table where Merlin had situated himself and gestured at him with the tip of his sword. "How many times have you complained about your lack of training? Now's your chance."

Merlin scoffed, looking to Gwaine and Percival for his defense, though both were grinning like the idiots they were. While Merlin had complained—and quite frequently too—about his dearth of sword tutelage, there was something off about how Arthur was offering it. More than likely, he was looking to rub his friend's face in an exceedingly mucky puddle.

A training sword landed on the table, jolting Merlin from his musings. Unfortunately, saying no to the king only incentivized him more. Merlin accepted the inevitable and took up the sword and an unclaimed shield, noting the mirth exuding from his supposed friends. At least three of them would come to regret that the following morning, when they find dried Echium in their breeches. He found the driest patch he could and fell into the proper stance. Joke as they did, Merlin did have some ability with swords, although he often cheated whenever possible.

"Now remember, Merlin. If you slip, I give Mordred complete authority to torment you for the next week." Arthur swung his sword. "It's only fair."

Merlin readjusted his grip on the shield, hooking his arm into the leather straps. "And if you fall?"

"Inconceivable."

Merlin decided then and there that if the king just happened to fall, his magic would have involved itself on its own accord. Arthur, seeing his opponent stand at the ready, lunged first. Merlin skidded back, deflecting the blow, and traded his own strike. They continued back and forth, one for one, side steps mirroring the other. Uppercuts, side cuts, thrusts,. Of course, Merlin tended to stay on the defensive; he had studied Arthur's technique for years already and knew that as soon as the flare and bravado fell away, he wouldn't stand a chance. It was better to bide his time. Offense took more strength and energy than defensive movements.

But Arthur was an expert swordsman. As he drove his opponent back in a seemingly endless current of strikes, he locked their cross-guards, hooked one foot behind Merlin's, and simply pushed.

Falling into the muck was less fun when he only owned one jacket. Merlin flicked his hands free of filth and nodded frustratedly. "Satisfied?"

Arthur pulled Merlin to his feet and frowned, his head cocked to the side. "Not bad, Merlin. I'm surprised."

"Despite what you think," Merlin grumbled, scraping away as much of the mud as he could, "I'm not completely useless with a blade. I haven't survived out of pure luck alone, you know."

"You'd do better if you adjusted your grip," Gwaine offered from a few paces away. "You're used to holding your swords with both hands, but you've got a shield. You're compensating with too much weight towards the pommel" He motioned at Merlin's hands and took the nod as an invitation to rearrange his grip. Gwaine slapped his friend's shoulder and leaned in close, dramatically whispering, "go for his left leg." Then he winked and walked back towards his own opponent without a second glance.

Merlin grinned and gave an experimental swing with the adjusted grip. He supposed it did feel more balanced than before, but swords had never been 'an extension of his being,' so they had never felt all that comfortable in his hands. Not only that, but they were never even first defense he thought of when faced with a problem. Still, it never hurt to improve his non-magical abilities. Merlin hefted the sword again, properly this time, and guarded his upper body with the majority of the shield.

"Any time now, Merlin," Arthur said, circling him, abiding his time.

Clanging rang across the field around them; the others had returned to their own skirmishes and were no longer interested in the king and his manservant. Merlin grimaced. He hated being the first to attack—unless he was attacking an enemy with dastardly intentions, that is. His approach to swordsmanship was down to the basics, sans flourish and unnecessary steps, and much of his strikes resembled hacking and jabbing, unlike Arthur's refined skills. Despite this, Merlin had two things going for him: he could be quite vexatious when he wanted to be, and the king's patience often ran short when dealing with his servant.

After Arthur had completed an entire rotation around Merlin, he shook his bemusedly. "You realize the point of a duel is to actually duel, right, Merlin?"

"I thought you might like to work on your footwork, is all." Merlin knew from experience to keep his guard up, his shield just an inch or two away from his body to absorb the impact without shattering his arm. "All that time spent in the throne room, you've gotten a bit heavy-footed as of late."

Merlin parried Arthur's blade with a grunt and smirked. He traded his own blows, back and forth, concentrating on his left side as Gwaine had suggested. It wasn't weak, only weaker than his right—probably due to sliding into a strike, rather than away during a past skirmish. Arthur reveled in the challenge and adapted his strategy accordingly, more than once grasping the blade itself in order to deflect Merlin's attacks. Merlin, on the other hand, worked to use his shield as more than a defense. He redirected attacks with the plated metal and thrust out with his sword in an attempt to dislodge Arthur's footing.

Both of them were struggling to stay upright; a fine mist had begun to settle across the field, blurring everyone's vision and loosening their grips. Despite it all, Merlin found himself actually enjoying the challenge of it all. The clang of metal, squelch of trodden grass, panting clouds of breath were hypnotic, addictive. Arthur matched Merlin's speed, regardless of his prior complaints and taunts, and even appeared to be guiding proper retaliation to specific moves—teaching him.

