From the West
'Can you promise that you will be back?'
Harry nodded and Morgana breathed a sigh of relief.
He wouldn't break a promise to her, no matter what it took.
It was odd to find herself in his arms.
She seemed to fit there like a glove, as though she somehow belonged there.
Morgana's only regret was that she had waited so long, but she was pleased she had. It only made what they had shared all the more special.
What would happen from here, she didn't know, and the thought of so many unknowns made her fearful She wasn't scared of war, violence, or anything else that might happen, save for the possibility that she might just lose him.
Morgana was not accustomed to fear, but this was something that would not leave her until peace reigned and Harry was truly hers.
She tutted to herself as something buzzed around her head, and Morgana swatted it away with her hand irritably.
For the past month since Harry had left, she'd done her utmost to busy herself with her work, to not think of him every second of each passing day, to no avail.
As much as she tried, she could not help but lose herself in thoughts of his final night at Hogwarts, and all of her other fondest of memories she'd shared with him.
It had been more than three years ago that he'd arrived on the shore of the lake, and yet, Morgana already felt as though she'd never been without him.
What had life been like when Harry wasn't in it?
She huffed irritably once more as something flew a little too close for comfort to her, but she paused at the sight of the white fairy that landed only a short distance away from her.
The black one followed suit, and Morgana dared not move.
She'd long given-up hope that the little creatures were more than just a curious decoration she'd been gifted from the Lady in the Lake, but here they were, finally liberated from their prison.
Not that Morgana knew what it meant, but as she raised a tentative hand, both of the creatures landed on it.
For several moments, she simply watched their beating wings, and as they peered up at her, she could feel a strong presence in her mind. It was an almost overwhelming sensation of emotions, feelings, and magic she'd never felt, and as it stopped, Morgana was overwhelmed with exhaustion, though the experience wasn't for nothing.
Those overwhelming feelings lingered within her, and she could feel the magic of the fairies mixing with her own.
Nonetheless, before she could begin to make sense of it, the necessity to sleep became too much to bear, and she crawled towards her home only a short distance away.
She didn't make it.
Only a dozen or so feet away, she could not fight the fatigue anymore, and it felt as though a warm blanket had been placed over her as she lost herself to the darkness.
(Break)
"Myrddin, Arthur has requested your presence in the throne room."
He stopped pacing and schooled his feature before leaving his quarters.
For the past moon, Myrddin had been in a state of contemplation, pondering what he could do to ensure the damned queen of all people would not ruin his plans.
Guinevere may have assured him she would not interfere in his plans for the kingdom, but her mere presence was unsettling at best, and catastrophic at worst.
On the surface, she continued to be a doting queen, but when Arthur's back was turned, she would be luring the weak-willed Lancelot into her chambers.
The man reeked of guilt, and Myrddin did not doubt that each and every time he answered the call of the queen, he regretted it immediately, but it was never enough to stop him continuing to betray Arthur.
It sickened Myrddin that he had become something of a pawn in Guinevere's schemes, but as things were, there was little he could do beyond killing the woman.
He'd considered it.
He'd meticulously planned such an accident occurring, but it was simply too risky.
If the attempt was to fail, the entire kingdom and all of Myrddin's plan would be in great jeopardy, and that, he could not allow.
It brought him many sleepless nights, and yet, nothing could be done, for now.
Perhaps a solution would one day present itself, but until then, Myrddin's hands were tied.
"You wished to see me, my king?"
Arthur offered him a smile and beckoned the wizard forward.
"A scout arrived a short while ago," he informed Myrddin. "There are ships in the sea to the west, and it seems as though they are going to land."
Myrddin nodded.
"I have received similar reports, Arthur. There are twelve of them, but I expect those on the coast will be able to manage it. Remember, they have been fending off the Irish for centuries. It is not something we can help with. There are four armies between us and them, three of which being unfriendly."
"I know," Arthur sighed. "That is why I have sent Leofric and his men to assist them. "They have already left without banners. It will take them a day or two to arrive there."
"That is quite the risk, Arthur," Myrddin warned. "The kingdoms to the west are not our allies."
