#merlin with a longbow

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

Merlin accidentally becomes Legolas/Katniss/Merida… you know the type;

He may be shitty at sword fighting, but Merlin begins to use a traditional bow and arrow and… actually becomes very good at it??

I imagine the first time he does it, it’s a complete fluke.

The five knights, The King, and Merlin are on their way back from yet another (frankly, ridiculous) quest.

They have been, of course, ambushed by a group of bandits, twenty to their six (six plus Merlin, though no one bar Lancelot knows about his magic, so he isn’t counted as a fighter). Though the knights outweigh them in skill, their sheer numbers makes it a… challenging, fight (meaning that they are winning, but far too slowly for their liking, and no one wants to admit it).

Now normally, Merlin hides behind a tree or in a ditch, and performs his spells quietly without being noticed, slowly helping and speeding up the fight. Except this time, the Gang was in the middle of a barren, open field, the bandits had disguised themselves with magic until the moment they attacked, and Merlin was right in the middle of all the action.

Everyone worried for his safety. There was nowhere for him to hide here, so they had to keep an eye on him, lest he get hurt (and Arthur sulked, or kicked off, depending on how badly he was hurt).

With nowhere to hide (and no branches to drop, or roots to trip people with), and one of the knights throwing a glance his way every ten seconds, he couldn’t use his magic.

He was currently on his hands and knees, Leon directly in front of him, Percival to his left, holding off four attackers between them (Merlin would marvel at how impressive that was if he weren’t otherwise preoccupied).

He keeps trying to get to Arthur, crawling between legs and over the groaning, injured bodies of bandits (he made a point to land sharp elbows and harsh knees into the more… sensitive areas), but with everyone moving around so rapidly, and the vicious swinging of swords and axes and maces inches above his head, he kept getting side-tracked and blocked and almost knocked out.

With a frustrated huff, he notices yet another bandit rounding on The King. Said huff turns into a pained gasp when he realises that Arthur hasn’t seen him yet.

The bandit raises his weapon in the air, seconds from bringing it down on Arthur’s back, but Leon is right there, and there are no branches to drop on him, and Arthur still hasn’t noticed!

The noise is too loud, grunts and yells and clashes of metal drowning out any sort of warning yell that Merlin could throw Arthur’s way, and he scrabbles around on the floor desperately; hands raking through sharp grass and over bloodied bodies as he stares in horror at the triumphant smirk on the future-King-killer’s face.

Time seems to slow (no magic, just adrenaline) as Merlin’s hands find purchase on a smooth, curved piece of wood. He picks it up without looking, at first intending to throw whatever it is as hard as he can in the bandits direction, before something (magic, instincts, periphery vision, who knows) tells him to look down.

He obeys, and widens his eyes as he sees the longbow gripped tightly in his right hand, and a stray arrow on the floor next to his left.

Merlin is no expert, only having actually hunted once or twice back home in Ealdor, when he was younger, but that was just enough knowledge for him to know roughly how to notch the arrow and fire. He pulls the two up quickly, a plan formulating in his head:

Step 1) Notch arrow.

Step 2) Close eyes.

Step 3) Magic? Hope?

Step 4) Come up with some sort of lie that explains how he managed to make the shot from sixty yards away, through a crowd.

Thankfully, it would appear that Merlin’s bad luck has given him a rest today; the first three steps go off without a hitch (the fourth will come a little later, when the battle is over), but he doesn’t have time to congratulate himself before he’s thrown into the fray, the bandits now obviously seeing him as some sort of threat.

Arthur finally defeats his own attackers, looking behind him in shock to see his unknown enemy lying on the floor, gurgling up blood and grasping weakly at the arrow through his neck. His head whips to the side, trying to find whoever had made the shot; his bewildered gaze meets Merlin’s for only a second before the servant is dragged to his feet, and promptly punched in the face.

He stumbles back and can just about hear Leon yell something from beside him but he pays it no mind, righting his balance once again and swinging his arm back, before bringing it down harshly on his newest attackers head. The resounding crack echoes over the field as the wood of the longbow splits in two on the bandit’s skull, and he drops like a sack of potatoes.

The fight doesn’t last much longer, each knight taking advantage of their enemies' fatigue, and Merlin using his now broken longbow to whack them in the shins or trip them up when they weren’t paying attention.

He was sad to see it broken, but two of his closest friends literally owned a blacksmith's, and he had easy access to the Castle’s armoury; he could get a hold of another one easily enough, as long as he survived the journey back home.

The battle finally came to a close. Everyone was exhausted, and each of them was sporting more than one hefty bruise, but they were all alive and there were no serious injuries, so they could be grateful for that. After Arthur had counted his men, and generally taken stock of things, he traipsed tiredly over to Merlin, who had abandoned his broken bow in favour of cleaning a still weeping cut on Elyan’s temple.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, Merlin.”

The servant ignores him at first, biting his lip in concentration as he carefully wipes the grime away from the wound. It was small, so an infection wouldn’t be too worrying, but it wouldn’t be comfortable and would make the scarring worse, so best to avoid it if at all possible. He hums in satisfaction as he leans back on his heels, Elyan gives him a grateful smile, and Merlin finally throws a glance Arthur’s way, before focusing back on threading the needle in his hands; it would only need two or three stitches, thankfully:

“Hmm. I'm not fond of hunting, but we had to for food back in Ealdor. Except we didn’t have fancy crossbows or hunting dogs, so we had to make do with hand-whittled longbows.”

Arthur nods, frowning slightly:

“Still, if I’d known you were that good, I would’ve demanded you had a bow of your own; that way us lot wouldn’t have to spend so much time making sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

Merlin smirked and quirked an eyebrow, but doesn’t look away from Elyan’s stitches, whispering an apology at the man’s wince before he speaks slowly, concentrating:

“Careful Sire, that almost sounded like a compliment.”

Elyan snorts out a laugh, but Merlin tuts and lightly slaps his leg disapprovingly, and he stills again. Arthur rolls his eyes with a huff:

“As if. Hurry up, I want to get moving as soon as possible.”

~

Arthur wasn’t the only one that noticed Merlin’s outstanding shot, and over the course of the next few day’s journey home, he received a multitude of compliments from the other knights. 

Including an hour long excited infodump about the history and use of longbows from Leon, which Merlin eagerly hung onto every word of, a fond smile on his face (Leon was a noble, and had it practically beaten into him to not ramble, so Merlin always did his best not to discourage the man. That, and the fact that it was actually very interesting, and useful, if he were to keep up this charade that he was an expert marksman).

When Merlin finally had a moment alone with Lancelot, a few days after they had gotten back, he burst:

“Please please tell me you know how to use a longbow??”

Lancelot raises his eyebrow from where he was sat on the bed in Merlin’s room. Merlin was staring at him with unconcealed desperation, and the knight chuckled as he answered:

“Why? It’s not like you need any more training, that was a cracking shot.”

Merlin huffed loudly, running his hands through his hair as he looked back at the knight:

“I used magic!! I closed my eyes so no one would see and I guided the arrow with magic! Now everyone thinks I’m some master marksman! This is bad. What if next time I can’t use magic, or what if someone notices that I have my eyes closed when I fire?”

Lancelot clamps a hand over his mouth in a poor attempt to stop himself from giggling, but he gives up quickly, bursting into laughter at the younger man’s panic. Said younger man fumes, sputtering as he picks up one of the knight’s discarded boots and throws it at him:

“It’s not funny, Lance! I’m being serious, this is an actual issue!”

Lancelot calms himself, rubbing the mirth from his eyes as he takes a deep breath:

“Ok ok, sorry. Yes, I can teach you to use a longbow properly. Have you ever actually used one before, or was the hunting thing a cover?”

The red fades from Merlin’s face slightly as he realises the other man is intending to help him, his panic lessening:

“Sort of. Yeah, I went hunting with a bow a couple times, but not enough to be that good at it.”

Lancelot sighs fondly and nods his head:

“Well, that’s a start at least. Come on, I’ve not got patrol until after dinner, and Arthur thinks you’re busy helping Gaius, so we’ve got a few hours.”

~

So I imagine that’s how it goes for a while.

After their last big adventure, Arthur was reluctant to head out as a group again, wanting to give everyone time to recuperate and get back into the swing of things.

Merlin’s skills with a bow were bought up constantly by everyone, news had even reached Gwen (who gave him a proud smile and a cute little dance to congratulate him) and Gaius (who raised an eyebrow, and had much better skill than Lancelot at holding in his laughter). 

Gwaine, Elyan, and even Percival were desperate to set up targets and watch him shoot shit (their words), Leon wanted to talk about the specifics of technique and crafting, and Arthur... well. Arthur sounded like he was taking the piss, but there was something else in his tone that Merlin couldn’t quite pinpoint. 

Affection? Pride?

Probably not, probably jealousy and annoyance that Merlin is so effortlessly good at something that Arthur himself was average at at best.

Merlin manages to avoid it for a while, showing his “skills” off, but he and Lancelot are running out of excuses, and Arthur is starting to accuse him of being a fake who got lucky. Normally, things like that didn’t bother Merlin, and technically Arthur wasn’t wrong... he had got lucky, and cheated with magic, but that wasn’t the point. It was nice for Merlin, to be good at something, really good.

He was good at plenty of other things. Magic for starters, though not even Lancelot knew the full extent of his power in that area. But he cooked well (shown by the fact that the knights always scoffed the lot), he was a good physician (shown by the fact that the knights trusted him just as much as Gaius when it came to treating injuries and sickness), and he was a BRILLIANT servant, if he did say so himself.

But he never got any actual praise for that. Merlin hated to think badly of the knights, his friends, but they only complained when Merlin wasn’t there, never praised him when he was. Well, apart from Lancelot. And that had just started a bunch of rumours that they were... uh... boinking. 

(False. Anyone with more than two braincells could see that Sir Lancelot was head over heals in love with the newly-promoted Housekeeper, Guinevere, and that The King’s Manservant had an affinity for certain a blond prat-King.)

ANYWAY

It was nice for Merlin to have a skill that others thought worth complimenting, and with Lancelot monitoring his practice sessions, correcting any mistakes and offering congratulations whenever he did well, he hoped it wouldn’t be too long before he no longer had to come up with excuses.

Luckily, Merlin picked it up very quickly. 

Despite being clumsy by nature (though Lancelot is starting to suspect more and more that it’s all for show), the dark haired servant can consistently hit bullseyes from fifty yards within a month. The further away from the target he got, the less astounding his aim was, but that was to be expected, and another month later he could successfully hit a moving target from seventy feet.

A training session, around three months after he started properly practicing, he finally “gave in” to Gwaine’s begging. Lancelot helped him set up a bunch of targets, and fetched a bag of apples to throw.

Merlin put on quite the show, grinning at the uproarious applause he got from the knights when he hit every single bullseye, and every single thrown target. Thankfully the knowing, proud smiles between the servant and Sir Lancelot went unnoticed, and even Arthur gave him a clap on the back and an impressed nod.

~

The first time Merlin met the knights in the courtyard to find Leon holding a longbow and quiver of arrows out to him, he panicked slightly, but one reassuring smile from Lancelot boosted his confidence, and he took them with a quiet thank you.

(After the fifth time, Arthur huffed, and told him to just keep them. He was the only one that regularly signed them out of the armoury anyway, so it would just be easier if he just took possession of them.)

It settled everyone’s stomachs, knowing that not only did the group have a master marksmen, hiding in the trees and taking out enemies that they didn’t see coming, but that Merlin personally now had more than his frankly horrifying (or... horrifying as far as they were concerned) stealth skills to keep him safe.

And that (a master marksmen in the trees) is exactly what happened. 

In the early days, it involved a lot of bruises; Merlin could fire well, but firing and balancing at the same time? Took some getting used to, and involved a lot of falling out of trees at inopportune times.

The knights, Gwaine and Arthur especially, laughed endlessly at that, but quickly stopped after a particularly tired and irate and bruised Merlin fired an arrow so close by Gwaine’s crotch, that it stuck his trousers fast into the tree just behind him.

At first, it was meant to be just as back-up; Merlin was no knight. He still refused to wear armour, and Arthur didn’t want his manservant to make himself a target... at least that was his excuse.

Really, it was because (as far as Arthur was aware) Merlin had never deliberately killed before. Even now, years into his Kingship, and even longer into his knighthood, Arthur hated killing; it made him sick, and took a lot of practice at compartmentalization before it no longer bothered him as much.

Merlin was his manservant, his (best) friend, the love of his life (secretly). He was not a warrior, he was not meant to kill, he was meant to be protected from that.

But alas, Merlin did not get the memo, and the first patrol he went on with his bow and quiver slung over his shoulder, he killed at least five bandits.

