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DEFENDE NOS IN PROELIO

PART THE FIRST

PART THE SECOND


Of all military activities, Kay hated scouting the most. Not in principle; he liked knowing his enemies’ positions as much as the next man – more than the next man, because he wanted to win, after all. In practice, however, it usually involved getting stuck in thorn bushes or squatting in a stream for several hours. Kay preferred the simplicity of battle, where he could scream and then commit bloody murder, or – even better – being Arthur’s quartermaster, where he could retreat to a nice quiet tent after screaming bloody murder at (but not, alas, actually committing it upon) his incompetent lackeys (who somehow conflated “three wagons of hardtack” with “three wheelbarrows of shoes”, seriously, who DOES that, did you get hit with the IDIOT stick as well as the ugly stick when your mother beat you as a child? Now get out of my sight before your stupidity actually becomes contagious and I LIGHT YOU ON FIRE when trying to fling myself onto a funeral pyre in despair of ever feeding this army, who will now probably LOSE to the Saxons on account of being underfed, so I HOPE YOU LIKE SAXON RATIONS, BECAUSE I WILL CRAM SOME DOWN YOUR BURNING GULLET WITH MY CHARRED AND FLAMING LIMBS IF IT’S THE LAST THING I DO. WHICH IT WILL BE BECAUSE YOU ARE FUCKING STUPID) whereupon he could add columns of figures in peace until the red mist went away.

In an exciting change of pace, Kay was stuck in a thorn bush while also squatting in a stream. So intent was he in trying to silently untangle his chain mail that he almost missed the low groaning.

It was a creaky, feeble groan, and so distinctly un-giant-like that Kay muttered a curse and dispensed with the Gordian thorn bush by hacking through it with his knife. He splashed out of the stream and literally stumbled over the source of the lamentation, who let out another groan.

It was an old woman, bruised and broken, and of course she was also stuck in a thorn bush. Kay cut her free as well, earning himself several new scratches for the effort.

She came around when he dumped water on her face, although to be fair he had been trying to get it into her mouth. Well, some of it, anyway.

“Who are you?” she gasped – in pain, not shock.

“I’m Caius Cornelius Hector, tribunus angusticlavius of the legions of Britain.”

“Are you lost?”

Kay scowled. “I happen to be on a mission to find Princess Helena. Or the giant who kidnapped her. But preferably the princess.”

The old woman closed her eyes. “Wale, wale, boy. You’re too late for my Helena.” She gestured behind him. Kay twisted around (carefully, so as not to disturb the old woman) and saw a rudimentary cairn, marking what was obviously a burial mound.

“What happened?”

The old woman glared at him. “She died.”



“Yes, I can see that,” said Kay in exasperation. “How did she die?”

The old woman sighed deeply, then gritted her teeth in pain.

“Helena – I was her nurse, I fostered her for fifteen years. We were preparing for a ride at dawn when… it appeared.

“It grabbed Helena, and I flung myself after – it took us both. Here. To this accursed island.” The old woman started to cry, which made Kay feel very uncomfortable. “Oh, Helena, my darling girl, I failed you!”

“Now, there there,” said Kay, who did not actually have practice consoling people, but who knew about it in theory. “It’s going to be all – well, maybe not.” The old woman let out a great shuddering sob, so Kay risked patting her on the hand. This seemed to have the desired effect, and her lamentation dissolved into a few wet sniffles.

“The brute wanted to – to – to have his way with her, but it never would have worked –“

“Ha!” exclaimed Kay.

“Don’t interrupt a dying woman, boy!” She glared at him again.

“Sorry,” said Kay. “How did Helena die?”

The old woman started crying again, but kept talking. “She said she would run away and warn her father, and bring back help. She almost made it to mainland, but that, that vicious brute went after her and brought her back. She fought him, and he got so angry that he threw her to the ground. She never woke up.” The old woman stopped, and closed her eyes, shaking with silent sobs.

“I – I’m sorry,” said Kay. Another thought occurred to him. “What happened to you?”

She opened her eyes and sniffed defiantly. “I wasn’t going to let my beloved Helena rot in the sun, was I? So I buried her myself when the giant was asleep. He got angry – he wanted to keep her for himself.”

Ew,” said Kay.

“Be quiet, young man! Don’t you dare speak ill of the dead!”

“I’m not— ”

“Hush! The giant beat me and left me for dead, but I am made of sterner stuff than my poor – my poor –”

“There, there,” said Kay, patting her hand again in alarm.

The old woman’s eyes focused on him, as though she just noticed him. “But you – you must flee! You are no match for the beast!”

“I might be,” said Kay defensively. “I killed Beorhtnoth the Berserker, and he was quite tall.”

“No one can ever defeat him!” She squinted at him and added, “Especially not you!”

“You’re raving, old woman. He’s only a giant, someone will kill him eventually,” Kay said with all the conviction of a man who did not intend to be that someone. “Besides, I’m not here alone. I came with the commander. Arthur.”

“Arthur?” whispered the woman. It was a very good dramatic effect, but Kay rather suspected she wasn’t doing it on purpose.

“Cauis Cornelius Hector Artorianus, dux bellorum of the united troops of Britain,” Kay said proudly.

“You must… tell him… to flee…”

“Well, you’re right about one thing,” said Kay. “I do need to report back to him.” He hesitated. “You, uh, don’t look so good. Do you want me to bring you down to the shore?” He didn’t relish the prospect of carrying her down the mountain in the growing heat of the day (not to mention all the way back to the mainland, eventually) but he didn’t want to abandon her, either.