Merlin debated whether he should mention this later.

As Arthur brought down a particularly brutal strike, metal reverberating against the dragon-blazoned shield, a young porter danced out from the warm confines of the castle. He hovered along the edges of the practice field, hesitant to disrupt a potentially dangerous pass, but his presence was enough to upset the delicate concentration. Merlin caught a pommel to the chest and collapsed to a knee.

Arthur grimaced and only then became aware of the porter's appearance. Apparently, the message's urgency won out over his reluctance to interrupt as he decidedly dodged around the majority of quagmires and approached the one knight not currently flailing about with sharp-edged metal—Percival. From his position on the ground, Merlin caught flashes of their expressions, snippets of words, and vague gestures, but it wasn't until the knight jogged over to the king, that the kindling of worry burned in his gut.

Very few things were able to tear away at Percival's easygoing nature.

"Sire," Percival called.

Arthur sheathed his sword. "What is it?"

"He says, a woman just arrived at the castle gates, begging to have an audience with the king."

"Did he say what about?"

Percival glanced back to the porter but shrugged uncertainly. "Only that her town is in some sort of danger. She was near exhausted from riding all night; Gaius is tending to him now."

Arthur accepted the news silently, but Merlin could see the near imperceptible shift from his carefree persona to that of the king. Without a second glance at the rest of his men, Arthur strode back toward the castle. The porter scurried ahead before him, probably to alert the rest of the council to the impromptu meeting. A parade of mud-laden boots, sodden capes, and caked armor trailed from one end of the castle to the next, servants scurrying to catch up to the men before they permanently stained some of the more expensive tapestries.

Merlin shadowed the knights from behind. A persistent hum had begun to build in the back of his mind, ringing in his ears as it vied for his attention. He couldn't identify where it was from, or if it were even real to begin with. All he knew, was when there was something he couldn't quite recognize, magic was certainly behind it.

The grand oak doors to the reception hall swung open, soldiers standing on either side as its sentinels. In the center of the room stood a young woman, ragged and unkempt from however long she had spent traveling, and the queen, exuding kindness and pride. Guinevere had apparently taken it upon herself to ensure the weary girl didn't fall over whilst waiting for the king to arrive and was whispering gentle words. The girl wavered exhaustedly, but as soon as her dark eyes fell on the king, she sunk to one knee and inclined her head. "Your majesty."

Arthur strode to the front of the room, brushing his hand fondly along Guinevere's back, and regarded the woman appraisingly. She was, surprisingly, quite young. Usually, bringing complaints to the king usually fell to the elders of a village, or was left to a group of younger townspeople in case they were attacked by bandits along the way. This girl, however, barely seemed old enough to have started a family and was painfully alone. She looked as if she had spent every day out in the sun, caring for the fields and tending to the livestock. Her hair was plaited messily down the side of her head, her face streaked with dirt and mud, her hands torn and callused. The clothes she wore were probably all that she owned and were nearing their supposed end but most likely were not to be replaced anytime soon.

"What is your name?" Arthur motioned for the girl to stand.

"Nama, your majesty. From Baile-Avon."

"My men told me that your village is in danger."

"Yes, your majesty." The young woman rested her gaze on the floor just below the king's feet. Scraggly strands of hair fell before her near-black eyes, although even this failed to hide the scratches and bruises that colored the left temple. "Baile-Avon is used to travelers of all kinds, sire. It is along the River Avon's divide, so we see all sorts of people from Dyred, Gawant, even those from Eire and Alba. They pass through, sell their wares, and carry on. So, when they first arrived, we thought it would be the same."

"They?" questioned Leon.

"Saxons, my lord."

"Saxons? Are you sure?" Leon exchanged a shuttered glance with Arthur. It had been many months since the last of Morgana's impromptu army had been seen in any of the neighboring kingdoms, and even then, longer since they had had the clout to attack.

Nama looked evenly at the knight. Sunlight from the stained glass cast her face in colored shadows, plunging the sickening blue and yellow of her bruises into dark, fatal hues. "I cannot be certain, my lord, but their language is different from ours. Harsh and guttural. They don't look like us, either. Dressed in dark furs and strange metal armor."

Merlin nodded subconsciously. The basic description sounded quite similar to his own experience, although at the time he had been more focused on Morgana and Mordred. Their language had varied greatly from anything he had ever learned, and their clothing had certainly been different from Albion's own fashion. How much of it had been the winter's influence and specific to that exact clan, Merlin couldn't be sure.

"At first, they only stayed a few days at a time, spent good coin at the tavern, then went on their way, but…"

"But what?" Gwaine prompted.

