Bound
Harry had come to appreciate being on the road mounted on his horse. He and Godric would often share conversations along the way, but it turned out that the man quite enjoyed the peace of silence as much as Harry did.
It gave him time to think, to relive the warming memory of his birthday, and even take in the scenery of the British countryside.
It was an existence of contentment, but having been uprooted for so many weeks now, Harry began to feel the pang for home.
"Do you really like your gift?"
"It just became my most treasured possession."
Morgana blushed once more in the moonlight.
"Will you be on the road much longer?"
"I'm not sure, but it won't be so long before we return to the castle. The students will be returning soon enough."
Morgana nodded before resting her head on his shoulder, and the floral scent of her hair invaded Harry's senses.
They'd said little else that night but had sat by the river until the sun began to crest the sky before heading back towards the village, where the Founders were waiting for them.
Harry expected some ribbing from Godric, or perhaps a comment on their absence from Salazar, but both men had merely offered them a smile, the former's a little more suggestive than Harry had appreciated.
"Still thinking about her?" Godric asked from ahead of him.
"No."
"You're a terrible liar," Godric chuckled amusedly. "Best keep your wits about you here, lad. Winchester is a big place, well, it seems as though it was," he added tiredly.
Harry guided his horse next to Godric's and caught sight of what looked to be a large city just a short distance away.
From within the walls, smoke could be seen, though it was not enough to indicate that the fire that had inevitably occurred was no longer a roaring inferno.
"Do you think we will find a place untouched by war?" Harry asked.
"We can hope, Harry," the man murmured. "Come, let us see if we can assist."
Harry nodded and fell into step with the now grim man.
"Make sure you have both your wand and sword ready. Perhaps even that beautiful dagger of yours."
"Shut up," Harry grumbled, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword in anticipation of needing to use it.
It proved to be an unnecessary gesture.
The gates to the city had been destroyed, and there was scarcely a person in sight.
Those that remained were wearing brown robes, and Godric shook his head as Harry looked at him questioningly.
"Christian clergymen," he explained. "They are no threat to us."
"But where are the other people?"
"That, I fear, is an answer we will not like," Godric murmured. "What baffles me is why they were spared. The Danes are not known for their mercy, even towards men of the cloth."
Harry was wondering the same thing, and as they entered Winchester, those near the gates coward and fell to their knees.
"We have nothing left," one of the men called. "Please, leave us be."
"We mean you no harm," Godric assured him. "We merely wish to know what happened?"
"Fellow Christians," the man answered. "It was the Danes only moons ago, but now our own turn on us."
"Christians did this?"
"From the north-east," the man explained. "I recognised their banners. They were men of Guthrum."
Godric cursed under his breath as he dismounted his horse.
"But you were spared?"
The small group of clergymen looked uneasy.
"We hid ourselves," another answered. "Beneath the floor of the church."
"Quiet, Orson!" the first man that had addressed them snapped.
"So, you hid whilst your fellow citizens, fellow Christians were slaughtered by their own?"
"What would you have us do? We are not warriors!"
"No, you are not," Godric said disgustedly. "What have you done with the dead?"
None spoke, and Godric released a deep breath.
"I won't ask you again."
"They burned them outside the church."
Godric glared at each of the men before gesturing for Harry to follow him.
He did so, and as they made their way towards the centre of the city, the devastation was made known to them.
"Cowards," Godric muttered. "They hid whilst the people they claim to lead on a path to their god were murdered."
Harry said nothing and paused as they emerged from an enclosed alley into what appeared to be the main square of the city.
He fought the urge to vomit at the sight of the charred bodies piled high in front of the church.
Kneeling before them was another man dressed in brown robes, but his were horrible singed, and his skin was sooty.
He sobbed loudly as he prayed whilst clutching a wooden cross that was smeared with his own blood.
His body was littered with various wounds, and the visible skin was deathly pale.
Evidently, he'd not hidden with the others, and somehow had survived the ordeal.
"Why me, lord?" the man whispered. "Why spare me and take so many others?"
He began to sob once more, and Godric knelt next him.
"You need healing," he murmured. "They're not going anywhere. Come, we will help you and then assist you in burying your dead."
The man looked up at Godric and shook his head.