After the fight, it was Leon who approached him first, a concerned look on his face despite Merlin’s nonchalant expression as he checked over the string for wear and tear:

“Are you feeling alright, Merlin? You got a few good shots in there, you’re not feeling sick?”

Merlin looked up at the hand on his shoulder and the soft words, a confused look on his face:

“Why would being good make me feel sick?”

Leon tilts his head in sympathy, which just makes Merlin even more confused:

“The man you killed the other month was spur of the moment, protecting your King. But you... you killed a fair few men today, Merlin. I know that can be incredibly difficult at first, I just wanted to check in.”

The others had finally walked over to join them; Percival, Elyan, Gwaine, and Arthur looking equally concerned, whilst Lancelot hid his proud smile. Merlin just raised an eyebrow at them:

“You seem to be under the impression that I’ve never killed anyone before?”

Everyone (bar Lancelot) looks taken aback at that, and Arthur frowns whilst Leon drops his hand in shock. The King speaks slowly:

“Merlin, are you telling us you’ve killed people before?”

The manservant clenches his jaw at that and looks back down at his bow, resuming his checking of the string and its knots. He speaks lowly, and the knights can tell it’s not a topic he’s fond of:

“Hmm. It’s a tough world, Sire. I’ve done what I had to, to keep myself and the people I care about safe.”

At his dark reply, conversation stopped, and didn’t resume for the rest of the day as everyone contemplated Merlin’s words.

That is, until he was the first one to successfully catch dinner later that evening. At which he got an incredulous look from Arthur when he made it back to camp with his half of the patrol:

“I thought you despised hunting??”

Merlin didn’t look up from the hares he was skinning, and the rest of the knights tuned in, curious:

“No. I hate hunting for sport; it shows hubris and cruelty. Hunting for food is not only necessary and natural, but humbling, if you do it right and honour every part of the creature.”

Arthur, ever the eloquent one, stared at him blankly, and said, rather dumbly:

“...What?”

Merlin huffed, finally looking up:

“Going after helpless animals on horseback with crossbows and hunting dogs is like giving yourself a huge pat on the back for winning a tournament against an unarmoured, unarmed, unconscious opponent, and then calling yourself strong and brave for daring to fight in the first place. It’s an egotistical act of violence for no other reason than cruelty for the sake of cruelty.-”

The knights looks on him with shock, Percival and Leon at least having the decency to look a little ashamed. Merlin looks back down to the hares, and everyone notices the careful way he cuts at the fur:

“I’ve taken these lives to feed us as a necessity. The meat will be eaten, but that isn’t all. I’ll take the bones home for Gaius, the marrow is useful in a lot of medicine. The fur can be repurposed for winter gloves or socks. The organs and other bits that we won’t eat: I’ll take for the pigs in the farms, or the dogs up at the castle. In using every part of them we are... honouring them, in a way. As a thank-you for their... sacrifice.”

Arthur looks a little dumbfounded. As royalty, he of course had never really considered the waste that comes about with hunting, but Merlin, a farm-boy from a rural village who barely scraped by every winter? Of course he saw a deeper meaning in hunting. He would have to.

Elyan is the first to break the silence:

“You almost sound religious, Merlin.”

Merlin looks up at him, a strained smile on his face. As magic incarnate, he has a particularly strong, temperamental relationship with nature and her creatures, a bond that some might call faith. To be wasteful or cruel in any way hurts him in more ways than one:

“Not really, I just have respect for nature, is all.”

No one mentions the thinly-veiled insult, but everyone creeps closer, wanting to see the way he disassembles the creatures for future reference.

~

It’s been eight months since that first, perfect shot.

Merlin’s skills with a longbow had become a normal, expected part of The Gang’s experiences, but the knights never stopped praising and thanking him when he saved their lives (something that Merlin still hadn’t quite gotten used), and The King had apparently not stopped thinking about it for barely more than a second. 

Yule was approaching quickly: Merlin, Gwen, and the Steward being constantly busy with preparations in the castle, the knights being run off their feet escorting emergency aid to the border villages for the harsh winter, and Arthur himself having every minute of the day taken up with speech writing, invite sending, and his other general King-during-Yule duties.

That however, was all to be expected, and of course did nothing to keep Arthur and Merlin from their annual traditions.

It wasn’t official, it wasn’t even spoken of, but the last evening of Yule, the night before the new year, the two of them always spent together.

The last feast of the year would finish, Arthur would stay to see his guests off, thank the staff for all of their hard work, and finally retire to his chambers, his tired manservant barely a hair’s breadth behind him. They would sit in front of the lit hearth (in comfy chairs that only they used), work their way through a jug or two of wine, exchange small gifts, and fall asleep in front of the fire. Their hands, dangling over the side of their chairs, seem to be creeping closer and closer with each passing year; though have yet to become entangled by morning.

This year was somehow no different, and very different, at the same time.

The King and his Manservant settled in their chairs, tired and already a little more than tipsy from the wine drunk during the feast. Arthur looked up at Merlin, the fond smile dropping from his face when he sees the other man’s features pulled into a contemplative frown:

“What’s on your mind, Merls? I don’t think I’ve seen you this serious since the start of the celebrations.”

Merlin looked up at him suddenly, his eyes wide, but he smiles and shakes his head:

“Nothing, nothing. Just thinking is all.”

Normally, Arthur would raise an eyebrow and let a scathing tease on the state of Merlin’s intelligence fall from his lips, but not tonight. This is the only night of the year that The King allows himself to entertain the idea that perhaps he and Merlin were more than friends, or at least could be. So instead he resumes his smiling, and looks back to the fire, taking another sip of his wine before responding softly:

“What about?”

Merlin hums, copying Arthur’s wine-sipping, before taking a deep breath:

“The future, mostly. You, me, Camelot. Secrets and truths, and when one might turn into the other. Soon, I think... yeah. Soon.”

Arthur huffs slightly in amusement. He knows that Merlin hides a great deal of himself, but he always becomes more cryptic after a few glasses of wine, like he desperately wants to say something and doesn’t have the power to stop himself from hinting at whatever it may be.

He asks his next question good-naturedly, a smile sweetened by wine gracing his face:

“The hell does that mean?”

Merlin lets out a short laugh, looking up at the other man:

“Oh, you know. Thinking about spilling all my deepest darkest secrets to you, at some point soon.”

Arthur snorts, saying, only for the sake of keeping up the charade they’ve built:

“You don’t have any secrets, Merlin. Certainly not any that are deep or dark.”

Once, Arthur would have believed that. Then, when he stopped believing it, he was angry about it, and now? Now, he finds he doesn’t mind so much. He is confident, he has faith, in both himself and in Merlin. He knows that those secrets are there, and Merlin knows that he knows, but that’s ok. Nothing either of them could reveal would tear them apart, at least not for long, so Arthur was happy to wait until Merlin was happy to share.

Merlin chuckled at Arthur’s response, shaking his head slightly before reaching down and picking up a small wrapped parcel that he’d stowed away before the feast:

“Come on, I’m a little nervous about your gift this year, so let’s get it over and done with.”

Arthur nodded, accepting the change in subject, and set his wine down so he could pick up the (much bigger) parcel by his own chair.

Merlin raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. After the first gift-exchange happened, Merlin had put his foot down and made Arthur swear to not go overboard on the expense side of things. Arthur may have been a prince, and now a King, but Merlin was still just a servant/physician; he could hardly afford anything worthy of a King. 

He had a feeling that Arthur might’ve broken his word this year, but where Arthur had likely gone overboard with expense, Merlin had definitely gone overboard with sentimentality.

They swapped parcels, Merlin placing the large, heavy box carefully at his feet as he gestured Arthur to open his first. Arthur got to it, tearing the paper off without a second of hesitation, and Merlin allowed himself to smile fondly at the child-like excitement on the blonde’s face.

Arthur’s brow creased as he dropped the paper to the floor, stroking soft fingers over the worn leather of an old, well-loved book. Merlin took deep, fortifying breaths as Arthur carefully opened the first few pages, butterflies in his stomach as Arthur’s eyes wandered the yellowed paper in curiosity.

The King looked up at him, amused confusion on his face as he asked:

“Is this yours? I didn’t know you could draw, Merlin.”

Merlin gulped, and shook his head as memories of the exquisite sketches filled his mind; detail-perfect renditions of the castle, the town square, waterfalls and knights in action and people that Merlin didn’t recognise (for the most part. Arthur evidently hadn’t gotten to any of the pages with young Uther on them).

“No, not mine. This one requires a little explanation-”

Arthur nodded, carefully closing the book and holding it protectively in his lap as he gave Merlin his undivided attention:

“-I mentioned off-handedly to Leon a few months ago that I thought the lack of... of paintings of the late Queen in the castle was odd.-”

Arthur gulped at the mention of his mother, but nodded with a small smile when Merlin paused:

“-He said that when she passed, The King had everything to do with her moved to the vaults. He couldn’t force himself to destroy any of it, but looking at it, day in and day out, was too painful. We found the keys, with the help of Geoffrey, and went down to have a look, see what we could find. We didn’t tell you about it because we didn’t want to disappoint you, in case we couldn’t find anything.-”

Merlin once again looked a little nervous at this, and reached a hand out towards Arthur. When the man didn’t flinch away (if anything, he leaned into it), he moved to grip his shoulder blade, running his thumb over the exposed skin at the base of The King’s neck.

“-We found... a lot. Old clothes and paintings mainly, some jewellery. But then I found that;-”

He nodded at the book in Arthur’s lap, and tightened his grip on his shoulder. Merlin spoke his next words so quietly that Arthur almost doesn’t hear him, a soft smile on his face:

“-your mother was quite the artist, Arthur. I knew you had to have it.”

Arthur gasped softly, his eyes widening as he looked down at the book:

“You... you think my mother drew these?”

Merlin smiled at him, moving his hand to squeeze Arthur’s wrist slightly, before dropping it entirely:

“Check the back page.”

Arthur took a deep breath before doing what Merlin said, handling the book with even more care than he had before now that he knows who it belonged to. He turned to the very last page, to see an inscription written in beautiful cursive. Merlin recited it aloud, having memorised the words weeks ago:

“My dearest son, my silly sketches are able to hold only a fraction of our Kingdom’s beauty. I know one day that you will see what I see, treasure it just as much, and make it your own. You have my support, forever and always, your loving Mother.”

Arthur bites his lip harshly, lifting the book to press his forehead against the words as he shuts his eyes tightly, though that does nothing to stop the tears. Merlin replaces his hand on The King’s shoulder as the man shakes. He sniffles slightly, putting the book back in his lap, though keeping his hands wrapped around it securely, as he looks to Merlin:

“Merlin, I... I don’t even know what to say. This is... amazing. I... Thank you.”

Merlin smiles, shaking his head slightly:

“Technically, it wasn’t even mine to give, it’s always been yours. But I thought it might make a nice surprise. There’s plenty of other stuff down there, I’ll show you in the morning.”

Arthur nods his head, wiping his tears as he carefully places the book on his side table and gestures to the box at Merlin’s feet. He was itching to scour through the book, dedicating every single line to memory, but whilst Merlin had been nervous about Arthur’s gift, Arthur was buzzing about Merlin’s, and he was desperate to see the man’s reaction.

Merlin huffs out a laugh, but picks the box up, noting once again how heavy it is. He sets about removing the paper, much calmer and more methodical than Arthur had been, with his face pinched in concentration.

He frowns in curiosity as he sets eyes on the wooden box. It had a hinged lid, and a logo that he’s certain he recognises burned like a brand into the corner. He can feel Arthur bouncing in his chair slightly, and looks up at him in amusement, laughing once again when he nods excitedly back down at the box.

He lifts the lid, and takes in a shocked breath.

Inside was a beautifully crafted long bow; the wood smooth and varnished and carved, and a leather quiver. The patterns embossed in the leather and carved in to the metal at the base, match those carved into the wood of the bow, and Merlin traces soft fingers over the intricate swirls, stopping with a teary smile at the Pendragon crest, carved just next to a Merlin bird.

He lets out a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding as he looks up at the excited King:

“Arthur this is beautiful. Gods I almost don’t want to touch it, I feel like it should be on display behind glass.”

Arthur lets out a laugh, obviously pleased with Merlin’s reaction:

“Nope. It will be going with you every time you leave the city, and considering how much trouble we always seem to attract, I have no doubt that it will see a lot of use.”

Merlin laughs, closing the lid carefully and setting the box back on the floor, before launching himself bodily at Arthur. The blonde laughs, wrapping his arms around Merlin’s middle with no hesitation as the other man mutters endless thank-yous in his ear.