"But then they stopped leaving." Nama's eyes flitted between the knights, resolutely avoiding the king's. She looked worried they would suddenly decide that the issue was not of great importance, or that the townspeople had simply overreacted to the increased presence of foreigners, despite the fact that they refused to leave. "The town elders did nothing at first. They couldn't. We are a small town, and very few of us know how to wield weapons correctly. They said, as long as the Saxons paid, then there was no reason to chase them away."

When Nama's gaze latched onto him, Merlin couldn't help but feel an overwhelming urge to help Baile-Avon, although he wasn't quite sure from what. Staring into Nama's eyes, he knew something had to be done, that he and Arthur had to ensure that Baile-Avon was saved from the invasion of these raiders.

The farmer righted her travel-worn clothes, her locked gaze on Merlin never once letting go. "We started to notice that people were going missing not long after. The old man who runs the mill, and his son. The tailor's daughter. We found this caravan in the woods—just empty and forgotten. It wasn't until we went down by the river's edge that we found the corpses. Or what remained of them."

A burning had kindled in the back of Merlin's throat as soon as Nama begun to speak, but now it was a full-blown fire in his gut. While this could be explained by the barbaric nature that seemed to be ingrained in these Saxons, Merlin simply knew there was more to it. The outsiders may be vicious and uncaring towards the people they attack, but never in the past had they resorted to desecrating corpses—or cannibalism.

The color had rapidly faded from Arthur's face, only to be replaced by a crimson flush. The knights on either side of the hall were quaking in rage where they stood. Guinevere, who had drifted to her husband's side, made a choked sound as she grabbed at her throat. Only Gaius managed to hide his revulsion at the implication. He side stepped the young knight in front of him and approached the girl. While she had appeared exhausted when he had first arrived, she had gained strength and resolution the more she spoke. Now, the terror and hopelessness that Merlin first saw in her eyes had been burned away.

"Do you mean to say that the Saxons…"

"No, my lord. The monsters did." Her eyes were hard and intense, like onyx stones with veins of rubies. "We tried to chase the Saxons away, after we found the first corpse, but they came back with these beasts. Hounds as tall as trees, and a giant with one eye in the center of its face. The more we have tried to fight, the more we die."

For a moment, no one said anything, although everyone was undoubtedly thinking the same thing. Hounds as tall as trees, one-eyed giants. Camelot had faced many creatures over the years, but even as he wracked his brain, Merlin couldn't recall ever reading about such a description. He stepped closer to Gaius in order to catch his eye; the old man was a walking almanac on his own right, but him combined with his tomes and those in the library, there was very little he didn't know.

"Do the Saxons control the beasts?" the question came from Mordred. His gaze met Merlin's, as if he were trying to convey something important, but Merlin turned away just as immediately. "Or have they just trained them—goaded them into attacking?"

Nama matched his gaze and cocked her head to the side. "I don't know, my lord. As soon as the stableboy walked willingly into the arms of a bird-woman, only to have his guts ripped out by her beak, I rode here as fast as I could."

"Have you heard of these beasts, Gaius?" Arthur inquired.

Gaius raised an eyebrow at the young woman. The question wasn't whether he believed the tale, but rather how accurate her memories of the creatures were. Were there any creatures at all, or was it a curse or spell cast over the town? Will there be anything left of the town by the time rescue rode out to take on the monsters? Gaius shook his head. "I'm afraid I would have to consult my books, sire. It is possible I have heard of the hound, but without more details, I cannot be certain. And it has only been those three?" he asked, peering down at the girl.

Nama gave a small nod.

"And you've never seen anyone besides the Saxons?"

A shake of the head, and a conflicted expression almost akin to disappointment and relief flew across Arthur's face. If sorcery is behind the sudden appearance of Saxons and monsters, then Morgana is surely not far behind. And no matter what Morgana did, nothing would ever be simple when it came to his half-sister.

Arthur swallowed whatever emotion was battling under the surface. "How many men do they have?"

"Twenty strong, at least. After we tried driving them out of Baile-Avon, they took to the woods. Only a few of them come out at a time, and almost always they are accompanied by their monsters."

That was the final answer Arthur had been looking for. He nodded to his men then stepped directly in front of the young woman. It was moments like those that distinguished Arthur from his father. Uther had always ruled over the kingdom and ensured its future and its survival over the individual, but his son would walk through a storm made of hell's fire in order to save one life. Arthur rested his hand on Excalibur's hilt and promised, "I will go to your village and take care of this myself. You have my word."

She inclined her head, a small smile flitting across her face, and calmly responded, "thank you, sire."

After a gesture from the king, the girl was swallowed up by a group of servants and lead straight out of the hall, where she would be fed and left to recover from her journey. Before she passed through the doors, however, Nama looked back once more and smiled directly at Merlin. At least, so it seemed. The smile wasn't kind or particularly nice; it conveyed the necessary movement, but nothing about it reached her eyes.