"No, my pain is my punishment for not being able to stop this madness."
"The pain you carry in your heart will always be there," Godric replied. "No need to suffer more than you already are. Come."
The man allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, and he led them towards the nearby church.
"They were like feral beasts," he commented. "I never thought men who pray to my own god would act in such a way."
Godric helped the man onto one of the pews before rolling his sleeve up.
Deep lacerations littered his flesh and Godric frowned.
"You're a wizard," he whispered. "These wounds would be fatal for the mundane."
The man nodded.
"My brothers cannot learn of this," he pleaded. "I was born here, and my mother perished shortly after. I learned that when I was a boy I had a power to heal the sick and afflicted. They call me a miracle worker, a gift from god to help the suffering."
"But you learned differently?"
The man nodded.
"Another wizard came and knew what I was," he explained. "He showed me things I never thought possible and asked that I remain here to watch over the city in his stead, and to help those I can when they needed it. I have healed many, but I could do nothing for those out there, not when they are being slaughtered so readily."
"What is your name?" Godric asked.
"I was never given one," the man snorted. "My mother died before she could bestow one upon me. To the locals, I am simply known as the Fat Friar," he chuckled, patting his sizeable paunch.
Harry gasped in realisation.
Being covered in soot and not the ghostly figure he'd become accustomed to seeing around the castle, he'd not recognised him.
Now, however, he did, and Godric offered him a look of curiosity.
Harry cleared his throat.
"I have heard of this man," he explained quickly.
Godric frowned but did not press him further.
"I am well-known," the friar sighed whimsically. "Barely a day passes that someone does not come seeking my services."
"And you help them?"
"As much as I can," the friar answered proudly. "God gave me these gifts and he intends for me to use them. Why would they be gifted to me if he didn't?"
Godric merely nodded as he continued to tend to the man's wounds.
"So, what now?"
The Fat Friar released a deep breath.
"I do not know," he murmured. "My brothers have disgraced the name of god with their actions. I cannot stay here. I will bury the dead to their custom and move on."
"You should come with us," Harry broke in. "We will be travelling a little while longer but will return to a safe place soon."
Godric looked towards Harry questioningly and nodded his understanding.
"You would be most welcome," he assured the Fat Friar. "We are from a school that teaches children of our kind. Your services would be most appreciated there. As you can imagine, we have our share of sickness and injuries. You would have your own quarters."
"Is there a church nearby?"
"In the village near to the castle," Godric assured him. "What do you say?"
The Fat Friar pondered the offer for a moment before nodding.
"I think I might enjoy that," he mused aloud. "Helping sick, innocent children is a precious honour. I will come."
"Good," Godric declared. "Do you have a horse?"
The friar nodded.
"And something else," he said with a look of determination. "My brothers locked themselves away below the floor here, but not just for their safety. Come, I will show you."
Harry and Godric followed him to a trapdoor hidden beneath an ok podium at the front of the church.
Opening it, he gestured for them to descend, and as they did, Harry's eyes widened at what he saw.
"They said they had nothing," Godric whispered.
"They hid it all," the friar explained. "Even when the people have starved, they hid it. Sometimes, I would manage to take some to buy enough food from outside of the city after the farms were burned."
"Isn't your god against stealing?"
The friar shrugged.
"I'd sooner face his wrath for theft than allowing people to suffer. I have found that it is often easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. My god is merciful. He will understand."
Harry could only shake his head at the wealth on display.
Small statues of gold and bags of coins filled the hidden room and the friar gestured towards the treasure trove.
"With the people gone, the brothers will only use it for their own greed. If you help me bury the good people here, then it is yours. I have no use for materialistic things. I need only food in my belly, perhaps an ale or two, and a place to pray and heal the sick."
"We can't take this," Harry murmured to Godric.
"Would you see it taken by the others?"
Harry shook his head.
"Then we shall," Godric decided. "We can put it to much better use for the school and those that need it. It will be used as intended. It is not as though we shall keep it for ourselves. What do you say?"
Harry nodded.
"I think that is a good idea," he declared, not wishing to see it being used for the purposes of greed of the cowardly, treacherous clergymen.
"Good, now, let us get this packed away and help the friar," Godric urged.