"But we wish them to be," Arthur pointed out. "If I am to rule over all of Britain, I must be seen to send help when it is needed. You may be certain that those in the west will be well without it, but I would rather not take the chance."
Myrddin nodded his understanding.
It made sense, but their own position remained precarious. Arthur's numbers had swelled, and continued to do so, but they were yet to be a match for the bigger armies across the country.
"Very well," he conceded. "Perhaps you are right in this instance."
"I am," Arthur confidently.
Myrddin said nothing else on the matter.
Leofric's men were an experienced group of fighters, and the man was as brilliant a military tactician as any other Myrddin had met.
He did not expect anything would go awry, though he certainly would have preferred they'd not been sent.
Still, it allowed the wizard to continuing pondering his own troubles, even if he knew that his ideas would lead to nothing, for the time being.
(Break)
'Ignotus, we have known each other for a very long time, and I have never been one to pry into your affairs, but what is your interest in Harry?'
Ignotus leaned back in his chair and nodded thoughtfully.
'I have always appreciated your candidness, Godric, but I cannot possibly give you an answer you will be satisfied with. I visited you at Hogwarts with the intention of asking for your assistance with our home, and I came away with much more than I could ever have anticipated. You ask for frankness, and I wish to have it in return. Where is the boy from?'
'Here,' Godric answered honestly, 'but his story is not mine to tell. I can, however, assure you that it is unlike any other you may just learn, and perhaps as fantastical as many of the rumours surrounding you and your brothers.'
Ignotus eyed Godric curiously.
'You truly believe that, don't you?'
Godric nodded.
'I cannot pretend to understand what came to be for Harry, but he is here for a reason that most would struggle with. I only ask that you watch over him, Ignotus. Earn his trust and he will open up to you."
'As a cousin or nephew, perhaps? I recognise his blood, his magic, and even his appearance, but his existence is quite impossible. My family, Godric, consists of me, my son, and distant relatives, none of whom could claim Harry as their own. Nor does he belong to any of the Potters I am aware of in the area.'
'He doesn't,' Godric confirmed carefully, 'but his story remains his own to tell.'
Ignotus scrutinised him for a moment before nodding.
'How he came to be does not matter,' he declared with a shake of his head. 'All I ask is that you assure me I am not losing my mind, that it is my blood flowing through his veins.'
'I cannot say for certain, old friend, but I believe it to be so. In my heart of hearts, somehow, Harry is a Peverell.'
Ignotus released a deep breath as he poured them both a large measure of mead.
'As do I,' he murmured. 'Even Owain believes it.'
It was with reluctance that Godric had left the village to return to the castle.
He'd stayed an additional week longer than he'd intended to, and it had pained him greatly to leave Harry behind.
It wasn't as though the boy hadn't been alone in the world without anyone to care for him, but it was different this time. Godric, Salazar, Rowena, and Helga had all come to do so deeply, and Hogwarts would not be the same without him.
Day in and day out for the more than three years now, each of them had been training the scared, unprepared boy who'd been brought to them by the passing storm.
For Godric, it felt as though their work was done, that whatever would happen now was up to fate.
"We trained him well."
Godric hadn't even begun unpacking from his journey when Salazar's voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"It didn't take you long," he chuckled.
"I am keen to hear of your time with him."
"Uneventful, mostly," Godric said with a shrug. "It was little more than a nice ride through the country, until we saw the Danes."
"The Danes?"
"They seem to be congregating, and I think it made Harry realise the reality of what he will eventually be up against. Anyway, we made it to the village, and he is with the Peverells."
"Do you believe that to be wise? We have all heard the stories and the rumours."
"Then I think we can say that Harry is just as safe as he could well be in danger."
Salazar nodded his agreement.
"He belongs there, Sal. For three years, he has felt the compulsion to be where he is now. As much as neither of us like the thought of him away from here, one of the very first things we teach is to never ignore your magical instincts."
"I know," Salazar assured him. "It is not as though we could keep him here, even if we wanted to."
"Rowena and Helga would."
Salazar chuckled.