The servant finally pulls back, settling in his own chair again, and the two of them hope that the other puts the flush on their face down to the wine, and nothing else. They look to each other with wide grins on their faces, and Arthur breaks the stare first, taking another gulp of his wine before laughing jovially and speaking:

“Well. Here’s to an amazing year, and hopefully an even better one, starting in a few minutes.”

Merlin nods, lifting his own goblet to tap it against Arthur’s:

“Here’s to the past, that guides us-”

He gestures to the book on Arthur’s table:

“-and the future, that calls to us.”

He gestures to his new bow, and they both finish their wine off, a healthy flush to their cheeks and fond smiles on their faces.

They fall asleep in their respective chairs, the same as every year. 

In the morning, they wake with pounding headaches, a promise of a golden future, and hands intertwined.

~

THE END!!

We love a cutesy/hopeful ending😌

Like always lads, you wanna write it out in full, go for it, credit and tag me✌️

Head over to This List to see what I’m working on next, and cast your vote!

[aces-to-apples]

yeah, I'm gonna hafta bug you for some Arthur/Sansa now, dear, because YES

listen not to knock *checks notes* all the stark boys, oberyn martell, and sandor clegane from three to five pm every other thursday, but arthur pendragon really would be the only man from westeros to asshai who talks the talk and walks the walk and that’s the tea folks.

he’s gorgeous, courageous, compassionate, cunning, and sassy as fuck.

he wrestled control of an entire kingdom out of the hands of his super fucked up on magic uncle, not because he wanted to rule, but because vortigern was hurting people. he walked his dissociating, traumatized ass into a castle full of people who wanted to behead him to save the people he cared about. he fought the literal embodiment of his nightmares and childhood trauma because who else was there to do it huh? brave, check.

“why have enemies when you can have friends?” and “where’s lucy?/she’s a good girl/a nice girl/she works here/see she’s a friend of mine” and “you lot have looked after me a lot longer than i’ve looked after you” and “he’s a good boy/an upstanding citizen/the law-abiding, proactive blue boy and his fun-loving dad”? gentle, check.

he’s spent a good couple decades learning to defend himself from corrupt blacklegs who probably never did a good, worthwhile thing in all their careers and went to bat against seven feet of viking beef for one of the sex-workers who raised him and wields excaliber, the magical semi-sentient sword of death. strong, check.

by god i think we’ve cracked the code here folks, the once and future king and the “traumatized to every hell and back again” queen of the north are the real endgame of GoT.

(bonus points if you include the mage)

[lesserfandomappreciation]

Tiny Question regarding RSaT7D

After a lot of hemming and hawing, that first chapter of a Red Shoes fic I’ve been wanting to write for a while is up on Ao3! It’s an oc, there’s drama, some violence, but a lot of arcs I’ve really been wanting to explore.

Having said that, while I have the arcs in mind for both the oc (Yvonne) and fellow characters I cannot for the life of my pick a love interest. Fellow over-thinkers know the struggle of having a LOT of arcs with a LOT of different characters that could be fun but having a hard time of just picking ONE.

Specifically I’m stuck between Hans, Arthur, Jack and Merlin/Red Shoes (power trio, why not). They each have an arc and dynamic that’s already fleshed out in my head, it’s just a matter of picking ONE.

So here’s the question: who should the love interest be? The first chapter is going to be linked below. Feel free to either message or comment who you think the LI should be because at this point this has delayed all writing by 2 months.

 Heroes and Hunters

Heroes and Hunters Chapter 1: Heroes are the worst

Yvonne touched the grass and the wet mud curling between her warm fingers. The rain had long stopped but its mark remained mixed with the dirt. Deer and mice and likely a rabbit mingled over each other, muddled beneath the blades of grass that hadn’t escaped being crushed. Were she hunting for a meal no doubt the rabbit, maybe the deer would have been of interest.

The deep, fresh wyrm tracks demanded far more attention.

Her head followed the tracks over the hill. The tracks led deeper into the muddy fields and disappeared between the tall grasses. Yesterday’s rains would soon be drying under the sun - far too dry for it to travel further. Wherever the wyrm was headed would be dark and dank. If the bounty were to be done today, then she needed to hurry. Hunting in the field would forever be better than hunting in a cave.

Yvonne shifted the longbow in her one hand. Her other hand nocked the arrow into place and held the string back as she stood.

She began following the tracks.

Any hunter worth their salt would be able to track such prints; in that, Yvonne did not consider herself to be particularly unique amongst hunters. What was but another traveling stranger living off bounties and the game of the land to a stranger? Plenty sought bounties, plenty scrapped what funds they could acquire into a small life, enough to send back to those more in need of it and still be able to eat herself. Every hunter did it. She was no different for having siblings. They had more mouths than her; it only made sense to send them the means to provide for themselves.

Her scars though plenty were near indistinguishable from another hunter’s. Hunters having three fingers and a cut on the lip was hardly news. Her longbow was no better than another. An egotistical part liked to think that she was damn good at what she did, but plenty of other hunters thought that too - to any village, the hunters blurred together anyway.

That was what mattered; the demand. Everyone wanted something dead, be it a deer for harvest, a rabbit for stew, a monster for safety (or ego). Thus it was not hard to find work. There was always needed a hunter - which one didn’t matter, so long as they could do the job and do it well. it just boiled to whoever got to the bounty first, and quickly.

Why else put up a bounty for a wyrm?

She stopped and ducked into the grass. Between the blades of tall grass an lump of rotten wood leaned into the soft earth. A large, broken barn stood before her, the rotted wood creaking deeper under the weight of last night’s rain. Whatever manner of house had once claimed ownership on the building had long been ruined by the elements, and the houses by the horizon were too far to claim such a broken thing. Abandoned, then. Quiet too.

Where there were once barns, there were once animals. And animals always needed water even if there was no river to claim. Sharp brown eyes darted, perking up when she spotted the mossy stone well.

Dark. Damp. Forever filled with water. Far from any threats. A wyrm couldn’t be happier.

The longbow winced at her grip. Another rainstorm would let it travel closer to the buildings - before night fall then, when the sun's rays would no longer dry it's scales. Staying crouched, muddy boots slid slowly forward -silent to not disturb the earth more than necessary.  

Mud squelched behind her ears.

Yvonne whirled and shot. More mud squelched wildly as her arrow pierced a piece of the world that yelped. The sky and grass moved like fabric, forced by the arrow to move, and beneath the folds of the moving world an annoying familiar white pant leg stuck out.

No.

No, no, no.

What was he doing here?!

She rushed to him, forcing a hand over where a mouth would hopefully be beneath the fabric. The pair hit the ground hard, her hand staying put as the other rushed to silence their fall. Her legs straddled him and where it other circumstances perhaps she would be embarrassed but this? This idiot thought invisibility would spare him from a wyrm - who knew what other foolishness he’d get up to unless held?

“Be quiet.” Yvonne hissed between her teeth.

The jumble of limbs and invisibility squawked angrily under her hand. She pressed down harder. “You need to leave before it hears you. Go find your friends and l-”

A deep growl made her head snap to the sound. Slimy scales clawed out of the damp darkness, curling into the stone rim as they pulled up. Light glistened off the twisting mass of scales and teeth that hissed at the sun’s dry rays, darkest purple poison clinging to each jutting fang and slobbering tongue. The wyrm’s webbed ears turned at the world, waiting, listening for whatever prey would be gored on its horns.

It had woken up. Midday it had awakened and actually bothered to leave its safety only to ensure there was no danger. It would stay a moment, nothing else until it's fear was satisfied and the well called to it once more, protecting it until the night gave perfect cover again. Yvonne looked down at the strange mass under her.

Now. There would be no better moment, no cleaner a shot. Stupid as that group could be, surely they had at least enough self-ppreservation to stay out of trouble when left alone.

Yvonne carefully crawled off of him. The longbow held firm in her grip, the arrow pulling back with practiced ease. A sideways shot was far from perfect, but it would have to do. She would not die because she held a 6 ft bit sign straight up for the wyrm to spit at.

A breath in. Another out and-

“Charge! Get the beast!” A tragically familiar man bolted out and over the grass of grass, swinging a sword. The wyrm reared its head and screeched at the arrow caught in its ear.

This one? Now? She glared at the squelching mud. Of course. Of course they would send him as a scout - if he returned, the so-called leader would make some 'strategy' to fight the thing, and if he didn't, the aforementioned 'leader' would come charging in anyway. How they hadn't managed to die yet was beyond her, but it was rather rude of them at this point.

More men poured out of the fields, carrying lightning and crossbows and a wok. These fools never learned a damn thing. Yvonne growled, jumping to her feet. A grip brought her flat into the mud.

“Stay down. I hear mud is quite good for the pores.” Jack smiled smugly above her. His hand flicked away mud stuck to his shoulder, his pretty face contorted in disgust at the slimy substance. Yvonne felt three fingers curled in rage.

Mud hit him square in the face.

Grass gave way under her running feet, mud clinging to every step. Yvonne rose above the wheat, longbow well in hand and scowled.

The rampant wyrm edged closer to the horizon’s town, chased by heroic fools. They formed a thick ring of delusion around it, leaving little view of so much as a scale. Yes, nothing like protecting people by chasing a knock-off dragon straight into town with a fountain to easily poison - delightful planning all round.

If ever a bounty landed upon them, Yvonne could only hope that she was the closest nearby to collect.

“Keep it up! Don’t let it focus on one of us, divide up its’ attention-” one of the bucketheads yelped, stumbling into the ground. “Hey watch it!”

Yvonne kept running. Ahead Arthur, ever the brute with the sword, was having a day whacking the beast with the blunt blade, unphased by the lightning spewing out of the mage’s hands. Hard scales did not give way under the weight of the sword and the sparks of lightning danced off its spine. Neither seemed to care, and kept at it.

Another arrow was pulled and she took her aim.

A howl of pain erupted out of the blinded beast. Its claws scrapped at the hurt eye, its head thrashing into the air and against the ground but the arrow stayed deep within its eye.

It was supposed to go deeper. If it could be forced to go deeper, the hunt would be done, the day won and the group ignored for as long as possible.

A strong hand yanked her back. Bright eyes brightened in disgusting charm with that smile.

“Apologies fair lady, but you have done enough. This is far above the capabilities of a so-called huntswoman. Leave the rest to us heroes! We'll take things from here.” The brute lifted his sword over his shoulder and grinned. He winked.

Yvonne kicked him back as hard as she could in the stomach.

The wyrm’s poison ripped between them, licking Yvonne’s boots. She rolled onto her feet and sprinted forward past the mage, past the fool with a wok and leaped forward.

This roar echoed into her ears. It thrashed its neck, desperate to throw off the hunter holding on. It turned to escape back into its well but was met with a worse wall Bolts and lightning and a sword blocked its path. Once more it reared, and turned, back to the horizon to run. The soft earth was crushed beneath its feet. mud divided into a wide valley under its belly as the shapes in the distance quickly started to become buildings.

Right then. No time like the present.

Yvonne crawled forward, grasping onto every fin and horn she could to fight against the creature's slime. The beast’s neck between her thighs, she reached forward for the arrow.

It slammed its neck against the ground.  Yvonne gritted her teeth, clenching back a yowl at the rocks and earth and sticks ripping at her back. All she could do was hold on. The cloak clung to each edge of dirt, tearing and separating into strung-together shreds until finally, finally the beast's neck rose once more. Her shoulder shook as she dared to look up. The buildings were becoming more and more detailed by the minute.

It had to be now.

Both shaking hands grabbed the arrow and pushed as hard as they could.

The screech ripped through the air. The wyrm shook and slammed but the arrow went deeper and deeper, refusing to leave. White claws scratched into stone, desperate to stop the flow of blood, desperate to flee its death.  

It screeched once more at the dry sky and slammed against the bloodied stones.

She did not move her hands until the neck between her thighs stopped moving and the blood had pooled beneath.

Cobbled stone met bloodied, burnt boots, Yvonne sliding off its neck and splattering more blood onto her pants. Ruddy blood clung to brown hair, thick strands long since fallen out of her braid and spattering across a hardened, tired face. A deep breath ripped through her shoulders and she looked up.

People had come out of their homes, edging to the brink of town where the monster lay, to see what the commotion was. Few dared near the beast, dead as it were. The ones that did stayed far out of the reach of the wet blood. She couldn’t fault them - wyrm poison was no joke. It was a boon for it to have died before finding the local well or fountain. A blood-soaked hand pushed back a few strands of hair. She pulled out a very crumpled, and very messy, bounty.

"Brohias? Is there a Brohias here?"