They set to work doing so and loaded the many trinkets and bags of gold into trunks before shrinking them.
"How did they get all of this wealth?" Harry asked curiously.
"From the people, mostly," the Fat Friar sighed. "It wasn't until rather recently that I learned of this place. Those who visited to be healed were to pay for my services, and some of the brothers are rather good at convincing god-fearing men and women to part with their treasures for the blessing of our lord."
"Well, I expect those gits will burn in hell," Harry snorted, though he felt no amusement in the situation he found himself in.
"God may have mercy on them," the friar replied darkly, "or perhaps he will see fit to punish them for all eternity. It is his choice alone."
Harry nodded his agreement, and when the last of the treasures had been stowed away within Godric's robes, they climbed out of the hidden room, only to be confronted by the other brothers.
"We cannot allow you to leave with our valuables," the man Godric had spoken with upon their arrival declared.
Each were carrying a cudgel, something that seemed to flair Godric's temper.
"So, you are willing to lay your lives on the line for trinkets, but not for the lives of your fellow men?" he asked. "You are not men of god, but thieves, plunderers, and curs of the worst kind! I suggest you step aside or we will be burying you with those you so callously allowed to die!"
"We cannot do that!"
In a single, swift motion, Godric drew his sword and cleared the distance between them in the blink of an eye.
Harry had yet learned to apparate, but he looked forward to mastering the skill Godric had demonstrated many times now.
The tip of his sword was pressed against the man's throat, and a droplet of blood wept from the little wound.
"Leave, now," Godric whispered dangerously.
One of the other brothers raised his cudgel to strike Godric, but Harry quickly intercepted the blow, and the clergyman screamed in shock as a dagger was rammed into his thigh.
Harry had acted only on instinct, and Godric gave him a nod of approval.
"Perhaps you all wish to meet your god today," the man mused aloud. "I give you only a final chance. Leave the city and never return. I will be checking."
The clergyman with the tip of the sword pressed into his neck held his hands up in surrender.
"We will leave," he agreed, his skin having paled considerably, and he wiped the sheen of perspiration from his brow as Godric lowered his weapon.
Only a moment later, they left the church, half-carrying the man Harry had wounded.
"You did well," Godric praised. "Now, let us see to the dead. They should not suffer any further indignity. "Come, Harry. It is unpleasant work, but a task that must be complete."
Harry nodded and followed Godric and the Fat Friar back into the courtyard.
"There will be trouble from the," the latter warned, nodding towards the retreating clergymen.
"Then I will make good on my threat," Godric murmured darkly, re-sheathing his sword.
(Break)
The sound of thudding hooves filled the night, and the ground trembled beneath Arthur as he urged his horse forward. Lancelot's arrows had certainly been effective, but many of the Danes remained standing, though he expected not for much longer.
On the opposite side of the field, he could see Garth's mounted men closing the gap between them, and in the middle, a confused gathering of Danes.
They showed no fear, however.
Their battle cries rent the air as they bashed their swords and axes against their wooden shields, inviting the inevitable onslaught.
They may have been outnumbered considerably, but Arthur could not fault their courage.
Even as he relieved one of them of his head with Excalibur, the Danes did not waver and chose to fight furiously to the very last man.
They made no attempt to retreat, and the sound of clashing quickly replaced the thunderous hooves as they slowed to engage the enemy.
Chaos quickly ensued, and Arthur found himself fending off several men with his sword.
He'd insisted on leading the charge, and had been the first to reach the Danes, who welcomed him to a bloody melee.
Arthur could not be certain how long the ruckus had been unfolding around him, but it was the scream of his horse that pulled him from his thoughts, and he crashed to the ground.
The breath was torn from his lungs, and he found himself in a tangle of limbs belonging to both the living and the dead.
Before he could truly panic, however, he felt someone take him by the hand and pull him free.
"Don't bloody die," Lancelot called, already sporting a split brow.
His helm was missing, but the man seemed to be in his absolute element in the heat of battle.
Arthur nodded, and intercepted a blow aimed towards his unsuspecting friend, the force of which jolted his arm uncomfortably, but the Dane had fared no better,
The man stagged backwards and was swallowed back into the chaos before Arthur could offer his rebuttal.