“No… you must flee.” He started to lower her gently back to the ground, but she grabbed his arm and clamped it in a grip of iron. “Promise… me…”

“Promise you what?”

“When this… beast… dies, send someone back for my bones… please let me rest by my sweet Helena…”

“I promise,” said Kay. “But you don’t have to worry, we’ll be coming back soon. You might not even be dead yet!”

“Go!” she moaned, but Kay helped her get one last drink of water from the stream before laying her carefully on the bank.

He patted her hand one last time in farewell. “You have a nice day,” he said, as sincerely as he could, and disappeared back into the trees.


* * *


Have a nice day?” said Arthur in disbelief.

“I was trying to be polite! It’s not like I wanted to make her day worse by being rude.”

“Kay, she was dying of broken bones, I don’t think being rude could have made things noticeably worse. Also, we need to talk about how you left a defenseless dying woman laying around in the woods.”

“I told you, I offered to bring her back, but she refused. Besides, I figured we could make her day nice by bringing back a troop of Howell’s men and killing the giant.”

Arthur scowled at the mention of the giant and violently kicked a pile of bones, sending a shower of fibulae all over the clearing.

His tantrum was diffused, however, by a distant crashing in the woods. Arthur drew Excalibur and stepped out of sight behind a tree. Kay leapt up and took cover as well.

The noise grew closer. Kay risked a glance from behind his flowering shrub, then frowned and held up his hand with his index finger crooked to imitate a hook. “Bedwyr?” Arthur mouthed. “Where’s the giant?” Kay shrugged. Arthur motioned him to stay in place anyway.

Bedwyr burst through the trees at full speed, slowing only when he hit the sand. He staggered to a halt, fell to his knees, and proceeded to vomit up everything he had eaten in the last ten years.

“So,” said Kay, when it became apparent that enormous roaring death was not hurtling towards them at that very moment, “did you find the giant?”

Bedwyr groaned, and collapsed in the sand.

“I’m going to take that as a ‘Yes,’” said Arthur. “What happened?”

With a great deal of heaving, gasping, and flailing, Bedwyr reported on the giant’s location, resources, and unfortunate culinary delectation.

“And then he ate seven babies! With pickles!” he said, gesticulating wildly in an attempt to convey the true horror of the unholy mixing of infanticide and condiments.

“That’s disgusting,” said Arthur.

“It really is,” agreed Kay. “Pickles would absolutely overwhelm the flavor.”

Bedwyr and Arthur both stared at him. “What?”

“You could maybe get away with a light relish, but a whole barrel of pickles? The taste would be too delicate to counteract the potency of the brine.”

“Kay,” said Arthur after a long, horrified silence, “Did you actually just admit to eating a baby?”

“What? No! But it stands to reason that babies’d taste like veal, right?” said Kay reasonably. “And who ever heard of eating veal and pickles? The very thought is repulsive.”

“Aha! Right!” said Bedwyr, wild-eyed. “Thank God you think of these things!”

“What if they don’t taste like veal, though?” asked Arthur. “What if they taste like lamb? I think you could get away with a pickle or two in that case.”

“Well, maybe,” mused Kay, “but only if they were sweet pickles.”

“This conversation is not happening,” said Bedwyr. “I am not stuck on an island with a giant who eats babies and two men who argue about its side-dishes.”

“It’s all right,” said Kay, patting his shoulder sympathetically. “You don’t have to listen to the gastronomic stylings of a man who wears gravy in his ears.”

Bedwyr stared at him, and then threw up again.


* * *


“I didn’t see the princess,” said Bedwyr gloomily, after he had run out of things to vomit. “I suppose the giant ate her too.”

“No,” said Kay. “Fortunately, she died first.”

“Oh,” said Bedwyr. “Well, that’s good. Wait, what?”

“The giant killed her,” snapped Arthur.

“Oh,” said Bedwyr, and fell silent.

Arthur stood with his arms crossed, glowering at the sea. After a few moments, he declared, “This has to stop.”

“The tide, or the giant?” asked Bedwyr.

“The giant,” said Arthur. “His reign of princess-killing and baby-eating has come to an end.”

“Right,” said Kay. “We can go back to shore, ride back to the fort, and return with a full troop of men by this evening.”

“Uh,” said Bedwyr, ‘We can’t, actually.”

“Why?” demanded Kay.

Bedwyr pointed at the ocean. As was the tide’s wont, it waited for no man, and had risen, completely surrounding the island once again.

“Wonderful,” said Kay. “Well, I think we can definitely classify this expedition as our most successful ever.”

“That’s it,” said Arthur. “I’m going. Kay, keep watch for the giant. Bedwyr, look for any boats we can signal.”

“Where are you going?” demanded Kay. “You can’t fight the giant by yourself.”

“I’m not,” said Arthur. “I’m going to… pray.”

Kay snorted.

“You’re going to pray,” said Bedwyr skeptically.

“Yes, I am. I’m going to commune with the saints and ask them to intercede on behalf of the souls of my cousin-niece and the poor devoured babies. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, we have a problem with you going after the giant by yourself,” retorted Kay.

“Fine,” said Arthur. “I promise I won’t go after the giant. Now stay here.” He stalked off into the woods.

Bedwyr groaned. “This is all going to end in tears,” he said, futilely scanning the horizon for any adventurous fishermen who, of course, were choosing that exact moment to not exist. Kay muttered something under his breath in reply.

Half an hour passed with no sign of help, no sign of the giant, and no sign of Arthur. Bedwyr sighed, and broke the silence. “He went after the giant, didn’t he.”

“Of course he did. Let’s go,” said Kay, and they set off after their mad, mad commander.