A hand jostled his arm, and Merlin blinked. Nama was gone. Gaius could see right through him, as always, but his gaze moved from where the girl had been to where Arthur was contemplating the situation at hand. "If you'll excuse me, Arthur. I would like to look through my books before you leave. Perhaps, I can find something of use for your fight against giant hounds and bird-women."

Arthur nodded distractedly. Gaius gave Merlin one last pointed glare—one that said so much without a word—and the doors fell shut with finality. The knights waited silently, the only sound coming from the sharp chink and clang of their ever-present chainmail armor.

"Twenty Saxons." It wasn't delivered as a question, but it held one, nonetheless. Saxons and monsters would normally require more than just a few men, but if this was the start of something new, they couldn't very well leave Camelot undefended. Charging in with a pitiful picture of the actualities of the situation was a danger on its own, but one that could not be ignored. Arthur turned to his men for their answer.

"I've been to Bail-Avon before," Gwaine offered. His hand played with the hilt of his sword incessantly, as if preparing for. "If we leave before dusk, we can be there the day after tomorrow."

Arthur fiddled with the straps on his vambrace and nodded. Gwen rested a hand on his to calm the motion and smiled.

"Go," she said. "There are enough soldiers here to keep the citadel safe, if this is a trap to lure you away. They need you."

"Merlin, prepare the horses. We leave in an hour," Arthur decided. His hand absentmindedly stroked Guinevere's as he nodded toward Leon. "You will remain here. Double the patrols and send a messenger to the nearby villages. I want to know if anywhere else has had similar…disappearances."

Gaius was poring over a thick, dusty tome by the time Merlin reached the physician's quarters.

The cook had been less than pleased to fulfill Merlin's request of a few days' worth of rations, even though it was at request of the king. Brigid was terrifying on the best of days, but on the days she had spent many hours preparing for the Spring equinox, she was purely monstrous. She seemed to think that Merlin had purposefully chosen the days before Alban Eiler to vanish off on a quest. Or Brigid merely enjoyed the sound her wooden ladle made when it connected with Merlin's head.

"That woman must have been dropped out of a two-story window as a child," he grumbled, latching the door behind him. "On multiple occasions."

Gaius hummed in unwitting agreement and readjusted his looking glass over the center of the page. Merlin joined him at the table after he set the various cloth bags to the side. The tome of current interest was just as faded and well-read as most of the others in Gaius's vast collection, faded by the sun and weathered by the damp air of the castle. Inked creatures crawled and slithered across each of the pages, blocked letters telling the epic tale of their fates. Gaius's hand glass rested on the page of a spectral dog, embellished in a dark cloud of ink and crimson red eyes.

"Gwyllgi," Merlin read. "Is that what attacked Baile-Avon?"

"I'm not sure," the physician admitted. "Unfortunately, none of De Malory's notes reference the size 'Dog of Darkness', and our young girl was very specific in that respect." Gaius set aside De Malory's tome and shuffled the papers on the table around until he found the exact one he'd been looking for. The new leaflet held a similar drawing of a ferocious hound. The animal was consumed within a burning cloud of charcoal shadow that nearly made its body indistinguishable from the background. The drawing was tinged expensive emerald green. Cú sídhe prowl the highlands, hunting in silence, loosing blood-curdling howls, three of which marked those for death. "There are many references to black dogs or phantom hounds; each kingdom seems to have their own variation, in fact, but I'm afraid there is very little I can tell you about what you might find in Baile-Avon."

"Anything about the giants? I mean, when she said one eye, do you think she meant someone…removed the second eye, or were they literally only born with one?"

Gaius's answer was to flit through more of his books. He roamed around the stacks he had collected over the past hour, humming to himself as he recalled which tome held what information, and pulled a small, leather-bound book from the far corner, upsetting a large tower. Merlin had no idea how the man managed to keep it all straight without magic.

"I believe she meant giants born with a single eye in the center of their skulls." He tapped the book's spine expressly, although Merlin couldn't exactly understand why. From where he stood, the calligraphy was too stylized to be clear or legible, with sharp points and extra lines where none ought to be. And unlike Gaius or Geoffrey of Monmouth, he wasn't able to recognize a book's importance from its cover. He shrugged helplessly.

Gaius's eyebrow turned up in disapproval, and he thrust the book into Merlin's awaiting arms. However, when Merlin tried to decipher the letters along the side on closer inspection, he discovered he couldn't even do that. The letters weren't even in English.

"It is Hellinisti, I believe," Gaius supplied without waiting for the inevitable question. "Although I believe that Helladan sorcerers use the language of Diasti to perform incantations."

"Helladan? Is that a place?"

Gaius nodded and motioned for Merlin to examine the book himself. "I met a curious man in a tavern many years ago. Decades, in fact, before the Great Purge. He was a minstrel, or rather a traveling poet from one of the kingdoms within Hellada, which lies somewhere in the East. He spent many hours regaling us all with stories of their gods and monsters. I eventually managed to convince him to sell me one of his books, although it cost me quite a few precious items in return. It seems Helladans rarely put anything in written word."