"You're not wrong. Ah, here they come now."
Godric had thought that having arrived back at the castle in the small hours that he would be given time to get used to Harry not being here, but evidently, he was wrong.
"You're back," Helga greeted him. "Harry…?"
"Is well enough, for now," Godric murmured.
Both Helga and Rowena eyed him questioningly, and even Salazar was not pleased by the ominous statement.
"For now?"
Godric released a deep breath.
"They are preparing for war," he explained. "The Irish seem to be readying an attack on the west coast, and Harry has, of course, offered his services."
"And you let him?" Helga asked worriedly.
"Let him?" Godric returned. "As much as none of us want to admit it, Harry is not a boy anymore. He is a man grown, and what he is doing is exactly what we have trained him for. I am not happy about it either, but I would sooner see him gain the experience he needs in smaller skirmishes than in the battles that will inevitably come."
Helga opened her mouth to argue and closed it before nodding reluctantly.
"I know," she whispered sadly. "All I ever wanted for him was to find a way out of what he faces."
Godric offered him a sad smile.
"And yet, we always knew there was no way out. That is why we trained him. We all knew this day would come, and I will rest easier knowing that we have done all we can to help him."
"As will I," Salazar agreed.
Although they did not speak, Godric knew both Helga and Rowena agreed too.
It was not an easy thing to come to terms with, but they had all done the right thing by Harry.
They had given him a fighting chance, and Godric still believed that if there was anyone he'd met who might just be able to put a stop to Myrddin, it was indeed Harry Potter.
(Break)
'G-gone, m-my lord…nowhere to be found…Potter…dead.'
'No, not dead…feel his presence…keep looking, Wormtail… we will use another…'
Harry woke with a gasp and he did his utmost to calm his laboured breathing.
For the past few years now, he'd been having these odd, fragmented and sporadic dreams of Voldemort, but he could never make sense of them.
Sometimes, it felt as though he was witnessing these broken scenes unfold from Voldemort's perspective, and others, it seemed as though he was merely lost in a thick fog, hearing only parts of a conversation.
Was this happening now?
How that would be, Harry didn't know, but he'd chosen not to dwell on it so much given that there was nothing he could do about it.
Still, they played on his mind, and from what he could gather from the snippets he was granted, Dumbledore continued to search for him, as did Voldemort.
Harry snorted amusedly to himself.
He was quite unreachable to the Dark Lord, and even if they were to somehow meet, it was not as though he would recognise Harry.
The last time the two had laid eyes on one another, he'd been but a first year, diminutive, pale, and wholly unprepared. Now, although he wasn't certain he would be ready to face Riddle, Harry no longer feared doing so as he once had.
"You're awake," Owain commented as he entered Harry's tent. "Come with me."
"What's happened?" Harry asked as he hurriedly dressed himself.
"A ship is approaching the coast from the west."
"Just one?"
Owain nodded.
"Just one, but I will not see us caught off guard."
Harry nodded his agreement and fastened his sword belt with a wave of his wand before following Owain.
They'd been camping by the coast for a little more than a couple of weeks now, preparing and waiting for the seemingly inevitable attempt by the Irish to land in Wales.
"You see it?" the man murmured, pointing towards the shadowy mass approaching the shore.
"I do, but there can't be more than fifty people aboard."
Owain hummed.
"Well, if they are so stupid, then they will suffer the consequences of their foolishness. Almost two hundred arrows will be aimed at them when they land. You and I will be there to greet them."
"Just us?" Harry asked amusedly.
Owain nodded as a smirk played at his lips.
"I do not believe we will need more than that, do you?" he asked as he carefully drew his wand.
Harry followed suit, and the two approached where the ship would land, ready to spring into action if necessary.
Although they were not visible from the shore, Harry could feel the dozens of arrows trained on their position, and he took comfort knowing he had some of the greatest bowman in the land at his back.
"It's stopping," Owain murmured.
The ship was around a league from land, and Harry squinted into the darkness.
"A small boat," he observed, pointing to the smaller mass that came towards them.
"That's far enough," Owain barked as it drew near enough to make Harry feel a sense of unease. "Who calls upon our lands?"