Such was the chaos that when he turned to look for Lancelot once more, he was gone, he too pulled back into the frenzy.
It was in this moment that Arthur felt alone.
He was a king that many chose to bow to, and yet, here in battle, every man only sought to slaughter their enemies and ensure the same could not be done to them.
Arthur knew that battle would be bloody, that meeting the gaze of a frantic man fighting for survival would be terrifying, but he'd not expected to feel lonely in his pursuit of living.
"ARGH!"
Instinctively, Arthur raised his sword to block another attack, and this time, he found himself in enough space that he could defend himself sufficiently, though seeing how enormous his foe was, he wasn't sure it was such a good thing.
The man was around two heads taller than Arthur, and at least double his width.
He wield a large axe that would undoubtedly cleave the king in two with a single blow, and he did so with a speed that belied his stature.
Still, Arthur had been training hard with Lancelot, and the Dane could not hope to match his friend for speed.
Avoiding a flurry of blows, he lured the man in by exposing just enough of an opening for him to take.
The axe whistled through the air, but instead of taking a step back to avoid the swing, Arthur stepped forward and rammed the tip of Excalibur into the man's stomach.
He unleashed a guttural roar of pain and agony, and Arthur gasped as the handle of the axe was smashed into his helm, denting it into the flesh of his head.
Fortunately, he managed to hold onto Excalibur, but he could not make it to his feet quickly enough before it felt as though he'd been bitten above his knee.
He let out a cry of shock, but had the wherewithal to roll away, his eyes widening as the axe chop into the ground only an inch or so from his face.
In a desperate bid to avoid the inevitable follow up, he rolled to his back to find himself looking up at the bleeding Dane readying his blow, but the man grunted and dropped his weapon as Arthur's armoured heel crashed into his groin.
The Dane fell to a knee and Arthur wasted no time in chopping vertically into his skull from a seated position.
In only three strikes, the man would not even be recognisable to his own mother.
Half of his head had been cleaved through by the time he collapsed forward, splattering the king with blood and brain matter.
Arthur could only stare at what he'd done before shuffling backwards and leaning on his sword to help him to his feet.
Looking down, he saw a spear protruding from his thigh, and as he grasped the broken shaft, he was pulled sharply around.
"Don't pull it out," a large, redheaded man urged. "You'll only bleed to death," he added with a chuckle. "Come on, boy king, you'll be fine with Gawain."
"Gawain?"
"Even us peasants have names," Gawain snorted. "I don't give it long before you faint from that. Any last requests?"
"I'm going to die?"
"Do I look like a bloody healer?" Gawain guffawed. "You might, but you might not. We will see soon enough, but you did well, lad. He was a big bastard that one."
Arthur laughed, though he could not shake the sudden fear that had grasped him.
"My sword," he whispered. "If I die, it must be returned to Myrddin."
"What kind of stupid name is that?" Gawain grumbled. "Aye, fine, I'll make sure he gets it, but don't die yet. You're heavy for a little shit."
Arthur could only shake his head, which suddenly felt light on his shoulders.
His vision began to swim, and the last thing he saw before darkness took him was Gawain cutting down a Dane who attempted to intercept them before the redhead laughed amusedly.
Arthur woke with a gasp, and he found that was drenched in a cold sweat. His breathing was laboured, but before he could sit up, a hand came to rest on his chest.
"Do not move," a feminine voice spoke gently. "You are safe."
It took a moment for him to get his breathing under control as he pondered his last moments before passing out.
"Where am I?" he croaked, his voice hoarse and throat dry.
"You are in King Garth's castle," the voice explained. "Your own men have been tending to your wound. It became infected. We were all worried that you wouldn't make it, but it seems you are much stronger than most thought."
Arthur chuckled humourlessly.
"How long was I out?"
"Almost ten days."
"Ten days? What happened? The battle…"
The woman shushed him and Arthur felt her sit on the bed next to him.
"The Danes were killed," she explained. "The battle was won."
"Thank god," Arthur murmured. "Could I have some water?"
"You will need to sit first but take it slowly. You have been on your back too long."