Merlin stacked the codex with the rest of his supplies. Even if he was unable to read the tales, he could study the sketches within the pages and glean whatever he could from them. Or maybe he could attempt a translation spell of sorts; Merlin had yet to actually try something like that, never before having reason or the opportunity to do so. Maybe, this diasti would have the same effect on him that the Ancient Language did—even though he didn't know the words, he always seemed to know what it would do.

"Don't suppose this man also told you how to defeat Helladan beasts?" Merlin asked, jokingly hopeful.

Gaius looked at him pointedly. "Regrettably, he didn't. I doubt he spent his days slaying beasts, at all. He was quite blind."

Merlin wasn't overly disappointed by the news. They rarely knew the weaknesses beforehand, and even then, it usually took a few attempts to actually find the chink in the beast's armor.

Merlin nodded. "Well," he said, walking over to the wall of shelves lined with vials, dried herbs and apothecary spices, and other miscellaneous trinkets, "we can always try going for the heart." He delicately displaced the glass items on the bottom shelf and pushed back the wooden backing. The slat gave way with a near soundless click. A bolt of tarnished leather lay there, gathering dust in its neglect. Merlin removed it slowly—careful not to knock it into anything in its way as his guardian would definitely not appreciate wonton destruction of his livelihood whilst trying to prepare to save the rest of Camelot—and unwrapped the covering to reveal a sword.

It had been years since he had placed it there to begin with, but with the possibility of confronting beasts with unknown invulnerabilities, it seemed fit to bring it into the light of day one last time. Holding it was bittersweet. A painful memory mixed with pleasant reminder of its previous owner. Merlin had been surprised to say the least when he found the austere longsword laying on top of his bed—seeing as the last he saw of the sword, it had been in the center of Lancelot's funeral pyre. Disposing of it had been too heartrending to contemplate, and the possibility it had been a final gift from beyond the veil drove him to put it in a safe place.

Merlin grasped the hilt and hefted it before him. If it had been Lancelot, or even magic, that saved it from the flames, he was willing to bet it held more power than magically reappearing steel. If nothing, then he knew plenty of spells to enhance it further.

"I don't think I have to warn you to be careful, Merlin," Gaius said, watching the sword warily.

Merlin gave him a reassuring smile and sheathed Lancelot's sword. "I'm always careful."

"That's what worries me."

By the time Merlin managed to collect the rest of their supplies, the other knights had already tacked their horses and were milling about the courtyard, anxious to depart. So, while he struggled under the weight of it all—everything from food stuffs, basic camp supplies, and his newly acquired sword—they entertained themselves at his expense; never mind the fact they were riding off to battle Saxons and unknown monsters from the Otherworld. (Distantly, Merlin wondered if the Helladans believed in the Otherworld or something else entirely. What kind of magic did they use? Given one of their incantations, would he be able to utilize it?) Preparing his own mare, he itched to take out the blind Helladan's text and start perusing through its pages, but until they reached a steady pace, it would be better to focus on the task at hand.

That and Mordred had been furtively studying Merlin since the audience with Nama. Or rather, he had been attempting to watch him furtively. Within seconds of it first happening, Merlin had been able to feel the prickling of icy blue eyes on the back of his neck and a foreign pressure patiently hovering on the outskirts of his mind. He didn't exactly feel like sharing Gaius's insights with Mordred, even if doing so might reveal something helpful. Petty and possibly detrimental in the end, but Merlin couldn't help himself. He didn't trust the druid.

"Are you done daydreaming, Merlin?" Arthur drawled, trotting down the front steps of the castle. He took the reins of a blue roan from the hands of the stableboy and, without waiting for a response, mounted the saddle and urged her into an easy canter.

Merlin scowled. He was regretting not throwing the king into a pool a mud whilst he still had the chance. Now he had to be relatively responsible until the danger passed. How utterly exhausting. "Clotpole," he grumbled under his breath and clambered on top of his horse. Gwaine threw him a grin before setting off as well, promptly followed by Percival, Elyan, and finally Mordred.

They trotted on in silence through the city; the horses' hooves clattering noisily on the mixed cobblestone and dirt roads. Even if someone had tried to speak, it was doubtful anyone would have been able to hear with everything going on around them. Even as they set off into the fields surrounding Camelot, towards the woods, they maintained their taciturn respite. The steady pace quickly began to wear at Arthur's countenance—that much was evident after one glance at the man, who clutched at the reins more tightly than was strictly necessary and sat uncomfortably stiff in the saddle. Although it would delay their arrival and force them to camp in the woods overnight, it was safer for the horses that way. Racing through the forest would not only wear them down within half an hour, but they were more likely to break a leg on a protruding root.