"My name is Sir Tristan," a voice returned. "I am the son of the former King Mark of West Wales, and a Knight of King Arthur's round table. I am returning from a journey to retrieve my father's intended from across the sea."
"Then you have landed in the wrong place, Tristan," Owain returned. "Arthur is not our fucking king. Are you armed?"
"With only my sword."
"Then it will remain on your belt!" Owain commanded. "If you reach for it, I will kill you. Come forward, or you will be filled with arrows."
Harry kept a firm hold of his wand as he watched the small boat continue its approach, and as it landed, a pale man and frightened woman disembarked.
"It is only us," Tristan explained, holding his hands up placatingly. "I did not intend to land here we would not be welcome. The ship was supposed to take us to West Wales."
"Then you're a long way from home," Owain snorted. "Are you unaware of what is to come?"
"No."
"He's telling the truth," Harry broke in as a fresh wave of unease washed over him. "Bloody hell, they used him as cover."
"What?" Owain asked.
"GET DOWN!"
Harry quickly covered the distance between himself and the new arrivals, barrelling them both to the ground as dozens of arrows were unleashed upon them.
His spell to cocoon the three of them in sand prevented them from being skewered by the projectiles and he quickly removed the barrier and sprung to his feet.
Where there had been no ships only a moment prior, there were now five, and hundreds of men were spilling onto the beach, their battle cries filling the air.
"Well, shit," Harry cursed, bringing both his wand and sword to bear, blocking a flurry of spells sent towards him from one of the figures in the darkness.
Returning fire with some of the more unpleasant offerings courtesy of Salazar, he nodded satisfactorily as the agonised screams of his foe followed, though Harry knew the fighting had only just begun.
Shooting a glance towards Owain, he could see that the man was fighting as admirably as he would've expected, and just behind him, their own forces were already rushing onto the beach.
They were outnumbered significantly, but that did not deter the proud men Harry was getting to know from taking the fight to the invaders.
"May the lord preserve us," Tristan whispered as he drew his sword.
Harry shook his head and placed his hand on the blade.
"This is no place for her," he said quickly, nodding towards the terrified woman. "Do you see the grove of trees over?"
Tristan nodded.
"There is a hidden room underneath the third willow tree you will come to along the path. Pull at the largest root and it will open. Stay there! I will get you when it is all over."
"And if you don't?"
"Then you're on your own," Harry said with a grin before turning away and throwing himself into the ensuing melee, parrying a swing from a large axe before ramming his own blade through the stomach of his attacker.
Already, the sand was coated red with the blood of friend and foe alike, and it would only get bloodier in the coming moments.
(Break)
"Why did we have to be sent to this damned shithole?" one of the men growled as he swatted at the insects plaguing the group.
"Because we are the best he has," Leofric answered. "If the Irish are going to invade, it will be us they meet, and it's been too long since we cracked a few skulls."
Some of the others laughed and murmured their agreement.
They were traipsing through a thick woodland, with the path they found themselves on too narrow to walk more than two abreast.
For days now, they had made their way through the countryside, avoiding civilisation so not to alert any of their presence.
As things were, these lands did not belong to Arthur, and many of the smaller kingdoms here would not treat Leofric and his men well.
"Do you hear that?" one of the other men asked, holding up a hand to pause the large group.
Leofric frowned and strained his ears, and he heard the sound of fighting in the distance.
"Well, by Christ himself, I think we might be bloody late. Let's move!"
As ever, he led the charge, ploughing through the undergrowth towards where he could hear the clashes of steel, only to be stopped in his tracks by a familiar figure holding onto a shaken woman for dear life.
"Tristan?" Leofric greeted him.
"The Irish have landed!" Tristan said breathlessly. "They purposely used my ship as cover to follow and land here. The locals are fighting them off!"
Leofric nodded, but Tristan took him by the arm, his eyes wide with fear.
"Some of them…"
"Some of them, what?"
Tristan shook his head.
"They're not normal, Leofric. The weapons…"
Leofric snatched his arm away.