* * *


Whatever Arthur did, he kept his promises. He was not going after the giant.

“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle,” he shouted. “Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil!” He kicked the underbrush, and slashed his sword through a shrub, all the while tramping noisily.

Of course, he had said nothing about making the giant go after him.

“May God rebuke him – ”

He kicked a large rock down the slope, starting a minor avalanche –

“ – we humbly pray – “

SNAP: he jumped on a downed branch –

“and do Thou, O Prince of Heavenly Hosts –“

BAM –

“ – cast into Hell –“

CRASH –

“ – Satan – “

CRACK, BOOM –

“ – and all evil spirits – “

PLOP (he fell in a puddle) –

“ – Goddammit! – I mean, who prowl about the world – “

CRACKLE –

“ – seeking the destruction of souls!”

He demolished one last bush for emphasis, and finished: “AMEN!”

“What are you doing?” asked a gravelly voice. Arthur spun around, and thanked God and whoever else might be listening (granted, it hadn’t exactly been hard to hear him) that the giant was the chatty sort who could sneak up quietly, and not the silent sort who could have snuck up quietly and brained him five minutes ago in the middle of the Pater Noster. It was entirely possible he hadn’t thought that part of his plan all the way through.

“I’m praying,” said Arthur. “Definitely praying.”

As the name implied, the giant was in fact giant, and his arms hung almost to his knees, causing Arthur to worriedly recalculate its arm span and reach with the knotted piece of wood that served as a club. Less lethal but more distracting was its shirt, which was that ridiculous shade of orange that was apparently now in fashion.

“Is that shirt samite? Where did you find one that fits?” asked Arthur.

“I made it myself,” said the giant.

“Huh,” said Arthur. Then he remembered why he was there, and continued, “From the goods you pilfered from the Armoricans, no doubt. How long have you been terrorizing them?”

The giant frowned. “You’re not an Armorican.”

“No, I’m not,” said Arthur. “I am the judgment upon you!”

“Why are you on my island?” the giant rumbled, ignoring what Arthur thought was rather an excellent threat. “And why are you so loud? I was eating lunch.”

“You have reached the end of lunch,” said Arthur, raising Excalibur. “My name is Caius Cornelius Hector Artorianus, and I’m here to avenge the death of my – for convenience’s sake – cousin, Helena daughter of Howell, in addition to those poor Christian babies you viciously consumed not an hour ago!”

The giant laughed, a sound like boulders crunching together. “You’re just a little man, and I’ll have you for dinner.”

“Come get some,” said Arthur.


* * *


Thirty seconds into his fight with the giant, Arthur considered the possibility that picking said fight may have been a bad idea, but he was distracted from this line of thought when he was forced to hurl himself sideways into the shrubbery to avoid having his head taken off. One minute into the fight, after he had rolled out of the shrubbery and under a tree with low-hanging branches that foiled the giant’s aim, he concluded that this was, in fact, his worst plan ever.

That being said, it wasn’t like he was about to lose or anything. He had a cousin (possibly) and a bunch of babies to avenge. And Kay would never stop mocking him if he died.

The giant was strong and surprisingly fast, but not faster than Arthur. It was also a great deal less nimble, and was hampered by the forest, which gave Arthur an advantage, or at least a fighting chance.

Arthur dodged another whistling blow, bellowed a battle cry, and darted in to score a bloody line across the giant’s thigh. It was a negligible wound, but the momentum carried Arthur past the giant in the direction he wanted to go, and he beat a tactical retreat.

The wound had the added benefit of enraging the giant, and it thundered after Arthur, booming “STOP RUNNING SO I CAN KILL YOU!” Despite his imminent doom, Arthur was pleased that someone had finally come up with a worse thing to shout in battle than “Effugite! Effugite!” which he’d thought he would never live down.

He skidded to a halt in front of a steep and rocky slope, and turned as if in panic. He side-stepped another blow of the club, and managed a slightly more serious stab in the giant’s side, but caught a meaty fist in the ribs for his pains. He landed several feet back up the hill.

He rolled just in time to miss the club screaming towards his chest, and hurled himself downhill between the giant’s legs. He somersaulted, turned on one knee, and swung Excalibur as hard as he could, cutting through the back of the giant’s right leg as it turned to follow. The giant screamed as its leg collapsed, but caught Arthur a vicious backhand blow with its club that sent Excalibur flying down the slope and Arthur tumbling after.

The giant half-crawled and half-slid after him at a frightening pace, aided by its unnaturally long arms and the steep grade. Arthur scrabbled after his sword, trying to ignore the searing pain in his ribs. The slope gave a little, sending them both bowling down, and Excalibur skidded out of reach.

The giant recovered first, and with an awful roar lurched to its feet and reared back for a two-handed blow. Arthur rolled on his back and put all his strength into a kick aimed at the giant’s left knee. The giant fell to its knees, and Arthur surged to his feet, drew his dagger, ducked under one last swing of the mighty arms, and launched himself into a blow to the chest as the giant pitched forward, the impact sending them both careening down the hill.


* * *


The problem with having Britain’s greatest guerilla fighter as your commander was that sometimes, he was really hard to find.

“Seriously, WHO takes the time to cover their tracks when they’re sneaking off to fight a giant?” shouted Kay as he and Bedwyr reached the end of yet another false trail, this one seeming to indicate that Arthur had developed either a suicidal urge to hurl himself off a cliff, or the ability to fly.

“Arthur does, apparently,” said an irritated Bedwyr. “I told you we should have gone directly to the giant’s camp, but noooo, you wanted to follow him.”

“Shut up! You were practically pissing yourself to get away from that giant, it’s not like you wanted to go anywhere near him!”