And so, the party rode West at a measured pace. As soon as they entered the forest and fell into a predictable pattern, Merlin took out the Helladan book and studied the pages with interest. Although he (predictably) couldn't read a single word, depictions of men driving a lance into a giant's face, a curiously shaped ship, a woman with a helm and shield, and so many more filled the pages.

Ὀδύσσεια. Κυκλώπιον. Παλλάς. Σειρήν. Κερβεροκίνδυνος. Merlin wished he could understand the words.

He was so immersed in the foreign world, he failed to hear the clop of hooves approaching from the side. Gwaine, achieving an impressive feat of nearly hanging off the side of his saddle, snagged Lancelot's sword, whose hilt had been dislodged from the rest of the packs. Merlin nearly dropped his book in shock.

"Not a bad sword," Gwaine appraised. He found the blade's balance expertly. "Where'd you get it?"

Lungs in his throat, Merlin shrugged and gestured for its return. Lancelot had never marked his belongings with any sigil or crest, but he didn't know how to explain its miraculous survival. "Gaius bought it years ago. I only just found it recently and had to get it restored," he lied smoothly.

Ahead of them, Arthur twisted round in his seat to express his concern. "Don't tell me you've completely abandoned your use of frying pans, Merlin. Least with those, we were guaranteed a warm meal."

Merlin laughed mockingly. "Only a few hours ago, you were commending me on my new and improved swordsmanship. I think all those blows to the head have started to mess with your memory."

"And I think your interpretation of a commendation is a bit skewed. I believe my exact words were 'not bad.'"

Merlin scoffed. "After all the—"

A wave of energy exploded through the woods, like the heat of a fire that suddenly caught alight. Wind tore around each individual tree and plant, rattling the forest floor and throwing the horses into a panic. They reared and skittered, neighing fearfully. Merlin scrabbled at his horse's course mane and held on so tightly that his fingers burned and his nails nearly cut into his palms. He heard someone call out to try and pacify their steeds.

Then another wave slammed into them.

A solid thud and low groan, and an unmanned bay shot forward. Merlin reached out with his mind, scattering as much calming and lulling thoughts as he could manage into the animals' minds. At the same time, however, he was reeling from the strength and power of whatever that was. It had been nothing he had ever experienced before: warm and powerful and terrifying, but with a sense of safety and comfort. Kilgharrah's magic, Morgana's and Morgause's—by the gods, even the aftermath of his own spells—had never felt like that.

"What in the world was that?" Gwaine groaned, pushing himself to his feet.

Percival, who had lunged for the escaping horse's leads and succeeded in regaining control of both animals, scanned the trampled forest floor. "Maybe a pack of wolves has been here recently," he suggested.

Merlin stared.

"Or maybe it was one of those beasts that Nama warned us about. Perhaps they've moved on from Baile-Avon, or there are more of them than we thought," Elyan added, as if none of them remembered the near-immutable walls of energy that had occurred seconds ago.

As five knights regarded the surrounding trees with caution, Merlin turned to the one other user of magic. Mordred was already looking to him warily and caught the warlock's eyes. Then he nodded to the East, toward the epicenter of the wave.

"Right." Arthur cleared his throat. "Let's move on." He squinted up at the sky beyond the treetops. Dusky grey had slowly crept up on them and begun to steal the last of the light. Soon, they would barely be able to see the path ahead of them. "We'll have to stop within the hour and make camp for the night. I want to get as far as possible before then."

Rather than continue on in silence, as had been their sequential pattern of travel, Gwaine hopped back onto his horse and immediately launched into one of his unending, incredibly dubious tales—this one about an uncle who had mistakenly tried to save a shipwrecked lass. "—completely naked, lying on the rocks. Naturally, he went to see if she was alright." Despite his apparent nonchalance, his eyes never stopped scouring the surrounding trees.

"And he didn't find that worrisome?" Percival humored him needlessly. "What kind of shipwreck results in someone being completely naked?"

"The favorably disastrous kind," Gwaine offered without missing a beat, grinning dastardly. "According to my uncle, she was the more beautiful than the White Cliffs of Dover at twilight—"

"You should've been a poet," muttered Merlin.

"'Please help, good sir,' she called to him, 'for I seem to have hurt my ankle on the rocks and cannot walk.'" Gwaine voiced the woman's part sarcastically. "Being the honorable man he was, my uncle crossed the rocks and reached out to the woman. Only as soon as he wrapped her arms around her, she wrapped hers around him and threw both of them into the water. Then all the sudden, he was no longer embracing a beautiful woman but a horse! With fangs, and glowing eyes, and seaweed for a mane. The horse-woman tried to drown him, but my uncle had eaten a fair amount of garlic, pickled fish, and drank so much ale that as soon as it got a whiff of his breath, it let him go."