Arthur nodded and eased himself up onto his pillows to find himself in a large, stone room. It was cool in the air, but he felt comfortably warm in his thick blankets.
"Here."
A cup was placed into his hand and Arthur drank greedily, wiping lips when he was done.
"Better?"
He looked towards the woman and found himself enchanted by her amber eyes and wavy, copper-red hair.
"Thank you," he said gratefully, averting his gaze.
The woman giggled as she stood and refilled the cup.
"I will fetch Myrddin for you. He has been worried."
She handed him the cup once more before leaving the room, and Arthur released a deep breath.
He felt well enough, if a little groggy, but his leg gave him no trouble.
Shifting his blankets aside, he was greeted by the sight of a raw, purple scar on his thigh were the spear had torn through his armour and flesh beneath.
Still, it wasn't so bad.
He'd seen men return from battle with such wounds, and those lucky enough to survive would often have the limb removed.
"I am glad to see you finally awake."
Myrddin was smiling brightly at him, and Arthur returned it.
"Not quite dead," he snorted.
"No, not quite," Myrddin sighed, "but close enough, and this time, you emerge a hero among the people."
"A hero?"
Myrddin nodded.
"It is well-known that it was your decision to assist Garth in his time of need. You led your men valiantly into battle, and you showed that you are willing to bleed for all, even those that have not knelt to you. Garth knows this, and he seems to have come around to the idea of an alliance, but he wishes to meet with you first. It is merely a formality, Arthur. His people already speak your name and no longer his."
"This isn't why I did this."
"No, and that is why they do," Myrddin said with a smile. "You comported yourself as well as you could have and I am deeply proud of you."
Arthur nodded.
"The man who helped me…"
"Gawain."
"He saved my life. I would've been among the dead had he not gotten me out of there."
"Perhaps," Myrddin returned carefully. "Gawain is…"
"I am in his debt," Arthur broke in. "He did not have to do what he did."
"He did not," Myrddin agreed. "You would honour him?"
"I will honour him," Arthur answered. "He earned it. What are your thoughts on him?"
"The people here speak highly of him. He is perhaps a little brash and crass, but he is well-thought of."
"Then that is good enough for me."
"Very well," Myrddin murmured. "Rest, Arthur…"
"No, I've rested enough. I find myself feeling quite restless. Will you help me to my feet?"
Myrddin did so, and though his steps were uncertain to begin with, Arthur found he could walk, even if his leg was a little stiff.
It would loosen up soon enough, and he had indeed rested enough.
Despite the wound he'd endured, the king was full of energy.
"Who was the woman here when I woke?"
"Garth's younger daughter, Gwendoline."
"Gwendoline," Arthur whispered, frowning as Myrddin rested his hand on his shoulder.
"You are not obligated to marry her, Arthur. Garth will be an ally without such commitment. You shall save yourself for when you must make a queen of a daughter of another king."
Arthur wanted to protest, but as he caught Myrddin's gaze, he knew the man was right.
He needed to marry for an alliance, not for when he'd already secured without it.
Arthur nodded his understanding, and Myrddin's smile widened.
"Come, perhaps a walk is in order. We can meet with those you wish to later. Then, I'm afraid I must leave for a short while."
"To where?"
"I have a few pressing matters that have been on hold since you were wounded. It is nothing to concern yourself with, Arthur," Myrddin assured him.
(Break)
"Forgive me for being so impolite but aren't you a little young to be roaming the countryside with the land in such turmoil?" the friar asked.
"From what I've seen and done since leaving the castle, you might be right," Harry chuckled, taking one of the rabbits they'd caught from the fire and offering it to the man.
"Bless you, lad," the friar said gratefully, taking a bite of the meat. "I mean no offence, of course."
"Harry here is quite the adventurer," Godric broke in amusedly. "I thought it would do him well to see the world. I did not expect we would encounter so many problems."
"I'm afraid it is across the entirety of the land, from the north to south, and east to west," the friar said sadly. "Why must men fight?"
"It is in our nature," Godric sighed. "We tend to fight over anything, whether it be land, power or women. Some would even fight over a sheep if they were allowed to exhibit their baser instincts. So long as there are at least two men living, there will be violence."
"I expect you are right, but I have seen my fill of bloodshed and buried far too many friends and those who would harm me if given the chance."