“I had to watch it EAT BABIES, Kay! It was a little off-putting! And at this rate, the giant will have heard your bitching a mile away, and will show up anyway, and then I’ll have to watch YOU get eaten by a giant, which I’m sure will be far more disgusting!”

“Bedwyr, I told you I’m not into that! Now stop shouting!”

“I’M NOT SHOUTING!” shouted Bedwyr. “Wait, what?”

“Shh! Did you hear that?”

They both froze. In the distance came the sounds of a battle, or perhaps someone enthusiastically trying to cut down a tree and losing. However, since the average lumberjack was unlikely to shout “For God, St. Michael and St. George!” this did narrow the options somewhat.

They glanced at each other, then took off through the trees.


* * *


Kay and Bedwyr emerged near the bottom of a rocky slope, just in time to catch a face full of gravel from what appeared to be a small avalanche of dirt and limbs. It hurtled past them with bellowing groans and screamed profanities, then slid to a halt as the slope flattened out. The groaning and the cursing had stopped, and Kay and Bedwyr drew their swords and approached with some trepidation.

The dust cleared a little, revealing what was definitely a giant. A dead giant, to judge from the large amounts of blood and the unnatural angle of the neck and the general lack of movement. Bedwyr glanced back up the slope, but there was no sign of their commander.

“Arthur?” Kay called. There was no answer. “Arthur!”

The apparently dead giant groaned and twitched, causing the two hearty warriors to leap back with what were definitely manly bellows of rage and not, for example, girly yelps of fear.

The corpse spoke. “Geroff me!”

“Oh my God!” shouted Kay, panicking. “It ate Arthur too!”

“Idiot!” shouted the corpse. “Squished! Arrgh!” It twitched again, more violently this time, and a distinctly human hand wormed its way out from under the giant’s armpit and made a very rude gesture.

“He’s trapped!” said Bedwyr. “Come on!”

They ran over to the enormous corpse, took their positions, and shoved.

“Arrgh!” shouted Arthur again. “Wrong way! Dagger! Ribs!”

Bedwyr let go hastily. The giant flopped down, and there was a muffled scream. Kay rolled his eyes, and Bedwyr winced. “Sorry,” he called.

“You… suck…”

They switched to the other side of the giant. “All right,” said Bedwyr. “One, two, thr—“

“Wait, do we push on ‘three’?” asked Kay.

“We’ll push on ‘heave’.”

“Is that after three?”

“Yes! I’ll say ‘One, two, three, heave!’ and we’ll push on ‘heave’.”

“Ok,” said Kay. “But I want to count.”

A muffled complaint of what was probably “I hate you both” came from below, and they hurriedly took their positions.

“Fine!” said Bedwyr. “You count. Let’s go!”

“All right,” said Kay. “Now, remember to push with your knees.”

There was a faint cry of “Bastards!”

“Right, then,” said Kay. “One, two –“

Predictably, Kay pushed on ‘Three!’ but Bedwyr had anticipated that anyway.

“Heave!” Kay shouted as the giant flopped over, revealing their gasping and purple-faced commander, who sucked in a deep breath and then flinched.

“So,” said Bedwyr. “Praying.”

“God works in mysterious ways,” wheezed Arthur, then clutched his ribs and groaned.

“If the communion of saints really does mean getting attacked by fucking huge giants, I’m converting,” said Kay, manhandling Arthur into a sitting position. “And then I’ll blame my eternal damnation on you. Where does it hurt?” he asked, poking Arthur in the ribs.

Arthur flinched some more. “Everywhere, because a fucking huge giant FELL on me! Ow, stop that!”

“Such is the price of righteousness,” said Bedwyr. “Although really, technically speaking, you probably should have turned the other cheek.”

“Don’t talk about cheeks,” groaned Arthur. “I’ve got gravel burn in very uncomfortable places.”

“Wow,” said Kay, poking his ribs one more time for good measure. “I really, really hope that’s not what that Bible verse was about.”


* * *


Arthur’s ribs required immediate attention – or at least he insisted they required immediate attention, which amounted to more or less the same thing – so they dragged him up to the giant’s encampment to scavenge medical supplies after they led a rescue mission for any survivors of the giant’s lunch.

“I didn’t find anyone,” said Kay, kicking aside an empty crate. “Did you?”

“No,” said Bedwyr. “He must have killed and – ” he fought back a wave of nausea “– eaten them all.” He shuddered. “God, what a nasty piece of work. It may have been incredibly reckless and stupid, Arthur, but I’m glad you killed him.”

Arthur, sprawled on the ground in the shade, gave a feeble wave and groan of assent.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” said Kay. “It’s not like we know what to do with babies anyway.”

Bedwyr stared at him.

“Was that another one of my statements showing a callous disregard for humanity, decency, and good taste?”

Bedwyr nodded.

“Sorry,” said Kay. “Wait, what the—“ His head disappeared into the large chest he was ransacking. Eventually he emerged with something large and orange. “Hey,” he said, impressed. “This is a really nice shirt!” He held it up to his shoulders. It came down well past his knees.

“You’ll have the prettiest gown at the feast for sure,” said Bedwyr.

A weak chuckle followed by an “Ow!” came from behind them.

Kay flushed. “Well, I’ve found bandages,” he said, brandishing the shirt. “What do you have to show for this afternoon’s work?”

Bedwyr held up a bottle. “Medicine.”

“You’re holding a bottle of wine,” said Kay grumpily.

“I know,” said Bedwyr. “It’s Portu Calican, too. Good stuff.”

“Wine?” called Arthur. “Who has wine? Ow!”