The gaudiest suit she’d ever seen was wearing a short man with a beard - a mayor or leader or chief of some sorts, if she had to guess. He stepped out of the crowd and approached, holding a coin purse at his side, cautious to being given away. He peered up at her, before peering around her. “I am he. What do you seek?”

The bloody paper dripped blood inches away from his boots. "Your bounty, as requested."

"Yes, that was me. And," the man peered past her elbow at the mess of scales. "Are you certain that it is dead?"

Yvonne glanced back. She sighed and reached. A bloodied hand gripped the arrow and pulled. A final spurt of blood spilled onto the ground. No noise came out of the very dead wyrm.

The man grinned. Eagerly he stepped up to the wyrm’s head, whirling to face the crowd.

“Here ye, one and all! I, Bartholomew Brohias, am pleased to announce the bounty for this monster has been filled! No longer shall we quake in fear of the creature that haunts our rains and takes our children! As your mayor, it is my greatest joy to announce that my campaign promise to you has at last come to fruition!”

A cheer came from the crowd, adults and children alike shouting in joy. Rain and nights would no longer cast the town into shades of fear. Yvonne removed what tatters remained of her cloak and inspected the damage against the muted words of the crowds. Perhaps the mayor could be leveraged into including a free cloak in the payment.

After he was done giving himself laurels.

“Good hunter, please, take this on behalf of our town. Our town is grateful to your hard labor and find it necessary to reward you.” Coins clinked together and she very much perked up at the sound. He likely didn't find it necessary, but a mayor too stubborn to pay the hunter was never a popular man amongst the people. She couldn't care less.

Money matter.

Money - enough for new arrows, a new ax, food, mayhaps a new cloak - was held out to her in overly ornate gloves. Finally. What a blessing it would be to actually sleep in an inn for once. For once, those idiots and their troublesome habits were worth the suffering-

“Hold it right there!”

She wasn’t going to make it look like an accident. No one would question what had killed these fools.

“Why, goodness, you’re - welcome, welcome to town! We didn’t expect any celebrities to be coming through here.” The mayor held the coin purse back, missing the glare at his head coming from above. He stepped forward and bowed deeply. Brown-noser. “What brings the Fearless 7 to our humble town?”

The mage - Marlin or whatever his name was- glared up at the hunter before leveling his gaze at the mayor. “We are here for the wyrm.”

“Oh. Well… We’re grateful for your offer of help, and flattered such renowned heroes would come to help us, but… um…” The mayor gestured helplessly at Yvonne.  “As you can see, the situation has been...”

Blood clung to every scar, every loss hair. It did not hide the glare well.

The mayor cleared his throat.

"Managed, as it were."

He scoffed. The magical lightning rod scoffed.

“Managed? You call this mess ‘managed’? Look at this. Look at her. Look at your town. She chases a beast into your town and you call this ‘managed’?”

A murmur broke out. Yvonne scowled, staring down at the brat. Not this shit again. Not today. “As I recall, you lot are the ones who screamed and scared it out of its well.”

“We were doing our jobs! Jobs that we are experienced at, miss. You don’t see us making a mess out of a simple hunt.” The sword, unsullied of much blood or effort, slid back into Arthur's holster. “This hunt was over your head. No one should have been hunting such a thing alone. You could have gotten hurt.”

“And what, leave it you? You gave me no choice. It was either let you chase a beast to town or kill it before it poisoned the water supply, there was no other choice but to risk getting hurt. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have had to finish it off like this.”

“Are you saying we couldn't have handled it? Us?"

There is was. The crowd fell deadly silent. The leader of the F7 glaring, all of them standing tall and pristine, looking up at a bloodied, tattered stranger standing between them and the beast. Their beast. Their monster to slay.

"You brutally massacred a deadly, poisonous wyrm in front of others, knowing full well that the heroes were here to handle it, all over some coin?” The mage looked her head to toe, unimpressed. “We hunted the beast so as to spare these good townspeople pain and misery at its claws, yet you have the arrogance to not only make a mess of things and getting in our way, but also to ask them to pay you for it? How dare you demand such a thing from them?”

The tattered cloak crumbled in her fist. The murmurs were quickly turning into familiar angry whispers. She glanced at the mayor. His coin purse was secure in both his clutching hands as his eyes cast her a fiercely distrusting glare as the Fearless 7 stood between him and a bloodied hunter.

Right.

There would be no winning today.

With a deep breath Yvonne glared down at the mage -the worthless sack of bones and skin and lies - and shoved past him, staring down at the road. A gross smirk turning to a cheering crowd, a fickle silly crowd, cheering to the heroes saving them from the beast and the hunter that felled it was a sight she had no interest in seeing once more.

The rest of the group was of no interest either. She wiped her bloody hand on the invisible cloak of the brat, shoved past the brute and the fool with a wok and continued on her way.

It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth the fight, the lies, the bullshit these idiots would spew. At best, the people would be confused and neither would get their pay. At worst, this and every town nearby would hear of the hunter slighting the precious F7 yet again, daring to claim to do a better job, daring to insult them by telling the truth, how she had kicked one out of danger or silenced one before his squawking got them killed all killed.

The road was long and full of villages. There were rivers to wash off in and stars to sleep under, food to eat and pelts to turn to clothes. There would be other bounties. There would be plenty of prey. And if she was lucky, and there was a crumble of fairness in this vast world, there would be justice.

Maybe a dragon would do them in. Or a witch. It would be grand if it was a witch who did it, someone who was creative with their magical punishments, make them really suffer without killing them.

All she could do was hope.

[but-master]

[🥀 for guin?]

Tales of Love II No Longer Accepting II So this is uh... really long slkdfj so sorry! No warnings apply except for brief mentions of show-typical violence and so much pining it hurts lol II Words: 2571 II  Prompt: 🥀 - disappointed love

--

When Guinevere was born, she was graced with a name that meant “fair one.” It was auspicious, hopeful, promising her to good things as she grew—good things like a good marriage. One of royal importance and grandeur; it meant she would never want for anything, and she would be blessed by the heavens above.

As she grew into the name, her hair light and long, shining like gold in the sun, the promises only grew more tantalizing. Her father could see increasingly higher-stationed names lining up by the day, as she was reared strong, brave, kind, and just. She was sharp and quick-witted, and though she was no knight, she was brought up with a bow in her hands; no queen of Cameliard would ever find herself defenseless.

At least… not again.

Guinevere had been too young to hear the thunder of horses as they approached, or to know what that meant. She had been just able to open her eyes, just able to cry, when her father was left to pick up the pieces of Cameliard alone, after days of siege. As soon as she’d been old enough to understand what sharp things were, and what they could do to a creature, she’d been fitted for a shortbow, with the assurance that she’d graduate to longbows as she came of age. They would not lose a second queen.

She was only seven summers old when her father interrupted her shooting practice, though, and gently took the bow from her hands, replacing it with a small, wooden box, inside of which rested her mother’s childhood tiara. It was gold, polished to gleaming, and along the metal were set tiny, white pearls. Obligation had caught her at last, and the time for tricks and play had ended.

Days later, when Guinevere turned it over in her hands before she entered the halls of Camelot—for which she’d been given the thing in the first place—she noticed a small dent in the band, about the size of her thumb pad. It made her giggle.

Even her own mother had been a… what was the world her father used sometimes? A “spitfire.”

She’d dented her own crown.

Or perhaps that was what Guinevere chose to imagine. The thought that anything else could have caused the blemish did not once occur to her, even as she grew older, and learned to think deeply about everything, down to the smallest sound or littlest loose thread.

There was something comforting about being like the mother she couldn’t remember, but had always heard good things of.

When she’d entered the halls of Camelot’s court, she’d stood straight, chin up, the combs of the tiara digging into her scalp. She wondered distantly if her mother had complained about the sensation.

She wondered if she was doing as well as she had at her age.

The thought was abandoned, however, as she concentrated hard when she granted Uther Pendragon her best curtsey, and then a second to the beautiful, famed Queen Igraine. Something in her chest swelled when the lady presented her with a private smile for her troubles. It felt like she was being let in on some secret sisterhood. From queen to princess, encouragement passed.

Guinevere practically floated through the dance steps the rest of the night.

Even when Arthur, the boy her age—the Camelot prince—tripped over her feet, she hardly felt it, and did not stumble, despite the way his grip on her hand tightened in his panic, threatening to topple her with him.

Instead, she helped correct his footfalls from the corner of her mouth, and as she did so, he looked at her with huge eyes, blue as the seas in her picture books. He mumbled a “thank you” as soft as kitten fur, as sweet as the honey she put in her milk, when her baroness said she was allowed to—fine, but you can’t do it too often; it’s no good for children to become spoiled.

She didn’t think Arthur was spoiled.

He’d said “thank you,” after all.

His demeanor remained soft as they grew, and she continued to believe in his virtue, but the shy sweetness he’d shown her when he was young began to only occur around her, when they were alone for only flashes of moments, before someone came looking for the pair of them, who weren’t supposed to be alone together outside of the view of chaperones and guards alike. Even when Morgana was around—her dearest friend, and closest companion—Arthur took on the behaviour of a knight, a strong and cold defender, from behind imaginary armor, painted with the colors of Camelot’s flags.

It was not hard to watch, Guinevere was fairly sure. She didn’t think it hurt so bad to see him that way. He was being strong for her.

He was being strong for her, so she started leaving her bow at home when she came to visit Camelot— often for months at a time, much to her father’s delight.

Without her bow, and without regular training, her skills plateaued in her late teenage years, but she was always assured that this was alright.

Especially after Arthur, who’d grown tall and broad, pulled Caliburn from stone, and later, by the candlelight in his chambers, he’d sworn into her hand that she’d never feel endangered again. He’d keep her safe as long as he lived, as long as she allowed him so, as he pressed kisses to her fingers and the tiny bones in her wrists.

Her chest had been fluttery when she’d agreed. She’d let herself be protected, for as long as he would swear to protect her, and she’d leaned over to seal it with a kiss.

The promise that had passed that day had been timed well; Cameliard was inching ever closer to war, as the city tensed for oncoming marauders. To have someone swear to keep her safe, as her thoughts dwelled near always on her father and his kingdom… how could she possibly say no?

Even as she wished for not only her own safety, but the safety of her people, as well, she could not find it in herself to say no. It was selfish, she thought, but, then, she’d never pretended that she wasn’t.

So, truthfully, it was no shock when Leodegrance met with Merlin, Camelot’s court wizard, and Arthur’s official advisor, not a few weeks later, to discuss her dowry.

Merlin was the closest thing to a royal ambassador that Camelot had, for their prince was still so young, not yet married, not yet having achieved victory in war.

Meanwhile, as the invaders pressed harder at Cameliard’s borders, the people were crying out louder and louder by the day for hope, for some good news.

In the end, the decision was easy.

Leodegrance met with Merlin, and the conversation was brief.

One turn of the moon later, she and Arthur were wedded. Her father sent her to live in Camelot full-time, and with her, she brought a grand round table made of sturdy oak—it had been Uther’s before he’d died, had been passed to her father for safekeeping, until Arthur could inherit it.

As Arthur was granted a golden crown and declared king of all Camelot—which now included Cameliard— it was deemed time. So, he was given the round table, and began to seek out those who would fill its chairs.

Guinevere was passed over entirely.

It didn’t hurt as much as she’d expected it would.

When she was younger, her father had told her stories of her mother. He’d pointed at the stars from where Guinevere craned her neck out her window to see, and he’d described to her which ones her mother loved; he’d told her the stories she’d told him, the ones she’d make up on the spot to describe why she saw shapes in them. She was creative, her father said. She was creative and bold, and her humor could have made a sailor’s toes curl. She’d had hair like gold as well, and when Guinevere was old enough to understand how to do her own, she’d asked her father how her mother wore it.

Every morning from then on, she’d tied it into a bun, securing a braid over the crown of her head, and smiled at her reflection.

But there was no place at the Round Table for braids and star stories.

Besides, she had a place to sit already. She’d gained it upon her wedding day, achieved it when she married Arthur.

At the ceremony, she’d worn her hair that same way, deft fingers flying through the steps, as gracefully as when she carefully selected each arrow in her quiver when she was home.

But she was not running her thumb over fletches that day. Instead, she was brushing her hair, length by length, treating it with gentle oils, until it shone as brilliantly as Caliburn itself. She’d strung flowers throughout it all, and had nestled a pretty gold crown behind the braid.

In the mirror, she’d squared her shoulders, and had not smiled.

Arthur looked beautiful, when she strode in to lay eyes on him, standing in the church beside Merlin, who wore his typical armor, though it was polished and cleaned. A blue and gold cape had been draped over his shoulders, and the wizard regarded the affair down his nose, as he seemed always to do, no matter what situation he was in.