"Get the girl to safety!" he commanded before continuing on his way.
It was only a few moments later that the shore came into view, and he paused, his mouth falling agape at the battle unfolding in front of him.
Men fought with swords, axes, and even spears, but what caught his attention was the array of colourful lights tearing through the battlefield.
What they were, Leofric didn't know, but the locals were quite outnumbered by the Irish, and he'd been given a job to do.
They would be the difference in this fight and choosing to ignore everything other than the enemy before him, Leofric charged, roaring through the burst of adrenaline that permeated throughout his body brought on by impending violence.
His sword crashed against a shield, splitting it in two, before he brought the blade down onto his foe's skull.
He sunk limply to the ground, and Leofric found himself thrown out of the path of one of the colourful lights.
The air was forced from his lungs, but he was granted no reprieve as he was bodily pulled back to his feet.
"You're here to fight the Irish?"
Leofric nodded.
"Then it isn't time to lay on the fucking ground, is it?" the young man with green eyes asked.
Leofric watched as he raised his sword and almost cleaved another man in half with a single blow, but all he could see in the darkness was the pommel; a crow, or so he believed, an ominous omen dripping with the blood of the invaders.
Shaking his head, Leofric continued fighting, and he quickly lost sight of the man in the flurry of blades and streaks of light of the ongoing battle.
"May Christ be with us," he whispered, gripping the cross he wore around his neck briefly before engaging a seemingly endless stream of enemies on the edge of an unfamiliar sea.
(Break)
With how suddenly and sneakily the attack had begun, the preparations they'd painstakingly made had been for nothing. The archers above had dared not unleash their arrows from fear of hitting him, and Owain had found himself in the bloodiest and violent of scuffles.
Until his men had arrived, he'd been in a fight for his life, and even after they'd made it to the shoreline, that hadn't changed.
His blade sung with every swing, and men collapsed to the ground as he cursed them in between strikes.
Already, he'd been mildly wounded across his left thigh, but he continued to fight on, knowing he could not stop.
Avoiding a wild swing from an axe, his smashed the pommel of his sword into the face of a man without a helm and crushed his throat beneath his boot as he stepped over him to engage the next.
This was not the life Owain had envisioned for himself, and yet, it had come for him.
For years, the Irish had plagued their coast, and for years, it had been his father who'd fended them off.
Ignotus Peverell was much too old to do such now, and the responsibility had fallen to his only son.
Owain had embraced it, had prepared for it, which in the end, counted for nothing in the moment violence erupted.
Instead of a controlled defence of their lands, he found himself embroiled in an aimless melee, and all he could do was keep swinging his sword until either no enemies remained, or he was sent to meet the shadowy figure that plagued his family.
"We have reinforcements," Harry called as he rushed by Owain to take the fight to some of the wizards the Irish had brought along, something they'd done many times over the years, but never to such consequence as he was seeing now.
He could fight.
Owain took just a moment to watch how fluidly the man fought and was quickly impressed with the skill on display.
He shifted seamlessly between using his wand and his sword to great effect, and Owain nodded to himself.
Perhaps his father had been right about him.
Taking a glance in the direction that Harry had arrived from proved the younger man to be correct.
How many had arrived, Owain couldn't be certain, but a group not his own was indeed fighting with the Irish, making the battle a much more even affair.
Still, he did not know these men, and Owain was not foolish enough to leave anything to chance.
If and when they managed to slaughter the invaders, there would perhaps be another fight yet.
He still needed to question the first man who'd arrived with the woman, but thoughts of doing so were far from his mind as he once more found himself confronted by the Irish hoard, each of them determined to take his life.
"Come Death, come," he whispered, his grip tightening around his sword as he thrusted the blade into the guts of the first to reach him.
(Break)
She could smell blood, but it was the least of her worries.
The sound of the crashing waves was drowned out by the screams of pain and clashing steel, and the feeling of the wet, warm sound between her toes showed just how much blood had been spilled.
Morgana did not know where she was, only that she was seemingly in a fight for her life, but she wasn't scared.
It was an excitement that filled her, the challenge of the violence, and the battle to preserve her own life was rather thrilling, even though she knew it shouldn't be.