“Why do you have so many?” asked Kay, eyeing the growing line of bottles.

“We still have to find your old lady, take care of the giant’s body, and patch up the epitome of stoicism over there,” said Bedwyr. “Do you really want to be totally sober for all of that?”

“What are you talking about?” said Arthur. “I’m stoic. Hurry up with that booze, my ribs really hurt.”

“Good point,” said Kay to Bedwyr. “Pass me some medicine.”


* * *


“This wine ish really good, you guys,” said Arthur, waving his bottle and looking fairly ridiculous in his eye-watering bandages. “My ribs feel better already.” He staggered against Kay, who was hauling him along by the arm slung over his shoulders. “Did we find the old lady yet?”

“No,” said Kay shortly. He gestured with his free hand, and Bedwyr handed him the bottle.

“She shounded nice,” said Arthur. “I want to be like her when I grow up.”

“Kay,” demanded Bedwyr. “How much wine did you give him?”

“Only a bottle!” answered Kay, when he had finished gulping. “He’s had that much for breakfast.” He thought a moment, then continued, “Although that didn’t turn out so well that one time.” He handed the bottle back.

“Do you think he hit his head?”

“My head is fine,” said Arthur. “These trees are pretty. Kay, do you see the pretty trees?”

“Oh, my God,” said Bedwyr. “Kay, if you’ve killed his brain, you’re fighting Saxons by yourself.”

“That’s my job,” said Arthur. “Look, it’s the old lady!” He stopped abruptly and nearly toppled Kay. “She doesn’t look so good.”

Kay handed Arthur off to Bedwyr and knelt beside her. “She’s dead,” he said. “We should probably bury her.” He stood, but stared at the lifeless corpse for a moment.

“Kay?” asked Bedwyr.

Kay shook himself out of his reverie. “She wanted to be buried by the princess,” he said, stooping to pick up the old woman. “The cairn’s this way.”

“People need to stop dying,” said Arthur. “What’s the point of killing giants if everyone dies anyway?”


* * *


Kay heaved one last rock on top of the second cairn. “There,” he said. Bedwyr stood to inspect Kay’s handiwork (he had insisted on doing it alone). Kay frowned at Arthur, who was slumped against Helena’s grave and snoring.

“Arthur, wake up,” he said, nudging him with his foot.

“Wazzit?” Arthur jerked awake, empty wine bottle dropping out of his hand. He flailed around until Bedwyr offered him a hand up and pulled him to his feet, where he managed to stay without swaying too much.

The three surveyed the graves in silence. Kay had piled the old woman’s cairn right beside Helena’s, and only slightly lower in height.

“You did a good job, Kay,” said Bedwyr.

Kay grunted.

“Should we say a few words?” asked Bedwyr.

“I will,” said Arthur. He frowned in concentration, and Bedwyr winced.

“I never met either of you,” he began, slurring his words only a little. “And I didn’t meet the babies the giant ate, either, but please pass this on if you run into them. Helena, all I know about you is that you’re somehow related to me, and old woman, I don’t even know your name. But I do know that you were the first Armoricans to stand up to the giant, instead of ignoring him and hoping he’d go away, and I’m proud that I got to try to rescue you even though that pretty much failed.”

He paused for a moment, swaying slightly more, then continued. “They call this island or whatever it is Mount Tomb. I don’t really know why, but I hope from now on, they’ll call it that because they remember you.”

He thought some more. “And that’s all I’ve got. Amen.”

“Amen,” echoed Kay and Bedwyr.

Arthur turned to the two of them. “How was it?” he asked.

“That was almost moving,” said Bedwyr in surprise. Kay didn’t respond, but sniffed very loudly and surreptitiously tried to wipe his eyes on his sleeve.

“Good,” said Arthur. He squinted up at the sky. “All right, let’s go,” he said, and started wobbling off through the woods.

“Wait, what?” asked Bedwyr, catching up with him after only a few, non-drunken, paces. Kay reached Arthur’s other side in time to steer him away from an oncoming tree as the staggering slayer of giants shifted his attention over to Bedwyr.

“The tide will be out soon,” said Arthur. “We can get back to shore.” He blinked several times. “Was the woods this spinny before?”

“You got him drunk,” said Bedwyr to Kay. “You get to carry him.”

“I don’t need to be carried,” said Arthur, and fell over.


* * *


By the time they made it down to the shore, it was readily apparent that between the labored breathing and the complete lack of sobriety there was no way Arthur was going to make it back to the mainland by his own volition. It was also readily apparent that he weighed a fucking ton, and there was no way that even the two of them could carry him back to shore without being drowned by the incoming tide or ensnared by the cunning and vicious quicksand.

“One of us will have to go alone,” said Bedwyr, as they most certainly did not drop their wheezing commander onto the sand. “He can take the horses back, tell Howell what happened, and come back in a boat.”

“It’s funny,” said Kay. “Your mouth says ‘One of us,’ but your eyes say ‘One of you’.”

“I maintain that this is all your fault,” said Bedwyr, gesturing towards Arthur, who was now snoring.

“Fine,” said Kay. “I’ll do it.”

Bedwyr blinked. “Really?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Kay. “Where would I find dinner otherwise?”

Bedwyr sighed, and Arthur woke up with a snort. “Dinner?” he asked.

“Sorry,” said Bedwyr.

“Oh. You forgot the head,” Arthur said blearily.

“Excuse me?” said Bedwyr.

“The head. Giant.” Arthur waved his hand in the general direction of the site of his battle. “You should give it to Howell.”

“Because nothing says ‘Sorry your daughter’s snuffed it!’ like a bleeding, decapitated head,” Kay said.