"Well, I'm afraid it is about to become slightly less amicable here," Godric muttered irritably.
It was the sound of a breaking stick that caught Harry's attention and he instinctively took hold of his wand and waited for Godric to give him instructions.
"What do we have here then?" an amused voice questioned as a group of six eight men entered the clearing where they'd set up camp. "Oh, don't stand on our account. We smelled that meat of yours cooking and thought you fellows might be feeling generous enough to share it with us."
The other men guffawed and Harry's gaze swept over them.
Each held a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other.
"We've just finished," Godric replied with a shrug. "It seems as though you're going to have to catch your own."
The leader of the group, a wiry man with thin hair, bared his yellowed teeth angrily.
"We weren't asking," he growled.
"And we weren't offering," Godric said firmly. "Take your men and leave. This will end very badly for you."
The man blinked before unleashing a bark of laughter.
"An old man, a fat clergyman, and a boy! We've cut the throats of bigger and better than the likes of you."
"Did he just call me old?" Godric asked.
"Well, you're not a clergyman or a boy," Harry pointed out.
Godric frowned unhappily.
"I resent the old comment. I'm not even eighty yet. What bad manners to come and interrupt our meal, and then have the gall to insult us."
"It was rather rude," Harry agreed, fighting the urge to grin at the confused band of men as he shot a look of warning to the friar, who remained quiet and pale.
Godric nodded as he stood.
"You, sir, are a cur. You have ruined my meal, and I do not appreciate your presence. Please leave."
The man Godric had addressed was taken aback by his brazen behaviour, but when he realised he'd been insulted, he growled before swinging his sword.
Godric stepped out of the way and humoured the man by engaging him whilst Harry quickly applied a disillusionment charm whilst the others were surprised by the sudden eruption of violence.
"Get him, Godwin!" one of them encouraged, only to yelp in surprise as his trousers suddenly caught fire.
His companions through him to the floor and began attempting to quench the fire with their boots, to no avail.
"Where's the boy?" one of them demanded.
His scream echoed throughout the clearing as Harry kicked him in the groin.
Before the others could come to his aide, they found themselves bound in ropes, unable to move, and Godwin became suddenly fearful.
With a well-place blow from the pommel of Godric's sword, he collapsed limply to the ground where he no longer moved.
"Pathetic," Godric huffed.
"Who are they?" Harry asked, ending his spell.
"Bandits," Godric answered. "There are enough of them around the country to be a problem, but they do not operate in one place, so, nothing is done about them unless they are caught in the act."
"So, what do we do with this lot?"
"Killing them would do the world quite the favour…"
"I would rather you didn't," the Fat Friar protested.
"Then these men can thank you for sparing their lives," Godric replied, "but we cannot just let them go."
"I have an idea," Harry said with a grin.
He set to work whilst Godric and the friar looked on in a mixture of amusement and horror, though when Harry was, the latter failed to hide his smirk.
"That was an inspired solution," Godric praised. "Off you go, gentlemen."
"You can't send us out like this!" one of the bandits protested.
"It's either that or we kill you," Godric returned with a shrug. "If you're not gone in the next moment, I will assume you have chosen to meet with the devil."
The group hurried away, dragging the still unconscious Godwin with them.
"I did not need to see that," the Friar groaned as he turned away from the naked group. "Why strip them?"
"I think it was the kind of thing my father would've done," Harry mused aloud. "Well, at least they won't be attacking anyone else in a hurry."
"No, they will not," Godric snorted before shaking his head. "I do not know about you, Harry, but I have had my share of adventure for a while. What do you say we begin our journey back to the castle?"
Harry readily agreed, and Godric immediately began packing their things away.
"Now?" Harry asked.
"Now," Godric confirmed. "Are you not excited to see a certain lady?"
Harry narrowed his eyes at the grinning man.
"Shut up," he muttered.
"A young lady?" the Friar queried. "I do hope that you are not engaging in things that god would disapprove of."
"You can shut up too," Harry warned, though he did not deny that he was looking forward to seeing the castle again, and Morgana.
He couldn't forget about her, after all.
"His smiling again," Godric teased.