Guinevere couldn’t say she blamed him this time, though.

There was gold and pearl and sapphire everywhere, and it was suffocatingly bright. Guinevere clutched the rope in her hands as if it would whisk her away from all of this.

How could she celebrate now? Her kingdom was being ransacked, surely, as she stood in a gown of opulence, to wrap a cord around her wrist and swear fealty to a different king.

The words of love were not heavy or bitter. She would not pretend they were.

She cared for Arthur, truly. As surely as she cared for him, she spoke the words, and they felt like cream on her tongue. Not sour or difficult to swallow, but they coated her mouth, made her throat feel dry.

She resisted clearing it, and instead, let Arthur kiss her lips gently. It was not the first time they’d kissed, nor would ever be their last, but as he swept her into it in front of the enormous crowd, she wondered if he felt as dispassionate about it as she did.

Kissing him like this was a show, a signal that their marriage would be consummated, a signal that they’d be bound together forever, even after the rope fell to the plush, velvet carpet of the church’s altar, having served its purpose.

Guinevere was now, and forever more, Queen, not of Cameliard, but of Camelot, somewhere which she did not despise, but equally, somewhere that was not her home.

Perhaps having no place at the Table was the better fate, after all.

The closest thing to home that she felt anymore was when she was with Morgana. A knight who felt so dispassionately about her kingdom would do no good.

Still… she relearned her bow skills anyway, when Arthur was off on quests, or when he didn’t ask where she was going when she left the castle, too wrapped up in duty to even notice her absence.

Morgana didn’t mind when she brought her bow, though, when the two of them left together, every so often.

In fact, Morgana would try to hit her arrows, arced high into the air, with bursts of magic and sparks, which lit Guinevere’s eyes up, as she watched. Yellow as the pretty flowers in the meadows of the Wild Wood, Morgana’s magic was adept, powerful, stunning. It stole Guinevere’s breath almost as often as seeing Morgana’s hair on fire when sunlight hit it did.

Guinevere wanted to touch it.

She wasn’t sure if anyone else had ever dared touch a candle flame, but sometimes when she was alone, she stared at the black, chalky wicks, as they curled beneath the orange fire which perched so carefully upon them, and thought of reaching over, quick and sly, to see if the flames really were soft as they looked, as soft as Morgana’s hair looked.

Sometimes, she’d get close. She’d reach one finger near enough for it to sting in the heat that surrounded the candle at her bedside; she’d flex her fingers and almost reach out a hand to brush stray hairs back into place, when they fell across Morgana’s eyes or nose. But she’d always hiss and pull her finger away before she could burn it; she’d always clasp her hands in front of herself demurely, if only to keep from extending her wanton hand.

She was married. She’d sworn loyalty to Arthur.

She could not jeopardize that for wanting something she had no place wanting, to begin with.

Despite her best efforts, though, it burned all the same, entirely unresponsive to even her strongest resistances, her tensest moments of please no’s. It burned deep in the pit of her stomach, unshakeable, unyielding, at its worst during nights when she couldn’t fall asleep. When she stirred through fitful dozing, in and out, under the grey light of the moon.

Those were the nights when her nightgown tangled with the bedsheets because she’d rolled one way and back again so much that she couldn’t remember which way she favored for sleep, and when her restlessness would wake even her heavy sleeper of a husband, whose blue eyes were bright in the dark, when he slipped them open with worry. Try as he might to insist that his sister got all of the magic in the family, Guinevere had never once believed him, seeing the way he practically glowed in the pitch of their room, even when their curtains were drawn.

“Guinevere, why are you still awake?” He would ask.

She’d never know what to say. He would ask her something to that effect every time, and she would never know what to say, no matter how often it happened.

“Oh… merely thinking, Arthur. It’s nothing.” She’d reassure him, brushing her fingers over his brow, in an attempt to placate him, silence his questions.

It never worked. Instead, his eyes would pierce her through, and he’d level her with a look, disbelieving and evermore concerned. “If it were nothing,” he’d say quietly, “You wouldn’t be in fits over it.”

And she’d huff a soft laugh, murmur, “guilty,” and pretend to smile back as he’d break into a tiny chuckle, before pulling her into his arms, holding her close to his chest, thinking this a merciful comfort.

He’d go on to kiss her cheek and tell her that whatever it was, he would keep it from harming her for now and forever, and she would come up just shy of believing him.

Then, he’d slip back into sleep, and she’d lie awake, feigning it, resisting movement, even if she had an itch on her nose, so as not to awaken him again, and Guinevere would close her eyes and pretend that someone else was holding her, instead.

And sometimes, if she was lucky, then maybe she would eventually drift into a nap of sorts, only minutes long, and dream pleasantly of touching candles, and a long, red braid.

[rayne-storm]

I hope you're having a great day! Here's day four! Who's the tallest character? Who's the shortest? Do your characters get worked up over who's taller?

Guinevere is taller than Lancelot but shorter than Arthur, which she takes, just, massive offense to. She's always been the biggest and tallest in her family/immediate social circle, and now that she's in Camelot there's all these tall people!!!! Why!!!! Why is there now enough for a "Taller Than Guin" Club?!!!

The "Taller Than Guin" Club, in order from tallest to shortest, and her feelings on this matter:

Merlin - a very tall boy standing at roughly 7.5 Feet Tall, but he may or may not be part tree? He is very old (even if he doesn't look it), and she respects him very deeply, and maybe he is so tall because of magical secrets? She will allow it.

Gawain - she likes him but does not appreciate this sweet young man being an entire head taller than she is. Yes, this does make him the natural challenger to Sir Kalitrab (regardless of his own feelings on the matter), and she still is physically stronger than he is (he cannot fire her longbow), but this is highly rude of him.

Mordred - she allows him to be taller than her because he is her beloved little boy regardless of his stature. Also, both of his biological parents are taller than her, so she supposes she cannot be mad at genetics. It is also very sweet when he gives her hugs and rests his chin so gently on her head that she sometimes has to have a little cry about it.

Morgana - a very tall woman, and she will respect the hell out of all tall ladies (even if they are taller than her). She is also taller than Arthur, so Guinevere feels some kind of vengeance-by-proxy about it.

Sir Kay - he is a beanpole, but he doesn't like her teasing so she grumbles privately.

Arthur - Why is he so tall??????? No!!! Uther Pendragon was a tiny pissbaby, why is Arthur taller than her?!!! She loves him but she also hates that she has to look up at him. It is very rude of him to be so tall. (For his part, Arthur loves to tease her and Lancelot about his "superior stature" and "well I suppose being God's Own Chosen King has some perks....") ((For the record, he is only a little taller, 6 feet, 5 inches))

Galahad - it's fine. Whatever. He's only just barely taller than her, and if he is barefoot and she is also barefoot but has her hair up, she is taller, technically. He is but an honorary member of the Club, at Mordred's behest.

Guinevere herself stands at a gorgeous 6 foot 3 Inches tall, and is (besides Morgana) the tallest woman in Camelot by a good margin.

Lancelot is about an inch shorter, so the three of them really aren't terribly disparate in height, as demonstrated thusly:

The shortest person in Camelot is probably Isolde, but she doesn't mind.

The tallest person, right this moment, though, is Sir Kalitrab. He is just shy of 9 feet tall, and here is a height chart for full effect which includes the Trio above, Gawain, and himself:

((for the charts I used this site (mrinitialman.com), and it can't really modify the body shapes, just the heights, so this isn't a fully accurate model))

[ambrosiusaurelianusemrys]

I love it when people act like Arthur Pendragon being a woman is weird. Like... modern interpretations of historical and mythical figures tend to be really hilarious and “actually a woman” isn’t the most hilarious take I’ve ever seen about Arthur. Like that one transformers movie was weird. The one story where Galahad (going by “Hal”) is an ex-FBI guy and Arthur a ten year old was... also rather weird. Or the one where Arthur and the knights of the round table were firemen and Lancelot had some nice pics in some calendars (in the same book series, Robin Hood had a law firm). Starting on Robin... remember the one movie where he was a literal fox? And people telling me his fate version using a crossbow instead of a longbow is innacurate. Fairly certain my man wasn’t a fox either. All I’m saying is - have an open mind and maybe Merlin was actually a servant boy talking to Bad CGI Dragon all along.

[whumpookies]

Never done a oneshot here but here goes, this is based on my other fanfic just a gap filler after the coming of Arthur episode...

Reblog if you want.. actually do please 🤣

Clanging of sword upon sword, the whoosh of armour dancing to the dodge of sword strike slowly stopped "what are they up to?" Percival asked looking to the far end of the training field, 

"I've no idea" Lancelot smiled looking over though as perplexed as the others,

"they should know not to be on the field during training" Arthur groaned as he too watched as Talia, Matthew and the local blacksmith stood at the end of the training ground pointing out towards a field,

"whatever it is, the blacksmith won't agree" Leon spoke with certainty "that doesn't look like his saying no" Merlin muttered standing inches by Arthur and Leon.

"How does she do it? First the cook now the blacksmith" Arthur groaned the other knights grinned, "should have knighted them" Merlin laughed "Merlin shut up!"

--mean while between the smithy, Talia and Matthew--

"lady talia, you want a target?"

"Three possibly more actually, if you could?" 

"Why?" 

"So I can practice?"

"I'm a blacksmith, not a woodworker"

"I know sir, but I also know blacksmiths are known for their skill at precision" Talia's hazel eyes innocently looked up at the burly man,

"I suppose I could, how far apart?" 

"Staggered, up to seven hundred meters away at least"

"You can shoot that?"

"Yes" she smiled watching the tall burly man ponder the request, scratching his stubbled chin for a time "I'll do it, but, I want to see you make the shot" 

"If I do?" 

"That longbow of your needs replacing, you make the shot I'll make you one, you don't, a pheasant for each target I make"

Talia glanced at her silent friend who shrugged whilst trying to hide a grin, 

"Deal sir" 

Hands were grasped, the deal was set, all she had to do now was think of the next longbow design.

[dirigibleplumbing]

I was tagged by @ishipallthings and @suitofhumour

RULES: List your Top 5 Canon and Top 5 Non-Canon OTPs. Then, tag 10 people.

Canon: 

Ruby/Sapphire | Garnet (Steven Universe) 

Quentin Coldwater / Eliot Waugh (The Magicians)

Fox Mulder / Dana Scully (X-Files) 

Chidi Anagonye/Eleanor Shellstrop (The Good Place)

Korra / Asami (Avatar: Legend of Korra)

Non-canon 

Steve Rogers/Tony Stark (Marvel)

Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter (NBC Hannibal) 

Harry Potter / Draco Malfoy (Harry Potter)

James T. Kirk / Spock (Star Trek) 

Hardison/Parker/Eliot (Leverage) 

Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (BBC Merlin) 

Yep, that’s 6. That’s partially because I tend to (mistakenly) think of Will/Hannibal and Hardison/Parker/Eliot as canon, even though it’s not really confirmed onscreen. Here’s hoping we get a season 4 of Hannibal and a season 6 of Leverage and get to see these people onscreen romantically involved and doing ridiculous shit together (for, um, varying types of ridiculous). 

I’m only a season into Killing Eve and thus not sure where it falls in canon, and I haven’t read any fic for it yet due to fears of spoilers, so I left if off, but I fucking love Eve Polastri/Villanelle. 

I tag @idisplayedadaptability, @elcorhamletlive, @bill-longbow, @fanfictiongreenirises, and @blossomsinthemist, and anyone else who wants to do this! (Yes I know that’s not 10 people.) 

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

Hello! Love love the blog so much!!! The stories are incredible. I particularly like the part in the one story where Merlin is a secret BAMF with a sword. I know you don’t really do this so feel free to ignore this question but do you know any other stories that involve the same idea?

(Masterlist) (Rec List)

Uuuhhh... Merlin being good with a sword and/or generally badass. That could be a couple of mine:

Merlin is a Badass Series - Not so much with a sword, but he kicks a ridiculous amount of ass with daggers and his fists, and then semi-tortures someone for information.

Scar Reveal Series - Arthur forces Merlin to join in on training one day, and Merlin beats both Lancelot and Arthur in a sword spar. Though the main point of the story is that Merlin's tunic comes off and all of his scars are revealed.

Marksman!Merlin - Merlin learns to use a longbow, not much actual fighting in it, but he still kills a few people, much to the bewilderment of the others.

Child!Soldier!Merlin - I think this might be the one you're thinking of. Merlin's tragic past as a child soldier from Essetir is revealed by his previous... owner? Said Essetirian Lord convinces Arthur to make Merlin join in on training, where he beats all five knights (Lance, Elyan, Gwaine, Percival, and Leon) and then refuses to fight Arthur.