“Proof, you ass,” said Arthur. “Also, Howell can put it on a pike. It’ll look nice on a pike.”

“Right,” said Kay. “Disembodied head of giant, check.” He turned to Bedwyr. “If I have to carry this thing all the way back to the fort, I’m not cutting it off.”

Bedwyr sighed again, and drew his sword.


* * *


“Do you think it was a good idea to send Kay?” asked Bedwyr as they watched him sprint across the land bridge, startling thousands of the sea birds who had descended upon the exposed sand to feast.

“No,” said Arthur. “But Howell kind of deserves it.”

“True,” said Bedwyr, and went to gather driftwood for a signal fire.


* * *


Kay caused something of a stir when he arrived back at the fort. This might have been inspired by his threatening to set the gate guard on fire, actually setting a stable-hand on fire (although that was an accident), causing the guard at Howell’s council chamber to collapse vomiting when he dutifully showed him the contents of his bag, and kicking down the door to said council chamber.

King Howell looked up while one his advisors stopped mid-sentence, mouth hanging open. “Sir Kay,” said the king, “why have you kicked down my door?”

“You didn’t answer, so I assumed it was broken,” said Kay.

Howell stared at him. “You do realize that makes no sense whatsoever.”

Kay shrugged.

“May I ask what happened to my guard?” continued Howell, very calmly.

“He was overcome with excitement,” said Kay. “I told him not to look.”

“Look at what?” said a council member. “Sir Knight, I demand to examine the contents of that bag.”

“Suit yourself,” said Kay. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The advisor snatched the bag angrily, ripped it open, looked inside, and promptly fainted.

“What is going on here?” shouted Howell, leaping to his feet.

“Well, we figured you’d want proof the commander killed the giant,” said Kay. “But I couldn’t bring it all back, so…”

“Sir Kay,” said Howell softly, his face tight with repressed rage. “If this is a joke, it’s a very poor one.”

“It’s not a joke,” said Kay. “People usually don’t collapse after I tell a joke. Well, most of the time, anyway. Sometimes. Your majesty, I have something very important to discuss with you.” He surveyed the dumbstruck advisors, watching with their mouths agape, and the figure lying prone on the floor, twitching and moaning. “We should probably speak privately.”

“Sir Kay, I am very sorry that I cannot put myself immediately at your disposal,” said Howell icily. “Please, deliver your message promptly, and then leave.”

“Your daughter’s dead,” said Kay.

Howell’s face whitened, and he sat back in his chair with a thump. “You found her?” Kay nodded. “What – what happened?”

“We found the giant who kidnapped her on Mount Tomb, but it had already killed the princess when she tried to escape to warn you. She was buried by her nurse, who died after she told us what happened.”

“The giant,” said Howell blankly. Kay gestured towards the bag. The room had gone deadly silent.

Howell picked up the bag and looked inside for a moment. He carefully placed it on the floor, then sat back down and buried his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry, your Majesty,” said Kay. “She was a brave girl.” He hesitated, but when Howell did not respond, he went over to the sack and picked it up. “I’ll just go mount this above the gate, shall I?”

Howell waved him away. Kay saluted and began to exit, but turned in the doorway. “Your majesty,” he began. Howell looked up. “What was her nurse’s name?”

“Who?” asked Howell.

“Never mind,” said Kay. He closed the door as best he could, and left.


* * *


Bedwyr rose, picked up another piece of driftwood, and tossed it into the fire, where it popped and set off jets of blue flames. Arthur sat bolt upright at the noise, then groaned and clutched his head in one hand and his ribs with the other.

“What time is it?” he asked, futilely rubbing his forehead.

“About an hour before midnight,” said Bedwyr.

“Is Kay back yet?”

“No,” said Bedwyr. “He would have reached the fort only a few hours ago at the most.”

“Oh,” said Arthur. “Do we have any food?”

“No. We do have –“ Bedwyr poked around in the bag they had salvaged “ – three bottles of wine left, though.”

Arthur groaned again. “I’ll pass, thanks.” He shifted closer to the fire. After a few moments his stomach rumbled, and he asked, “Is it too early to resort to cannibalism?”

Bedwyr shuddered. “I can say with some confidence that it is always too early to resort to cannibalism.”

“Always? What if we’re trapped by a blizzard and we’ve already eaten the horses and our shoes?”

Bedwyr tried not to gag. “Should we be in such dire straits, I will volunteer to be dinner, as long as you kill me quickly so I don’t have to contemplate the consumption of human flesh EVER AGAIN.”

“See, that’s exactly the kind of dedication we look for in this man’s army, Bedwyr. If you keep that attitude, you can go far.”

Bedwyr snorted. “Provided I don’t end up slow-roasted, anyway.”

“It was your idea.”

“Ho the shore!” a ghostly call echoed across the water.

Bedwyr scrambled to his feet. “Who goes there?”

“Caius Cornelius Hector, tribunus angusticlavius, reporting for duty!” There was a splash, and eventually Kay came wading into range of the firelight. “Did you know it’s a lot quicker to get here by boat?”

“Speed is secondary to stealth,” said Arthur as Bedwyr glared at him. “You didn’t happen to bring food, did you? Bedwyr volunteered for dinner but frankly I’m not that desperate.”

Kay looked impressed. “You actually volunteered to cook?” he asked, pulling a loaf of bread out of his pack and tossing it to Arthur.

“Not exactly,” said Bedwyr, accepting his own loaf. “I take it you got back to the fort?” Kay nodded. “How did they take the news?”

Kay scratched his head. “Not very well, actually. Although I think once they stopped panicking, the riot really calmed down.”