She swung her own blade, a ridiculous notion as she'd never bothered to learn how to wield one, preferring to nurture her skills in archery, but the sword felt so natural, just like an extension of herself.
Despite the excitement, she felt a stab of fear as an axe swung a little too close for comfort, and before she could even defend herself from the next, it came crashing down.
She raised her hand instinctively, and her eyes widened as the axe was stopped, the force of her defence sending her attacker stumbling backwards where she used her sword to remove his head.
Pausing for a brief second, she peered down at her left hand to see the rune she'd carved glowing ominously in the darkness before she hurled herself into the fray once more…
She woke with a gasp, and it took a while for her to realise what it was she had witnessed in her dream.
Hurriedly standing, she staggered at the sudden onset of dizziness and realised that the magic of the fairies was still pulsing through her.
Morgana felt weak, a fatigue she'd never experienced even after all of the rituals she'd conducted, and all she could do was fall back to the ground, her breathing laboured as he pondered the dream she'd had.
It had been so real.
Even now, she could still smell the blood in the air and feel the salt on her skin.
She looked down at the rune Harry had carved into her hand the last night he'd been here and released a deep breath.
It was on her right hand.
In the dream, the rune had been on the left; the same left hand she'd carved her own mark into Harry.
She balked at the realisation.
It wasn't a dream that she'd had, but she'd seen exactly what Harry had been experiencing.
It frightened Morgana to think of him in such a perilous fight for his life, but what she remembered more than anything was the excitement coursing through her veins.
Harry truly was a born warrior, and he seemed to do his very best work whilst he was fighting as he seemed to be now.
Still, it didn't stop her from worrying, and Morgana could not be certain how long she remained where she was before an ethereal crow burst into clearing and landed in front of her.
'I could feel you with me…I'm fine…'
She breathed a sigh of relief as the bird vanished and wiped the tears from her cheeks.
Morgana had never expected the ritual they had completed to manifest itself in such a way, and yet, somehow, it had affected them both deeper than she could have anticipated.
It would take some pondering to begin to understand what had happened to them both, but for now, Harry was safe, and that was all that mattered.
(Break)
The rune on his hand was still glowing, and Harry ran the tip of his finger around the edge of it.
Raising his hand had been an instinctual reaction as the axe had been brought down on him. Harry had only wanted to block the blow, but his magic had reacted in an unexpected way.
Morgana.
Somehow, he had felt her with him, much like he had since he'd left Hogwarts, but in that moment, it had been much more prevalent.
"I already fucking told you, we do not recognise Arthur as our king, and we never will," Owain growled, prodding the chest of the leader of the group who'd come to assist them.
Their help was appreciated, but with the Irish invaders dead, the situation once more had become volatile as the two groups glared at one another over what would become a feast for the crows come the morning.
"You will," the other man responded. "Arthur is the rightful king."
Owain chuckled humourlessly.
"You saw for yourselves what we are capable of. Now, if you want to make something more of this, we will happily oblige, but I promise, none of you will leave here alive."
The leader of the other group reached for his sword, and Harry stepped forward.
"If you draw it, you will die where you stand," he warned, "and then I will personally execute Tristan and send his head back to your king. You can walk away from this, Leofric."
"How do you know my name?" the man demanded.
"I know more than you think," Harry murmured. "You fight with Arthur because you hope that you will one day fight against Guthrum. He allowed your families to be slaughtered whilst you were marching for him. You lost a son and a daughter along with your wife."
Leofric's nostrils flared, and he looked taken aback.
The man hid his thoughts poorly and Harry had been able to slip into his mind without hindrance.
Leofric was a muggle, as were all of his men.
Although the Welsh party had lost several of their own in the battle, they still outnumbered the others, and Leofric undoubtedly recognised that.
He seemed to want to ask a dozen questions, likely about all he'd seen since he and his men had arrived, but evidently, he thought better of doing so.
Instead, he stepped forward and offered Harry his hand.