Merlin, who had been more interested in the pulse of energy than another of Gwaine's vignette's, blinked. "What?" he demanded bewilderedly. The other knights shook their heads with sardonic, incredulous half smiles.

"On my uncle's honor," Gwaine put his hand to his heart, "every word of this story is true.—"

They carried on past nightfall, but it soon became too dark to continue. Finding a suitable clearing for a camp, they settled in for the night, although most of the preparation was left to Merlin. He found he didn't mind all that much, though, as the menial task of prepping a stew allowed his mind to wander and span the surrounding area. Whilst he didn't believe the spellcaster had been Morgana, he didn't trust what he couldn't identify. Too many times had a new, thrillingly powerful sorcerer turned out to be corrupt.

But with Arthur and the other knights by his side, Merlin couldn't exactly physically wander off and try to find the magic's source. He felt Mordred's eyes on him the entire time—the druid undoubtedly sensed his prodding and was curious to the results, but for the same reason Merlin couldn't investigate, he couldn't share his suspicions either.

As soon as the meal was finished and the turns at watch had been divvied out, Merlin laid on his back, convinced that he would never be able to sleep after experiencing such an external rush of power. He stared up at the stars, or at least what he imagined to be a single star breaking through the interlocking layer of leaves, and recounted all the spells he knew that could carry such weight. Perhaps he should trade ideas with Mordred and afford the boy the opportunity to prove himself.

Merlin closed his eyes. Mordred had been trying time and time again to demonstrate where his loyalties lie. Kilgharrah had revealed his faults in the past, so it was possible that Arthur's bane had evolved into something new. The druid had spent many more years among sorcerers and knowledgeable practitioners of the Old Religion, so it stood to reason that he may know more about certain things than even Gaius did. Tomorrow, Merlin promised himself. Tomorrow after the events of Baile-Avon, he would speak to Mordred.

And when Merlin opened his eyes again, the trees and stars no longer graced his vision. Instead, a vast wall of darkness and gleaming stalactites, as if the entire world had been swallowed by a giant's cavern. The ceiling of the cavern was impossibly high, so much higher than Kilgharrah's prison, and even though there was no light from the moon or stars, the world kept itself alight somehow.

Merlin pushed himself to his feet, wavering slightly as the soft earth shifted underneath him. He stood in a field of tall grass and reeds that reached up past his knees, pulsating in a non-existent breeze—or at least one so small and gentle that he couldn't feel it at all. The horizon was very much the same as the cavern's ceiling: dark and ominous but glowing just like it did at sunset. An unending twilight. Somewhere nearby, a river lapped against stones and rock and sand.

Footsteps, as hushed as they were, echoed across the field. A young woman hurried through the tall grass, glancing over her shoulder constantly, clutching a bundle preciously close to her chest. She passed so close to Merlin, had he reached out, his hand would have brushed her silken shawl. She smelled of briny wind and bracing salt water.

The bundle in her arms cried.

"Hush, o texnidion, hush," she cooed. A loving smile crept across her face. "It will all be over before you know."

Merlin traced her steps and angled to see the little face tucked away in all the linen and cloths, but all that appeared was the tiniest, chubby hand. It reached out and grasped one of the woman's loose curls, fisting it tightly. She led them down a gentle embankment, to where a river flowed over charcoal-dark sand. She knelt before the water.

Merlin's heart thundered in his ears as she carefully unveiled the baby.

"N—" Merlin tried to warn her, call out to her to stop, but his voice resisted. His feet refused to move.

The woman began to hum a lovely, haunting lullaby and hefted the baby boy as far as she could reach. He squirmed restlessly and crooned for his mother, but she lowered him closer to the surface. And closer still. She meant to drown him.

The horror of death should have been the worst fate to befall the child, but there was something different about the water. Something that sent ripples of energy coursing over Merlin's skin. Despite the surrounding darkness, despite the ominous cavern, the river flowed as normally as any river would, like it was immune to the shadows. Statues and wrecked armor and shattered weapons littered its bottom.

The woman feared the water's touch as well. As the boy's head broke through the surface of the river—and began to wail and writhe—she shied away, gripping the child by his heel. She held him there so tightly that the skin paled from the loss of blood. Barely the tip his heel remained above the water.

Merlin tried to scream.

But why was she just holding him there, under the water by the heel? If she wanted him dead, why not place him gently down? Entirely below the surface, as if to place him into a cradle. Why did he begin to scream as if it were fire instead of water?

"THETIS!"

The spell was broken, and Merlin was free to search for the man, just as the woman did the same. Still holding the child below the surface, she hissed viciously. Tears were in her dark eyes. Her lips trembled.

A man, nearing the center of the field, raced toward the woman and child. He wore strange armor that Merlin had never seen before: chiseled metal plating outlined his chest with silver and grey embellishments, a band of leather tassels skirted his waist, and a dark red tunic fell just short of his knees. He tore away his helmet—an all-encompassing helm with metal plumage like a horse's mane—and grasped his sword's hilt to prevent it from swinging wildly in its sheath.