"That he is," the Friar observed with a chuckle, ducking as Harry threw a still smouldering lump of firewood at him.
(Break)
The only man who did not take a knee as Arthur entered the Great Hall of Garth's castle was the host himself, and as his gaze swept across the room, it quickly became clear who it was all were looking to.
Still, Garth did not kneel before Arthur, but he prostrated himself in a much more dignified manner.
"My people and I owe you a great debt," he spoke humbly. "One that I wish I did not have the burden of, but the alternative is a much worse fate. What good is a crown to a dead man?"
Arthur nodded.
"I would see this as a victory for us both, Garth," he spoke, regurgitating the line Myrddin had suggested he use. "You keep your life and your dignity, and I claim a part of my rightful kingdom without spilling the blood of a good man."
A slight frowned creased Garth's brow, but he accepted the words with a nod of understanding.
"Then allow me to show you to your seat, King Arthur."
The memory of Arthur's greeting brought a smile to Myrddin's lips.
He had perhaps acted rashly in going to Garth's aide, but the risk had indeed been worth the reward.
For now, however, thoughts of the deed, his claiming of the kingdom, and the honour he'd bestowed upon the rather belligerent Sir Gawain was far from Myrddin's mind as he entered a tavern in the north of Daneland.
With Arthur being quite gravely wounded, he'd sent a missive to the contacts Wilfred had helpfully provided him, informing them to make their way to this inn and wait for his arrival.
By now, they may have been here for a few days or so, but Myrddin intended to make it worth their while, should they agree to work with him.
"Are you Myrddin?"
"I am."
The man who had accosted him merely grunted and led him to the corner to where two others were sitting.
"He's finally here," the first man announced. "You have quite the bill to pay the owner."
"It will be paid," Myrddin assured them. "I did not ask you here to waste your time. I am hoping you will agree to work with me. You will be compensated, as will any other you may bring into the fold who prove their worth. The work itself is merely bringing me information about the kingdoms you reside in."
"That's it?"
"It is."
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. I ask only that you write down anything you learn on these," Myrddin instructed, handing each a thick stack of parchment. When you have done so, you need only place it inside the trees I have marked on these maps. They will be collected weekly."
The men seemed uncertain, but the first he'd spoken to took the parchment and was quickly followed by the others.
"What information would you like?"
Myrddin smiled and gestured for the tavern owner to bring them drinks to celebrate the budding partnership.
He would need more than three men working for him, but it was undoubtedly the start of an incredibly useful group he intended to put together, along with another he'd been carefully planning for.
(Break)
"I'll get a message to you when we are heading back. Just look out for a unique stag."
Morgana moved from where her head was resting on his shoulder and looked up at Harry.
"You have a stag friend?"
"Something like that," he answered coyly, a grin tugging at his lips.
"That's all you're going to say. There's no explanation?"
"Not yet."
Morgana tutted before returning to the more comfortable position she'd adopted.
She didn't know why it felt so, but she didn't feel like questioning it.
She was glad she'd come for his birthday, though she couldn't help but think she would miss him all the more when she returned to the forest.
Her prediction proved to be true.
One night simply hadn't been enough, and although she chastised herself for losing herself in thought of him when she was mindlessly completing her chores or working on a new potion, she found that she liked having Harry occupying her mind.
It was, for the most part, comforting and made her feel a way she never had before.
For the first time in her life, she felt as though she was wanted, that she wasn't looked upon with disdain or suspicion.
She'd hoped for that when she'd first arrived at Hogwarts, but even her own kind had proven to be like the muggles she'd met before.
Shaking her head of those unpleasant memories, she turned away from the lake, only to shriek in surprise at the ghostly figure of the stag standing amongst the trees only a short distance away.
Morgana had never seen anything like it, and even as she approached, she dared not breathe from fear of frightening it away.
"You're the stag," she whispered in realisation as she reached it.
The magic radiating from the ethereal creature was warm and felt as though it had been created by only the happiest of things.
"Does that mean Harry is coming home?" she whispered.
The stag nodded, but before Morgana could reach out to touch it, the magnificent beast faded from existence.
For a moment, she simply stared at where it had stood before she smiled to herself.
"He's coming home," she whispered, breathing a sigh of relief.