As for other Recs, these ones from my Rec List have Merlin being a Badass outside of his magic:

Is This the Best You Can Do? - A set of two fics in which Merlin is just generally really cool and keeps saving the gang. Not with swords, but in one he just takes torture really well and then leads the rescue mission, and in the other he survives being poisoned and then kills the people that had captured him and the gang. I think. It's been a while since I read them lol.

Throwing Them Through Hoops - Merlin makes a bet with a mean knight that he can throw daggers better than everyone else. He wins the bet.

A Considerable Headstart - The gang follow Merlin into the woods, where they see him have a VERY concerning conversation with an evil visiting Lord. Then they have a sword fight, which Merlin wins. That's only half of the fic, the rest is about everyone realising that they teat Merlin badly, and don't really know anything about him anymore. Still a GREAT fic though.

The servant´s tournament - Uther decides that because of how often Arthur gets attacked, his manservant needs to also be able to act as a bodyguard. He insists on a tournament that anyone can enter, and the winner will become Arthur's new manservant. Arthur basically resigns himself to losing Merlin, who he is convinced is a wimp with a sword. Merlin wins, though the tournament is anonymous so no one knows until he reveals himself at the end and Uther goes "Oh... I guess as a reward you can... keep your job?". Arthur is dumbfounded, 'tis very funny.

Do You Have Need of Me? - Merlin is the Spymaster, and has been since not long after he arrived in Camelot. He reveals himself to Arthur and things get really tense and angsty because trust issues. A healthy dose of God!Merlin later on. Happy ending though :D

Around the Corner (Secrets Lie) - Elyan accidentally walks in on (without Merlin noticing) Merlin apprehending and consequently extracting information from a would-be assassin. Before killing him, and then just going about his day. Elyan is like... not sure whether to be horrified, impressed, guilty, proud, or what.

~

There are plenty more on both my Masterlist and my Rec List with Badass!Merlin with his magic, but these are all the ones where he's badass specifically without his magic :D

[motleymoose]

Woad to Ruin

Challenge: @mamaredd123 ‘s Mama’s 1K/Birthday Challenge

Prompt: King Arthur (2004), King Arthur soundtrack by Hans Zimmer

Characters: Reader, Donna Hanscum (Guinevere), Dean Winchester (Arthur), Sam Winchester (Gawain), Charlie Bradbury (Tristran), Bobby Singer (Merlin), Crowley (Cerdic) (did I miss anybody?)

Words: 2,400+

Warnings: ANGST, GORE & BLOOD & DEATH, language, slight taste of fluff

Summary: Y/N and Dean’s knights fight the Saxons.

A/N: This happened to be one of my favorite movies back when it came out. This is a recreation of the siege at Hadrian’s Wall. Feedback is always appreciated!

*gif not mine

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Thick, oily smoke rolled lazily over the wet greenness of the open field. A single line of warhorses with armored riders stood in front of waving banners as the great gates of Hadrian’s Wall were pulled open, allowing a swarm of Saxon invaders through.

Dean looked to Charlie, who shifted in her saddle and let loose an arrow from her longbow. It flew silently, cutting through the heavy air with ease. A breath later, they heard a muffled thwok and a grunt as the arrow met a target.

“Signal a volley from the woads,” Dean ordered.

Charlie held up a fist and whistled, and the sky turned dark with bolts. An uproar followed as the arrows hit their marks.

A humorless smile spread across Sam’s face as he shifted forward in the saddle. “Let’s go take care of the rest, shall we?”

……………….

Atop the hill, hidden among the trees with the rest of her clan, Y/N watched as the Roman knights charged into the dense smoke. Even with her keen eyesight, she was finding it difficult to locate Charlie in the black fog. She was so focused on finding the redheaded knight that she didn’t hear Donna approach.

“Do not worry, sister. You too will have your fill of Saxon blood.”

“I do not think there is enough of it to quench my thirst,” Y/N replied with a grim smirk. Invaders from the North had left her orphaned at a young age, and it was proving to be impossible to fight the berserker blood that flowed in her veins. The flames wanted to consume her, to unleash her fury upon the Northmen and avenge her family’s murders. Her hands were itching to cleave an axe through her enemies skulls, and her tongue yearned for the taste of Saxon blood. The berserker rage was pulling her deeper and deeper into its embrace, slowly eating away at the walls she had built to control it.

Donna lightly touched Y/N’s shoulder, giving her a worried glance before unsheathing her daggers. “The battle will soon be upon us.”

The small band of riders broke through the thinning smokescreen, the success of the first attack evident in their postures. Dean split from the group and rode to confer with Bobby while the others fell into formation, awaiting for the next stage of battle. Their horses were chomping their bits, tossing sod as they pawed violently at the earth. Blood and gore splattered their chests and sides, and their eyes were white with excitement. The knights themselves seemed calm and collected. There was a strange quietness hanging between them, though, and all of the joviality and exhilaration had dissipated.

In the distance, a marching cadence had started. All along the edge of the forest, the warriors nocked arrows and drew weapons. Y/N could feel the flames of her berserker rage expanding greedily within her chest as red edged her vision.

“Not long now,” Donna whispered.

.............................

Y/N lost one of her short battle axes when she joined the fray. The crush of bodies made it all but impossible to get a good swing, so she left it buried in a Northman’s chest in exchange for his short sword. Another fur-clad warrior was upon her in a heartbeat, and she had just yanked the sword free from his neck when she saw Donna collapse.

“Donna!” she shrieked, darting through the bedlam towards her sister, felling anyone who crossed her path. A red haze all but consumed her vision as she fought to get outside of the chaos, her axe and short sword a blur of sharp steel and death.

………………………..

The Saxon stood over Donna triumphantly as he raised his broadsword to deal a final blow. Donna dragged herself backwards, lips curled as she growled menacingly, her hands blindly searching for anything she could use to defend herself. Her fingertips grazed the head of a crossbow bolt, and she desperately palmed it as she pulled herself into a crouch.

The Norseman laughed and took a step closer. “Filthy woad scum! We will rid this la-oof!”

From out of nowhere, Y/N tackled the Saxon soldier, driving her shoulder solidly into the middle of his back. Almost at the exact same instant, Donna had flung herself at him, stabbing at his neck with the bolt while clawing at his eyes with her free hand.

Roaring curses at the two warriors, the man stumbled, landing heavily on his face with Y/N and Donna striking his head and neck.

“Y/N, that’s enough!” Donna shouted as she backed away from the dead Northman.

Y/N was beginning to froth at the mouth, her eyes wide with madness as the rage overtook her. Her vision completely washed in crimson, Y/N’s only instinct was to kill, to destroy the man that lay under her. She ignored the ache in her shoulders and chest as she repeatedly stabbed at the enemy with her dagger.

Kill them… kill them all….

“Enough!” With what little strength she could muster, Donna grabbed Y/N by the shoulders and hauled her off of the body. Y/N hissed, diving back towards the dead man. Enraged, Donna caught her by her hair, using the momentum to slam her to the ground.

Gasping, Y/N stared at her sister in shock. The anger began to ebb, and her eyes cleared somewhat. Trembling with exhaustion, she glanced to what was left of the Saxon and swallowed back bile. Very little of what was left of him was recognizable. Slowly, she picked herself up and sighed in relief. “Thank you, sister.”

“It’s what I do,” Donna coughed, leaning gratefully upon Y/N’s outstretched hand as she rose from her knees.

Handing her sister the short sword, she nodded as she quickly surveyed the battle. Not far from where they stood, she spotted Charlie and Sam back to back, fending off a dozen armed enemy soldiers. “Are you good?”

“I’ll survive.” Donna followed her gaze to the knights. “Go, they need you.”

Squeezing Donna’s hand in farewell, Y/N threw herself back into the chaos, her axe claiming as much blood as it could.

…………………………...

Y/N never made it to Charlie and Sam.

As soon as she re-entered the melee, she was set upon by two Saxons. One jabbed his pike at her gut while the other swung at her with a short sword. She was able dodge the sword and knock the pike aside, but not before the head of it grazed her hip, leaving a long, violent gash.

Y/N snarled and then laughed as the berserk rage came roaring to the surface, drowning out the pain.

Fueled by bloodlust, she spun, gripping the swordsman’s outstretched arm and tumbling him into his partner. She yanked the pike from the other Northman and took him out at the knees with the shaft before driving the head home into his stomach. Blood bubbled from this mouth as his hands automatically gripped the shaft of the pike. Y/N immediately whirled from him, blocking another attack from the swordsman as she pulled a hunting knife from her belt.

“Bitch!” he spat, lunging at her.

Y/N leapt aside at the last moment, sending him headfirst to the earth. Snarling, the Saxon sprung to his feet and froze, the large hunting knife burying itself into his chest. Gasping, he fell to his knees, mouth agape as Y/N approached. She took a fistful of his long hair, forcing his head back until he was staring up at the gray sky.

“Please,” he rasped, blood staining his teeth.

“My pleasure,” she sneered. Yanking the knife from his chest, she drew it swiftly across his throat. The Northman gave one last gurgle before falling backwards.

Laughing triumphantly, Y/N reclaimed her single short axe and the Saxon sword. Flourishing it to test the balance, she smiled menacingly at the Briton warrior standing in awe beside her, his own foe still writhing on the turf. “Come, brother. Let’s finish this.”

The clansman crouched low, his twin rapiers at the ready. Y/N followed suit, her back to his, as she beckoned to an enemy soldier bearing a mace.

“Want to play?”

……………………….

Four Northmen later, Y/N had lost sight of Charlie. She darted to and fro, helping out where she was needed. The Saxon numbers were dwindling, but they still had an army larger than Bobby’s own. For every woad they killed, two Northmen would join them. It was now a contest to see which side could survive the longest.

She was in the midst of a fight with Crowley, the leader of the Saxons, when an arrow came from out of nowhere, embedding itself in her leg. Another hissed after it, slicing her ear as it zipped by. Shrieking in pain and outrage, Y/N fell to one knee as she tried to keep her sword on guard and assess the damage.

Crowley cocked his head, watching Y/N with vulture-like intent. Y/N eyed him warily as she prodded the area around the leg wound, biting back cries when she found a tender spot.

“I am in no hurry to kill you,” Crowley drawled as he tapped the toe of his boot with the flat of his broadsword. “You’ve proven to be a fine warrior.”

Struggling to stand upright, Y/N faced the Saxon chief. Blood slowly oozed from around the arrow in her thigh, staining her leather trousers. She gripped her sword and gritted her teeth, ready to spring at the first sign of movement. “You’re awfully full of yourself.”

Crowley smiled benignly, his own broadsword now resting casually against his leg. “Did you really think your little band of tree-dwellers had much of chance against me?”

Spitting a gob of blood, Y/N returned the smirk. “Did you really think you could take our homes so easily?”

Furrowing his brows, the Saxon leader took a step forward, gesturing lazily with his sword. “This land, it is nothing to us. We just enjoy killing everything in our path.”

Y/N quivered angrily. Eyes locked on Crowley, she bellowed in fury, wildly swinging at him with her sword. He easily dodged her attack, smacking the blade from her grasp as his elbow slammed into her face. Falling to one knee, Y/N could feel doubt and fear at the edges of her berserker rage as the weariness and the pain hit her. She wiped at her bloodied face with a hand, eyes searching hopelessly for a weapon.

Taking a few ambling steps to her left, Crowley picked up her lost sword, appraising it. With a shrug, he tossed it in front of her and waited.

Befuddled for a moment, Y/N quirked an eyebrow at Crowley. She didn’t trust him any farther than she could throw him, but something about the way he was patiently awaiting for her to decide her fate seemed true. Gritting her teeth, Y/N broke off the arrow’s shaft as close to the skin as she could. Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she slowly reached forward, snagging the hilt of the sword with her fingertips. She bit back a scream as she pulled it to her and used it to lever herself to her feet.

“Let’s finish this,” she growled. Her arms trembled as she raised the sword. Willing herself to move, Y/N stumbled sideways as she tested her legs. The arrowhead still deep within her thigh shifted slightly, causing searing pain to explode behind her eyes. A dark corona was overtaking her vision as she fought to stay upright and conscious.

Smirking mirthlessly, Crowley circled with her, keeping in step and watching her like a hawk. He noted the way she was swaying and how her blade dipped every time she took a step. There was little pleasure for him to kill someone who couldn’t fight back, but he could see there was still a spark of life in her.

Y/N cringed once more as she placed her foot wrong, jarring the arrowhead. She needed to act quickly, or Crowley would surely claim the upper hand. Inhaling deeply, Y/N steeled herself for the final assault.

