Stand Tall

Part Twelve: The Fen

Braith glared up at the rafters of the stable, one hand on her hip, and the other on her nose. "Auck."

A pause.

"Does it hurt much?"

"Not more than I can handle. I'll be fine. People might even take me more seriously," she spoke, trying to lighten the mood. He sighed without humor and beckoned her closer. His eyes turned to a kind and forgiving amber as he ran a finger lightly down her nose. There was a small snapping noise as the bone and cartilage came together.

"There. Good as new."

"Better than new," she smiled, and cupped his cheek lovingly in her hand. Merlin gave a little grin, and turned away.

What kind of love it was between them, no man could say. Was it true? Perhaps there was no such thing, but this was as solid as anything either had felt before. Images of Freya danced in the warlock's mind, stirring his stomach sick. It felt disloyal somehow to think of this Northerner in such a tender way as he once did the other girl. But he was. He did. Almost. She did not need his protection in the way the druid girl had - but he was taken with her nonetheless. 

Braith was simply fascinated. This young man was of a rare kind - gentle in his work as he saddled his horse, his skin as pale as a noblewoman's, and maddeningly clean. She wanted to protect him - and from what it did not matter. The cold, the creatures of the fen, grief - she wanted their bodies held close. Most of all though, she wanted to know him. To really know him.

Merlin spoke up from the other side of his horse. "What is this... Arna..."

"Arnanóst?"

He nodded once, walking around to her side.

"It is where the She thing has made her home. If we are to save Arthur, we cannot be idle and wait for her to act."

The Dane put her foot in a stirrup and swung herself up onto the mare.

"Come on, keep up."

---

A journey on horseback under the shy northern sun was a chance for Merlin to see this other land. It was late in autumn, and the winds were angry, whipping the forelegs of their mounts as they rode.

It was an hour or two later (or maybe what only felt like that long, for they did not speak much) when they came to the edge of a deeply gnarled thicket. The forest behind it - as much as it could be called a forest - was mainly comprised of short, wizened trees, whose roots curled into pits of stagnant water, and whose branches wove like a vaulted ceiling above their heads.

Braith dismounted with ease, and tethered both of their beasts to a fallen tree. The creatures seemed flighty and nervous.

Merlin's boot landed in muck, and sunk nearly up to the knee when he leapt down from his horse. "Are you sure this is the best way?" he called.

"Yes. This is the shortest way to the entrance," she said, helping him to yank his foot free.

They trod carefully through the fen. The few shafts of sunlight that fell through the trees seemed like trespassers among the thick, ancient moss, bright and shining gold against the variations of black. It was not merely the dark, but the treacherous bits of illumination that made them afraid. "Try to stay in the light," the Dane cautioned.

After what was scarcely twenty minutes, but felt like eternity for the rot-stench and all the strange little noises around them, the two came up to a large field where it seemed the fen's tangled roots could not quite reach. There, the young man could see a great rocky crag loom above ahead, and in front of it in the field stood a cluster of ancient homes. Only a few had any roof left at all, and most walls had rotted away, or been overtaken by grass.