“Riot?” said Bedwyr. “You started a riot?”

“I started nothing,” said Kay. “Well, a small fire, but that was way before the riot and wasn’t even my fault. I’m sure the stable-hand will be fine. But how was I supposed to know all the women would start wailing at exactly the same time I finished nailing the giant’s head above the front gates?”

Arthur winced. “Did Howell say anything?”

“Well,” said Kay, “he was mostly quiet when I broke the news, and during the riot it was hard to make anything out amongst all the profanity.”

Arthur sighed. “Well, this mission has been a total wash. The princess died, and Armorica hates us.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Kay. “When I was leaving the fort after the riot I think Howell might have been shouting he’d give us anything as long as we went back to Britain, so I think we still might be able to score some ships.”

“I wish,” said Arthur. He shoved the last of his loaf of bread into his mouth and stood up, wincing. “How soon can we be ready to sail tomorrow?” He started towards the water, and Kay and Bedwyr followed.

“Mid-morning?” said Bedwyr, flinching as he waded into the cold water. “It depends on how many of the crew ran away during the riot when Kay tried to set them on fire.”

“Look, I told you that was an accident,” sputtered Kay as he tumbled into the boat. “I told him not to get his torch too close to the giant’s head, it was my only proof of the utterly ridiculous bad news! Of course I was going to start flailing wildly.”

“Good,” said Arthur to Bedwyr. “See to it. I want to stop back here on our way home.”

“Here?” Bedwyr asked. “Why?”

“Salvage operations,” said Arthur. “I somehow doubt Howell is feeling generous on behalf of our efforts – ungrateful bastard – and I absolutely refuse to leave with nothing more than broken ribs and an horrific hangover.”

“But Arthur,” said Kay mockingly, “didn’t you once say that fame is far sweeter than Portu Calican wine?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “But there’s no reason we can’t have both. And we owe it to Helena.”

“I don’t follow,” said Bedwyr.

“Wouldn’t you much rather be remembered by toasts of sweet deliciousness from the officers of the greatest army in Britain than by the sordid story of your father’s complete and utter failure as a king and parent?” said Arthur.

“Hmm. So what you’re really saying is that we’re broke and we’ll be paying everyone via barter again,” said Bedwyr.

“Well, there’s that, too,” admitted Arthur. “I was just not going to pay you at all and hope you didn’t notice, so I hope you’ll appreciate the effort. That giant was heavy.” He nodded to the fisherman who sat patiently awaiting them to arrange themselves, and he began rowing them back to civilization.


* * *


Arthur watched as Howell’s servants loaded supplies back on the Prydwen, Bedwyr counting off loads on a piece of knotted cord, Kay flapping his arms and shouting.

Salve, dux.”

He turned, then bowed. “Salve, regina.”

Queen Helena was bundled in furs against the sharp wind coming off the sea, but Arthur didn’t think that was the sole cause of the paleness of her face. “I’m afraid that in the chaos of last night, we didn’t thank you properly,” she said.

Arthur shrugged. “There’s no need, your Majesty. I did what I could,” he said. “I only wish I could have arrived in time to save your daughter,” he added awkwardly.

“Even so,” she said, “it is better to know Helena’s fate, and to know she is not – is not suffering.” She blinked, and a few tears trickled down her cheeks, but her voice remained level. “I think, however, that it is more important that Armorica now knows that haunted isles can be tamed, and giants can be killed.”

“It is an important lesson,” agreed Arthur. “I wish it didn’t cost the lives of innocents.”

“So do we all,” said the queen. She stood by him in silence, her ladies fluttering anxiously behind them. They watched the small bustle of activity on the docks for several moments.

Arthur’s captain hailed him, and he raised his hand in acknowledgement. “You must set off homewards, I know,” said the queen, before he could ask his leave. “Should you advise the kings of Britain to press their suit for naval aid, I think they would meet with success.”

“Thank you,” said Arthur, surprised.

“It is you we must thank,” said the queen. “Though this may not have seemed immediately obvious. You acted as a true member of the Artorii.”

“Anything for a kinswoman, no matter how distant,” he said. “Farewell, your Majesty. I will remember my cous – my nei – your daughter always.”

The queen smiled sadly. “Farewell, lord Arthur,” she said. “Armorica will not forget you soon.”

“Good,” said Arthur, and he strode off down the docks.


* * *


Arthur watched Mount Tomb dwindle as they sailed away, eventually blurring indistinguishably with the coast behind it.

Kay wandered over and leaned on the rail next to him. “Well, it wasn’t our most successful mission,” he said, “but we didn’t do too badly, all things considered.”

“Are we considering the same past two days?” asked Arthur, looking at him askance.

“The princess was dead before we even came to Armorica,” said Kay. “Besides, I heard they’ll be building her a nice chapel, so she’s all set. And it doesn’t matter if Howell hates us, as long as he gives us naval support.”

“Well, Kay, your charmingly cynical worldview has certainly convinced me of the success of our mission,” said Bedwyr. “I feel really good about myself as well.”

“I felt good about your mother last –”

“If you finish that sentence, I will push you overboard,” said Arthur sharply. “Bedwyr’s mother is very nice. She makes delicious pies.”

“Fine,” said Kay. “At least we can drown our sorrows in good Portu Calican wine.”

“You know, you’ve already had some,” said Arthur. “Technically, I should deduct it from your pay.”