Roaring her clan’s battle cry, Y/N launched herself at Crowley, the sword cleaving downward in a desperate attempt to disarm him.

Mildly shocked at her ferocity, Crowley swung his blade up to meet hers. Shoving forward, he forced her sword down, locking them together. He elbowed her hard in the sternum. Y/N grunted, dropping her sword as she staggered back. She was worn to her bones, and it was a miracle she was still was on her feet.

It would be so easy to give up, to let the bastard end it….

Suddenly, the berserker fury flared, giving Y/N renewed energy. Bellowing thunderously, she plowed into him and sent him sprawling on the muddy earth. As Crowley floundered, Y/N picked up his broadsword, weighing it expertly in her hands.

“Such a fine blade, maybe I should keep it” she mused.

Crowley mutely watched her as she limped closer, her eyes burning with an otherworldly flame.

Resting the point of it on his heart, she cocked her head. “Oh, but I’m sure you want it back.”

…………….

Most of the smoke had cleared by the time the battle ended. Two of the Roman knights had fallen during the siege, and their remaining brothers had prepared their bodies for burial. Charlie was among them, saying her last respects to the knights she considered family.

Y/N watched the small procession as she sat underneath a towering elm, a jug of mulled wine resting against her uninjured leg. She quietly waited for the ceremony to end, taking a pull every now and then from the jug. There was a muffled crunch behind her, and Donna emerged from the forest, a warm smile tugging at her lips.

“Sister, I hoped I would find you up here.”

“I thought I would bid my farewells before rejoining Father. I hear most of the knights are returning to their homelands in a fortnight?” Y/N lifted the jug to her lips again, letting the warm liquid flow over her tongue.

Arching an eyebrow, Donna nudged her sister’s shoulder. “I know you aren’t here just for that.” She winked mischievously. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you and Charlie pine for one another.”

Shaking her head, Y/N laughed in disbelief. “Charlie? No, she can’t be.”

“I’ve heard talk between Dean and Sam. She definitely is interested.”

Y/N blushed, trying to fight back a grin. Peering at the small group surrounding the graves, she caught a glimpse of Charlie’s red hair shining brightly in the high sun. A warm, fluttery feeling spread through her belly and chest, and she sighed. “Maybe… maybe I’ll stay for a little while longer.”

[ariesgamesandminis]

New Releases & Restocks!!!

Just in!!! New Releases (Minus the Sarath due to Sculpting Issues...it's pushed back to 2nd Quarter)...and some new to the store Archive & Online Exclusives!!!

20-220 Longbow LGB-12C 20-236 Marauder IIC 2 20-340 Kraken "Bane" 4 20-397 Orion ON1-M 20-440 Fireball ALM-7D / ALM-8D 20-5065 Kraken XR 20-5128 Highlander HGN-732 Resculpt 20-5142 Loki MK II Prime 20-5144 Goshawk II (Standard) 20-5145 Wasp WSP-1A 20-607RE Daishi "Dire Wolf" Prime 20-654 Hunchback IIC 20-809 Mauler MAL-1R 20-853 Panther PNT-9R 20-868 Dragon DRG-1N 20-888 Grasshopper GHR-5H 20-992 Raven RVN-3L 99-201 Large Flat Top Hex Base #1 99-202 Large Flat Top Hex Base #2 99-501 Medium Bunker 99-502 Large Bunker 99-600 Small Missile Launcher Turret 99-601 Large Gun 99-602 Large Missile Launcher AR20-204 NINJA-TO NJT-2 AR20-228 BURROCK AR20-232 BRIGAND LDT-1 AR20-241 RAZORBACK RZK-9S AR20-252 RED SHIFT RDS-2A AR20-257 FIRESTARTER FS9-O PRIME AR20-259 SARACEN MEDIUM HOVER TANK (2) AR20-339 BLADE BLD-7R AR20-362 NEXUS II NXS2-A AR20-629 Ti Ts' ANG TSG-9H AR20-630 YU HUANG Y-H9G AR20-638 MOG-1A RAKASHA AR20-646 JINGGAU JN-G8A AR20-648 VENOM SDR-9K AR20-649 WYVERN IIc AR20-657 DAIKYU DAI-01 AR20-659 NAGINATA NG-C3A AR20-669 ANV-3M ANVIL AR20-694 TOYAMA TYM-1A AR20-731 TAI-SHO TSH-7S AR20-754 LINEHOLDER KW1-LH2 AR20-760 BLACK LANNER (OMNI) AR20-763 MAELSTROM MTR-5K AR20-765 ENFIELD END-6Q AR20-794 ALBATROSS ALB-3A AR20-848 ORION (return) AR20-892 SHOGUN SHG-2F AR20-904 O'BAKEMONO OBK-M10 AR20-909 DRAGONFIRE DGR-3F AR20-911 CROSSBOW PRIME AR20-912 KINGFISHER PRIME AR20-916 MERLIN MLN-1A AR20-918 STALKING SPIDER AR20-931 URBAN MECH IIC AR20-937 BEOWULF BEO-12 AR20-941 MENSHEN MS1-0 PRIME AR20-945 CHEVALIER LIGHT TANK (2) AR20-946 BLITZKRIEG BTZ-3F AR20-957 LAO HU LHU-2B AR20-966 FALCON HAWK FNHK-9K AR20-981 JACKAL JA-KL-1532 AR20-990 LIGHTRAY LGH-4W BT-150 Rotunda (2750) BT-319 Wheeled APC BT-320 Tracked APC BT-321 Hover APC

www.ariesgamesandminis.com

[rayne-storm]

Day 16! Does your story use weapons? If so, what's your characters weapons? Do they have a reason for using it? If not, what would they use to defend themselves? (Keys, pans, kitchen knives, pepper spray, etc?)

Alright, some of this might be pretty obvious but here we go:

Arthur: Wields Excalibur, which was drawn from its stone by him, and is therefore loyal to him and a select few that he loves and trusts. It's a weapon of great power, and even has some healing abilities. When not using Excalibur, he's also a fair hand with staves. He prefers them, as they tend to be non-lethal.

Lancelot: is handy with pretty much any weapon, but does have favourites for different occasions. For fancy ceremonies where he just needs to look pretty, he often straps a morning star to his ceremonial armor. For sport-fighting (particularly against his husband or wife) he uses a net and blunted daggers. For hunting, he prefers a spear, for Frontline battle he uses a combination of hatchets and swords.

Guinevere: the queen of the Bow and Arrow, she has a longbow that's basically her baby, and arrows fletched with peacock feathers, as well as throwing knives for when the arrows run out. For sport-fighting her husbands, though, she switches things up and uses a slingshot with special, paint-filled "rocks" (so as not to actually hurt anyone) in combination with two small staves (compared to Arthur's one long one).

Mordred: when he can't use magic, he is absurdly good with daggers and whips.

Galahad: he's a sword and shield man all the way, but is reasonably okay in unarmed combat as well.

Tristan: throwing knives much like Guinevere, and he has a fondness for spears.

Gawain: axes all the way, but he's good with anything short-range.

Merlin: staff and also magic

Sir Kalitrab: he's an Axe Man :)

[whumpookies]

Merlin one shot, bit of humour can be found here

"No boat huh?"  Matthew muttered, scratching his head in slight confusion 

It was one thousand years later, and what would have been water was now fields, yet the Isle of the Blessed still sat on a hill in all its glory- the same hill that Talia and Matt stood facing. 

"No boat. That’s global warming for you," Talia shrugged easily as she placed down her longbow, making Matthew roll his eyes 

"So, what are we doing here?" Matthew asked as he sat on the hill looking down to the isle.

"Remember the last time we were here?" She asked, joining him sitting on the hill, their knees touching as they leaned back.

"Screaming vale, Doracha, cranky old woman, scarification of a soul to close the vail, Lancelot being an idiot, you warning the old hag..sure hard to forget, really. Why?" Matthew grinned cheekily. 

"Well, time for..revenge," she smirked. 

Matthew blinked..and blinked. "We're what?"

"Going to get revenge, well we ain't but..you’ll see," she half shrugged, laying back into the grass enjoying the rays from the warm sun.

"How? Or should I say why?" Matthew asked, looking over to her.

"Because I promised Lancelot I wouldn't get revenge...back then...didn't say anything about helping get revenge." Her eyes closed, unable to see the disbelieving look Matthew gave her. "You know he's gonna have kittens knowing what we're doing." She shrugged again, standing brushing the grass off her shoulders, Matthew following her actions. 

"That's why we'll tell him after we deal with the old crone," she grinned before grabbing Matthew's collar, dragging him down the hill towards the island.

"Just how are we doing this?" Matthew muttered climbing down the embankment.

"With a dragon." She answered, following him down the silence followed as Matthew stared at his best friend in shock. "A...dragon?"

"Yes, Merlin let me...borrow Kilgharrah"

"Borrow?" His eyebrows rose skywards, scepticism gracing his features. 

"Okay, not borrow...more like the dragon has it in for the hag, so we made a deal." Talia rolled her eyes before continuing along the field as Matthew huffed, "I don't want to know do I?"

"Nope." She answered, snickering. They carried on towards the Isle of the Blessed with a sense of mischief in their hearts.

"Just how did you get our swords and the longbow past the airport checkpoint?"

"You're really asking that now, Matt?"

"I'm curious, it’s not like you can say 'Hey officer, don't worry, just going to get revenge on Cailleach the old hag, then call a dragon, watch him eat her. Just ignore the swords, oh please don't check the blade, it's sharp. Oh look there goes your finger, don't matter if you hurry, it can be sewn on again!" Matthew counted off on his fingers, sarcasm dripping off his words.

"You finished?" She asked, rolling her eyes, once again asking herself why to the heavens. Surely deities were listening.

"Oh no, I've just started!" she sighed before clambering up the steps of the dry dock. "I actually said we're part of a cosplay team…"

"You what?!" 

"Now I bet you wished you never asked!" She cackled, walking down the dock, leaving a groaning Matthew. 

"You have no idea," he sighed.

It was as if time had stopped. The walls were damp, cobwebs spread in abundance, corridors dark until they spotted the light at the end of the tunnel leading to the altar. "How are we getting the old crone to come here? Not like we're sacrificing anyone...why are you looking at me like that?" Talia grinned at a very worried looking Matthew. "Don't worry, no scarification needed. Luckily Merlin knows a few tricks nowadays."

"Yeah, well he could at least get a haircut and a shave!"

"I think he's got the wizard look right down" she glanced over at him. 

"I still think Tolkien met him."

"What, to get the whole Gandalf look down?" She asked slightly confused

"Hell yes! Come on, both Merlin and Tolkien's characters have the beard and long hair… plus look what happened when you asked him to dress up at Samhain!" Matthew grinned, shaking his head. 

"Yeah..that was interesting," she agreed, her forehead creasing slightly.

"Tal, he declared Gandalf as a half-baked wannabe with a guilt complex the size of Albion."

"Point taken," she chuckled, shaking her head.

"Then Lancelot laughed that much he nearly passed out."

"Wait till this year at Halloween you'll love it…"

"If you say Merlin and Lancelot as themselves, I'm so going to be there to watch," Matthew said. 

"Nah, I gave up on that, thinking Harry Potter and Dumbledore." 

The laughter echoed down the empty passageway as they broke into the altar area; it was still large and lush with green grass swaying with the wind.

"You know Talia if this place wasn't linked to the old religion it would be perfect"

"I've nothing against the old religion, just the old hag with a god complex."

"Well let's do this, it's gonna be a long drive back."

Walking around the altar, Talia's hand running along the cool stone as Matthew stood leaning against the wall watching her. 

"How are we doing this?" He asked. 

"Easily, Cailleach is listening to the old hag and is too nosy not to! You ain't getting a sacrifice to some old hag. So come on let's have this out!" She yelled the last part, her voice echoing around the walls as she jumped up on the altar, sitting on the edge. 

"Are we really pissing her off?" Matthew asked.

"I don't get pissed off," the voice croaked behind him. 

"Bloody hell, you old cron don't do that!" Screeched Matthew in a high pitch voice that would make an opera singer jealous as Talia doubled over laughing. Cailleach stood behind the young man all in her dark glory. 

"What do you want, guardian?" She said.

"Oh come on, Cailleach. No hello? It's been, what, one thousand five hundred years, give or take a year...or ten," Talia shrugged, grinning ear to ear as she crossed her legs on the altar."The last I saw of you guardian...you threatened me, and I don't take well to threats," Cailleach accused, her eyes squinting at her.