"I don't know who you are, what you are, or how anything I saw is possible, but where I am from, we show good graces to those who fought and bled with us. I ask only that you allow me to gather up our dead and stay long enough to rest. We are hungry and were on the road for several days to reach you."
Harry looked towards Owain who nodded.
"We would not send you away without food and rest. You and your men are safe," the Peverell assured him.
Leofric breathed a sigh of relief as Harry accepted the proffered limb.
"Enough blood has been spilled already," he sighed as he looked upon the many fallen.
Most were Irish, who would likely be thrown into the sea for the fish to feed on, but Harry recognised a few of the faces of those he'd been with for the past moon.
War was indeed a bloody affair, and it would only become more so.
It was in something of a daze that those who survived set about the work of arranging the dead.
Leofric had lost seven of his men, a testament to how well trained they were, and Owain almost twenty, showing how outnumbered they had been to begin with.
Many more had been wounded, and some would likely not live to see the sunrise, an observation that proved to be correct.
The large gathering of men did not stop until the work was done, and the sun had indeed risen as they sat by several fires to break their fast.
Having retrieved a nervous Tristan and his father's intended, Harry sat with a sullen Owain and a few of his men, and they were joined by an exhausted Leofric and some of his own.
"Lamb?" he asked, nodding to a cut of meat roasting above the fire.
Owain nodded as a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Real men eat red meat."
Leofric snorted.
"We don't farm as much lamb as we do chickens," he explained. "With a castle full of people to feed, it's the easiest to rear and kill in large numbers."
"We have some of the best lamb you will ever taste," Owain replied. "Must be something in the grass and water here."
Leofric nodded thoughtfully as he cut himself a piece and quirked an eyebrow as he bit into it.
"Not bad," he commented, helping himself to some more.
"You're a farmer then?"
"Always a farmer first," he sighed. "When Guthrum came looking for soldiers, we weren't given much of a choice but to fight. We just became good at it. My men have been with me from the start. We have fought in every corner of the country, just hoping to get home to our families."
He fell silent, and his expression became grim.
"I shouldn't have mentioned your wife," Harry said apologetically, his own mind wandering to the woman he'd left behind to come here.
Leofric shook his head.
"No, I like talking about her. Sometimes, even just for a few moments, it helps me forget that she isn't here anymore, and that the best years of my life were with her."
"And I am certain she is with your god now," Owain comforted, nodding towards the large cross around Leofric's neck.
Leofric smiled sadly.
"And I expect I will be with them soon enough," he murmured. "The soldier's life is not a long one, and for that, I am grateful. What about you, are you married?"
Owain laughed heartily as he nodded.
"My wife, Anwen, is about to birth our first child," he explained. "I'm more terrified of being a father than a fight like this."
Leofric chuckled.
"Being a father is much harder, but worth every moment. What about you?" he asked Harry.
"I'm not married, but I have someone waiting for me up north."
"You never mentioned a woman," Owain said accusingly.
"You never asked."
Owain grunted.
"Well, what is she like?"
Harry frowned thoughtfully as he searched for a way to describe her.
"Beautiful, intelligent, and bloody terrifying."
The others laughed heartily.
"The very best of them are," Leofric said fondly. "See this scar?" he asked, pointing to one above his brow. "Cooking pot for coming home drunk and almost burning the house down."
"Mine hasn't scarred me yet," Owain chuckled.
"Oh, it will happen," Leofric warned. "What about you, Harry?"
He looked down at the rune on his left palm and smiled at the mark.
"Only in the best possible way."
Leofric eyed him confusedly for a moment.
"So, what happens now?" he asked.
"You and your men will be allowed to leave," Owain assured him, "but I urge you to tell your king not to come here. We may only be a small force, but we will fight to the very last man to keep all kings out of these lands. This place belongs to the people, not any fool wanting to lord their false power over us. Tell him, Leofric, that if he makes any attempt here, I will haunt him. I will haunt him wherever he goes and he will not be able to escape me."
Leofric swallowed deeply as he stood.
"I will pass on your message, Owain Peverell," he promised, "and hope that we do not face one another on the battlefield."
"As do I, Leofric," Owain replied. "As do I."