Kay snorted, unimpressed. “Fine, next time you can go slay your damned giant by yourself. And then you can run across the killer deathtrap quicksand carrying its head and getting attacked by sea gulls that were entirely too sinister for their own good, spend half an hour trying to round up the damn horses, and then go back to the fort where people say very unkind things and make frankly outrageous and totally unjustified accusations about setting people on fire. And don’t even get me started on Retho and goddamned Mount Arvaius, it took weeks to stop smelling like that mud. Weeks.”

“Years, even,” said Bedwyr solemnly. “Even today it still plagues you.”

Arthur winced at the memory. “Fine, fine. Don’t worry, I was going to give you each half my share as a bonus. I still have a headache.”

Kay blinked. “Your share? But you killed the giant!”

“Shut up, Kay,” said Bedwyr urgently.

“I need to cut back anyway,” said Arthur gloomily. “Tempting as it is to show up at the negotiations with King Lot next month completely smashed, I’d probably accidentally sign over half the army and volunteer to shine his boots for the rest of my life.”

This statement was met with shocked silence.

“What?” said Arthur in confusion. “What did I do? Is that on the table? Because if so I am resigning right now.”

A victorious grin had spread across Bedwyr’s face, and Kay was staring at Arthur in horror.

Damn you, Arthur!” he said. “We told you about these negotiations three months ago in the middle of Leodegrance’s Yuletide feasts! You don’t even remember half of the Twelve Days of Christmas!”

“A good commander is always unpredictable,” said Arthur. “What did you win?” he asked Bedwyr.

“Kay’s share of the salvage,” he said gleefully. “You need to fight giants more often.”

“I’ll make note of that,” said Arthur, physically restraining Kay from flinging himself overboard as Bedwyr rummaged through a crate and produced a bottle in triumph. He glanced back and watched the Armorican shore slip quietly below the horizon as Kay’s howls of anguish and Bedwyr’s toasts to Helena were swept away on the wind driving them home to Britain.


FINIS


Dave me fieri fecit


NOTAE AUCTORIS:
- This story is dedicated to Meera, for obvious reasons. Infantes servite, Meeram edite!
- The title comes from the first line of the Prayer to St. Michael the Archangel, patron saint of badassery.
- There are many versions of this story, but I liked the one in Layamon's Brut the best on account of it being the most insane. Brut is a history, by the way. Apparently histories used to be a lot more exciting when you didn't let facts and other nonsense get in the way of the exciting fight scenes. With giants. King Arthur: Britain's greatest [citation needed]!
- effugire: to run away
- Special thanks to Kirstin, who helped me edit. Eventually.

Date: 2009-02-19 07:03 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] dracis.livejournal.com
Armorica is incredibly difficult to pronounce in one's head.

Ashore, it was a surprisingly temperate day for spring
'cause it wasn't a temperate day out at sea, despite being adjacent. The clouds and cold just ended.

“People need to stop dying,” said Arthur. “What’s the point of killing giants if everyone dies anyway?”
For a story that doesn't take itself seriously, this was a very mood whiplash inducing line. There were also a few more later.

If you were going for 'three people in this world are smart, and because of everyone else being so stupid, they went crazy', you succeeded. You also just succeed, 'cause that was a fun read even if it wasn't dedicated to me. ;)

Date: 2009-02-19 08:06 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] shadydave.livejournal.com
I would totally call it the United States of Armorica just to mess with everyone's head if I could get away with it.

'cause it wasn't a temperate day out at sea, despite being adjacent. The clouds and cold just ended.

I was going for 'it was way less windy and the sun came out' but good point :D

For a story that doesn't take itself seriously, this was a very mood whiplash inducing line. There were also a few more later.

Hopefully it's good mood whiplash and not "arrgh my neck!" mood whiplash! Although part of it comes with the territory -- the "baby quarter-pounder with pickles" and "sucks that you're dying, have a nice day!" are straight out of Layamon. Of course, that is one of the reasons I love Arthurian legend so...

You also just succeed, 'cause that was a fun read even if it wasn't dedicated to me.

Yay! I'm glad you enjoyed it! Although it's probably for the best that I don't automatically associate you with eating babies :D

Date: 2009-02-22 11:07 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] naturalblue208.livejournal.com
....soooo why arent you published, exactly?

Date: 2009-02-23 03:10 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] shadydave.livejournal.com
Because I haven't sent anything anywhere? :P

You likey?

Date: 2009-02-24 04:20 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] arku.livejournal.com
You rock.

I actually adored the whiplash line. I thought that it had a good mix of ridiculous, with just that little touch of "there might be more to life than ridiculous, but it is not to be angsted over overly much" It struck me as very neil gaiman-esque, only less depressing

The line that threw me as a little too cliche was "Armorica now knows that haunted isles can be tamed, and giants can be killed.” I mean it works, but it feels a little like telling rather than showing. Although I can see how having it come out of the mouth of the queen, who is a really sort of a non-character anyway and can kind of fit in the role of 'mouthpiece for what the story is about' works.

Kay is awesome. Bedwyr is awesomer. Arthur is heroic and dashing in all the wrong ways.

Date: 2009-02-24 02:04 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] shadydave.livejournal.com
The line that threw me as a little too cliche was "Armorica now knows that haunted isles can be tamed, and giants can be killed.” I mean it works, but it feels a little like telling rather than showing.

I was actually aiming for it being a little cliche. I was trying to imply that the Queen was pretty much the eminence grise in Armorica, since Howell has pretty much shown himself to be a bit useless. So it's the Queen that officially comes to thank Arthur in the end and sorts out the political stuff with the naval treaty, and does it all in formal rhetoric, like that line, even though she's upset.

It's a lot to ask for one scene, though.

Arthur is heroic and dashing in all the wrong ways.

To quote 1066 and All That, he is dashing in all directions. :D

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