"I don't take well to you trying to kill Arthur, Merlin or Lancelot," Talia shrugged easily, surprised  by her anger

"It is not killing.."

"Really? A sacrifice to close the veil isn't killing?. Don’t you have enough souls in the underworld?"

"Not yet," she grinned, looking to Matthew 

"Dream on hag, we're taken," Matthew muttered, walking over to Talia by the alter, sword in hand. 

"So it seems that you are, child." Cailleach mourned at the loss of another soul joining her.

"See, I promised someone I wouldn't get revenge on someone else." Talia brought the conversation back on track. "Lancelot." 

"Yes Cailleach, Lancelot, but I spent the day with a very large green-scaled dragon and it seems he still holds a grudge," she smirked, evilly sitting forward. 

"Oh look, Talia, I think it just dawned on her?!" Matthew laughed as Cailleach searched the skies above her as the wind picked up.

"So it seems Matt. Heads up hag, we've got a visitor!" Jumping down, Talia grabbed Matthew, dragging her friend towards the wall as wings came into view. 

"Done my part. Good luck Cailleach," Talia yelled over Kilgharrah's arrival.

"Amazing how hard it is to get a dragon to meet the gatekeeper," Talia muttered as she pulled Matthew into the gatehouse. 

"We are not gonna watch?" Matthew asked.

"Have you ever seen a gatekeeper and dragon go at it?"

"Well...no."

"Me neither, but Kilgharrah said to stay out of the…" A crash and crackle of magic hitting something stopped them.

Both looked to the door. 

"I think I get why now." Said Matthew worriedly looking over at her before a crash followed as rocks flew past the doorway. 

"Oh, that's one pissed off dragon." 

Talia nodded, sitting on an abandoned table. "Wouldn't you be? That old hag nearly killed Merlin, tried to stop the path of Arthur."

"Let's not forget the whole vail crap." 

Sparks struck the door frame as Matthew jumped back. "Oh, the whole Veil needs a blood sacrifice and all that crap. She has real issues with wanting blood." 

Fire bombarded the area passing the door; the heat could be felt with ease. 

"Damn, should have bought marshmallows," Said Matthew bemoaning the loss of a good crispy marshmallow.

"Next time."

"I'm bringing the sausages as well then!" She shook her head as Matthew watched the show as close to the door as possible.

"Well, the old hag needs a peg knocking out of her." 

"Duck!" Matt yelled, boards, bursting, showering bits of wood in all directions.

Talia ran to the door shouting around it. "Kilgharrah get a move on you overgrown lizard! That almost killed us!" 

Matt stood brushing debris off his coat moving away. 

"Bit close," he sighed. 

"Just a bit." 

With the table upturned, they sat behind it, flashes of lightning and flames, crashes and bashes, debris flew past the door frame or closer allowing them to duck, roars covered ears and magic was yelled as it all continued...

"How long?" Talia groaned heavily.

"Three hours and five minutes, in other words, five minutes from the last time you asked." 

"Damn"

"Tal, tell them to quit," Matt moaned whilst cleaning his nails with his sword.

"And get my head blown off?"

"Come on, it's getting late, Merlin can only keep him busy so long!"

"Your point?"

"I'm bored, hungry and they’re being.." he pointed to the door as a lightning bolt struck close by, "...idiots, and they’re going to get us killed!"

Sighing heavily Talia stood, brushing herself off and stormed to the door. "If I die, I'm haunting you!" She muttered before diving out the door quickly as a whip.

Matthew listened intently to the point of straining his ears above the yells of casting, roars and the odd flame until…."THAT WAS MY CLAW!" A deep booming voice Kilgharrah echoed.

"Well if you weren't such an arse, I wouldn't have to stab it, you stubborn bloody dragon! And don't you start either you old hag!"

Matthew snickered, leaning against the wall, shaking his head as laughter rippled through him, whilst trying to listen as Talia continued to rant.

"...yes, I know! Get over yourself, Cailleach or I'll run you through old woman…."

Matthew shook his head, wiping the tears away "...oh trust me, I go to that underworld and I'll haunt you so much that you'll be begging to kick me out.."

He had to agree, she probably would. Talia could be annoying as hell, that was for sure.

"..Yea you're pissed at each other, I get that but come on! When Arthur gets released from Avalon you both need him, so give it a bloody rest! Don't start, you overgrown chicken...and don't you start you wrinkled old pug!"

The second bout of hysterical laughter struck the young man bracing himself against the wall, only Talia would insult a dragon and the gatekeeper of the underworld.

"...Right, that's it!!! I'm calling a truce till next Samhain. You, Kilgharrah, home till Merlin wants you, and Cailleach back till the underworld…no, not Halloween, that my bloody time you get Samhain the eve of Halloween!"

Attempting to catch his breath, Matthew began gathering his and Talia's things.

"Yes, I promise I'll call upon you next bloody Samhain...just...behave till then!"

Matthew cleared the doorway as Kilgharrah flew off, no sign of Cailleach could be seen.

"Finished venting?"

"They are like bloody kids I tell you! I ain't cleaning this mess!" She vented, walking over to her friend gathering her stuff from him. 

"meh, we’ll just call Merlin on the way back; he can clean it up," Matthew reassured as the two made their way back out of the old palace.

"Next year we'll bring Lancelot and Merlin. It'll be fun," Talie said. 

"Only if we bring camp stuff and food," he replied. 

"Deal"

"Cool. Hey, can we stop by McDonald's on the way back? I'm starving," Matthew asked as Talia rolled her eyes. 

"Sure, Merlin wants a happy meal anyway"

[archeryadventures]

Grizzly Jim- The Origin Story

Well hello internet, I’m Jim, although they tend to call me Grizzly Jim these days. Is it because I’m grumpy? Because I have the strength of a bear? Because I once went on a peyote fuelled vision quest with a shaman and discovered my spirit animal? Although there maybe truth in all of those, well apart from the peyote. I have no idea, in all honesty its probably just because i have a beard. 

Other than my beautiful family, the one thing that means more to me than anything in this world is traditional archery, but more specifically instinctive archery. So much so that I’ve dedicated my life to promoting it, educating people on it and shearing my passion for it.

I guess it all began thirty something years ago, back when I was four. I grew up on a farm, exactly right smack bang in the middle of nowhere. I guess I was a curious kid, although my dad would  probably use the term a pain in the arse. There wasn’t a day that passed where i didn’t get in to trouble for going some where or doing something i wasn’t supposed to. Like i say i was a curious kid, but give me a break i was only four. About the same age as my oldest son is now so I think I know exactly what my dad was going through and I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to my folks.  

One day on one of my many farmyard adventures, tucked away at the back of one of the barns was an old Slazenger longbow and a single wooden arrow with red feathers. I would later find out that it belonged to the famous squash player Johna Barrington. It was love at first sight, this was literally the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. Of corse the bow was way to long for me and way to much poundage for a snot nosed kid. I try to persevere but the bow was just too much for me. Seeing me heartbroken by this, my dad disappeared for a couple hours, and came back with my very own bow. In reality it was little more than a bent stick and a piece of string, but i loved that thing. (Wait a second, is this my origin story?)

I spent most of that summer running around the woods that backed on to our farm, with my cobbled together stick bow, shooting anything i could, from old tree stumps to rusty tin cans. Without really knowing it, i was cementing my love for instinctive archery. If truth be told i didn’t even know what instinctive archery was back then. I mean of corse it existed, i just had no notion it was actually a thing. It just seemed to be the most natural thing in the world just to be able to look at something and be able to hit it with an arrow. Who knew that Instinctive Archery would become so popular.

So lets wind the clock forward a few decades and we’ll see me making youtube videos for my original channel Archery Adventures. After a couple of years my channel had grown to a modest size, and i was enjoying some moderate success. It was then i got my first break, I was picked up by the company Merlin Archery. To be the face of the company and make videos for their youtube channel. I spent three incredible years there, traveling all over Europe. It gave me a great platform to promote instinctive archery. But like all good things, it came to an end at the close of 2016.

And that nicely bring us to present day, where i have now reactivated my original youtube channel “Archery Adventures” and regained my independence (hence this website) where i’ll be using it a a platform to share my passion of instinctive archery… I would truly like to thank you for stopping by.

Take care and Shoot straight, -Grizzly Jim  

Photo by D. Flatman

[ariesgamesandminis]

New Year, New Items!!! Got some restocks too!

Just in...some new to the store items including Online Exclusive & Archive stuff!!! 10-038 Command Lance 20-332 Behemoth "Stone Rhino" 2 20-340 Kraken "Bane" 4 20-430 Silver Fox SVR-5X 20-443 Hammerhands HMH-3D 20-446 Gladiator GLD-4R 20-452 Centurion CN9-D5 20-458 Cattlemaster RA-4 Hunter / Herder 20-5021 Deimos 20-5023 Hyena Salvage Mech HYN-4A 20-5051 Watchman WTC-4M 20-5077 Longbow LGB-0C 20-5078 Wasp WSP-1 20-5081 Rokurokubi RK-4K 20-5095 Hitotsune Kozo HKZ-1F 20-5116 Stalker II STK-9A 20-5121 Lu Wei Bing LN-4B 20-5124 Quasimodo QSM-3D 20-5127 Flashman FLS-8K Resculpt 20-5140 Ostscout OTT-7J 20-605RE Masakari "Warhawk" Prime 20-607RE Daishi "Dire Wolf" Prime 20-674 Falconer FLC-8R 20-679 Raptor RTX1-O 20-680 Gallowglas GAL-1GLS 20-687 Thunder Hawk TDK-7X 20-723 Warrior Helicopter H-7 20-753 Schrek PPC Carrier (2) 20-764 Spector SPR-5F 20-774 Black Knight BL-6-KNT 20-778 Crockett / Katana CRK-5003-1 20-780 Hussar HSR-200-D 20-788 Sentinel STN-3L 20-810 Hatamoto-Chi HTM-26T 20-811 Mercury MCY-99 20-866 Javelin JVN-10N 20-895 Exterminator EXT-4D 20-899 King Crab KGC-000 20-905 Blackjack BJ2-O 20-930 Catapult CPLT-C4 20-971 Thanatos THS-4S 20-988 Phoenix Hawk PXH-4L 99-201 Large Flat Top Hex Base #1 99-202 Large Flat Top Hex Base #2 AR20-215 OSTSOL OTL-6D AR20-226 OSTROC OST-4L AR20-255 HEIMDALL MONITOR TANK AR20-271 NIGHT HAWK NTK-2Q AR20-276 Striker STC-2C AR20-633 NAGA PRIME AR20-676 PIRANHA AR20-682 KOMODO KIM-2 AR20-684 SHOOTIST ST-8A AR20-692 HERCULES HRC-LS-9000 AR20-697 CHAMELEON CLN-7V AR20-722 ANHUR TRANSPORT PLANE AR20-746 ALACORN MK VI HEAVY TANK (2) AR20-755 SPARTAN SPT-N2 AR20-766 LYNX LNX-9Q AR20-797 WAR DOG WR-DG-02FC AR20-848 ORION (return) AR20-850 FIRESTARTER FS9-H AR20-862 STALKER STK-3F AR20-890 STEALTH STH-1D AR20-916 MERLIN MLN-1A AR20-977 CESTUS CTS-6Y AR20-982 SNAKE SNK-1V BT-150 Rotunda (2750) BT-281 Banshee BNC-3E BT-290 Revenant UBM-1A BT-292 Shiro SH-2P BT-311 Savior Repair Vehicle BT-370 Kurita Infantry (3) BT-371 Davion Infantry (3) BT-399 Shadow Hawk SHD-2K FT-011 Turkina C

[merlins-sexy-magic]

akakfhekelflkfle

who gave you permission to write something this good?!?!?!?

i loved this so much! <3

Merlin accidentally becomes Legolas/Katniss/Merida… you know the type;

He may be shitty at sword fighting, but Merlin begins to use a traditional bow and arrow and… actually becomes very good at it??

I imagine the first time he does it, it’s a complete fluke.

The five knights, The King, and Merlin are on their way back from yet another (frankly, ridiculous) quest.

They have been, of course, ambushed by a group of bandits, twenty to their six (six plus Merlin, though no one bar Lancelot knows about his magic, so he isn’t counted as a fighter). Though the knights outweigh them in skill, their sheer numbers makes it a… challenging, fight (meaning that they are winning, but far too slowly for their liking, and no one wants to admit it).

Now normally, Merlin hides behind a tree or in a ditch, and performs his spells quietly without being noticed, slowly helping and speeding up the fight. Except this time, the Gang was in the middle of a barren, open field, the bandits had disguised themselves with magic until the moment they attacked, and Merlin was right in the middle of all the action.

Keep reading