"Thetis!" he roared again, and the woman cried out.

She turned back to her child and began to chant quietly under her breath. Diasti. Even now, neither knowing nor hearing the words, Merlin could feel the power behind them. As the man drew closer, she spoke faster, terrified.

Then he was upon her. He grasped her shoulder and tried to tear her away, reaching for the child, but Thetis fought him.

"What have you done?" he demanded and continued to pull on her arm. His voice broke in agony.

"No! You can't. He's not safe yet! You can't!"

Peleus—the name came unbidden, but Merlin simply knew that he was Peleus, son of Aeacus— sank to his knees and thrust his hands into the river. Then screamed. Whether it was agony from pain or grief, he wailed and heaved the child free from the water's depths. Thetis shrieked and wailed, although for a different reason.

Merlin curled his lip in disgust. He didn't want or need to see the consequences of holding a child underwater for as long as the mother did. He made to turn away, but the slightest sound stopped him short. A small cough, a whine, and trembling gasp of relief. Then the baby cried.

Merlin couldn't believe it. The baby was alive! Its skin glowed and pulsed, shining like a fire burned below the surface, but he was alive. Peleus stared, horrified, at the babe in his arms and turned furious eyes onto the woman beside him. Only she wasn't the young, beautiful mother she had been before.

"Prodotes!" she hissed through fanged teeth. Her skin had shifted into a dark green, almost the color of the sea in the moonlight; her curly hair was dripping wet and braided with sea grass and shells; her eyes burned with scattered embers. "What have you done?! I could have saved him. Your son. My child! His death will be on your hands, Peleus."

In the light of the moon, a woman crept up the forest's embankment. She walked carefully, mindful of the leaves and twigs that would alert the small party below of her presence. They needed their sleep; daybreak would come sooner than they thought. She appeared young and was dressed in new expensive clothes. Her black hair had recently been washed with oils made from wildflowers and meticulously braided. All of this had been done needlessly though, because as she climbed, it all fell away. The soft fabric transformed into a simple black dress, her hair fell free of the braid into curling tresses, and her bare feet curled into the soft soil beneath her.

At the crest of the hill, a beast dozed around a tree. She raised her serpent's head as soon as the woman came near, her tongue flicking in and out rapidly, but the Questing Beast almost seemed to smile before laying her great body back against the earth. Her slitted eyes drifted closed once again. The woman stroked the beast's scales as she walked past. A second woman stood at the edge of the embankment and looked down at the improvised camp and the young man keeping watch.

The woman, with a long red braid over one shoulder, didn't acknowledge the other's presence, although she knew she was there. She simply watched the smoke drift upwards through the leaves and into the sky. Then finally, she turned to her sister and said, "it is up to them now."

Διαστί – diasti – in the language of the gods

Ἑλληνιστί – hellenisti – in the Greek language

Ὀδύσσεια. Κυκλώπιον. Παλλάς. Σειρήν. Κερβεροκίνδυνος – Odisseia. Kuxlopion. Pallas. Seiren. Kerberoxindunos. – Odysssey. Little cyclops. Pallas. Siren. Full of Cerberus-dangers

ὦ τεκνίδιον – (vocative) o texnidion – little one/child

προδότης – prodotes – traitor

Quick disclaimer: I am taking some creative license and sort of combining the few myths of how Achilles was made (partially) invulnerable. Myths and stories were an oral tradition, which is (one of the reasons) why there are many versions. For example, one has Thetis dipping him in the Styx, and another has her pouring Ambrosia over baby Achilles and Peleus interrupting the incantation, leading to the failed immortality.

Someone once got very upset about Pallas in my original version, so another example of this variation in myths and the commonality of using the same names: there are 2 Pallas characters in Greek mythology. One was in fact a woman (nymph). She was a friend of Athena and accidentally killed during a spar/game with the goddess, which led to altars and statues made in her honor. The other was the titan of warcraft. He was killed (purposefully) by Athena then subsequently skinned him to cover Aegis or to use as a cape depending on the source. Myths were carried on as an oral tradition for hundreds of years, which is why (or one reason why) so many variations exist.

Essentially, (I think I will address this in the story but fyi) the gods/creatures are a little more involved in mortal lives than they are in modern times. For instance, the Styx was a literal river that was accessible by mortals and the dead but uncrossable without Charon. Monsters were like wildlife. Gods interfered. Etc. basically as they are in the myths and Homer epics.

Sources cited: (I am not doing MLA, but I acknowledge the importance of citing work that is not mine. I did use Culpeper's Complete Herbal with direct quotes in italics (I tried posting the URL but for some reason it kept changing. Anyways it's an almanac from 1600s)