ARTHUR
It was the day, now. A last lunchtime feast would take place, and then Arthur would be on his way. He got up and yawned, and blinked as he emerged from the room and was greeted with sunlight pouring out of the open gates. His father, mother and sister were already at the table having breakfast. After greeting them all Arthur sat down. Morgana nodded towards him.
“How do you feel? About leaving, I mean.”
Uther looked curiously at his son, gauging his reaction. Arthur concentrated hard to please him and his mother.
“Excited, but not too scared.”
“Good lad,” said Uther, exchanging a glance with Egyr and then Morgana. “We’ll miss you very much. Once you learn your letters you’ll be able to send word to us.”
Arthur took a meat pie as Egyr offered it. The veal filling was delicious, but he knew it would be a bad idea to eat too much of them. Arthur remembered the last time he’d had too many and his stomach had hurt a lot, scaring everyone at the hall for some reason, especially his mother who had fussed over him for two days as he emptied them from his stomach. He took another for good measure though.
They made their way outside afterwards, down to the gates where Mörddin was waiting with two horses and Arthur’s bag his father had packed for him. Egyr commanded the slaves to load the bags.
His father had put some of his best clothes on, a decorated green tunic with a darker green pile-lined cloak. A golden torc graced his neck, and his golden crown framed his face, dripping with sweat and the light rain that was falling.
Standing beside him solemnly, Egyr wore a gracious tunic and a dark brown cloak lined with ermine, fastened by a silver torc. Arthur was in his same rugged tunic and with ruffled hair, though Morgana had made an effort to look nice.
The way his family had dressed up made him realise how important his departure was, and the finality of it dawned on him at last.
After exchanging a few words with Mörddin, Uther tapped his son’s shoulder. “I have something to show you. Come.”
They walked away from the group and went to an adjacent roundhouse. Uther took his son to one side and sat him down, and then went to get a sack on the other side of the house.
He gave Arthur the small bundle. He started putting things in it, explaining what each of them was.
“This is a sword, your first real one. Don’t use it except in an emergency. You should use a blunt or wooden sword first,” said Uther. Arthur nodded. The blade was a spatha and shorter than a full sword, adapted to Arthur’s height. Uther then gave him a small round shield. It was made of limewood and bore the likeness of the goddess Hül on it, on a field of green. Finally, he put in a few of Arthur’s toys. He walked out and handed the sack to one of their slaves, a young British girl. She bowed as he did so. Her face was gaunt and haggard, though not ugly, and her arms skeletally thin. Her dress did not even extend past her knees, which would be disgraceful for anyone but a slave. Arthur looked at her filthy legs and felt thankful he had a warm pair of linen trousers and warm woollen wraps.
“You’re going to have to leave with Mörddin now,” said Uther. Arthur was suddenly worried at his father’s expression, he didn’t want to lose him.
“When will I see you again?”
Uther went to one knee and looked his son in the eyes.
“In twelve years’ time, my son.”
The two went back to the town’s inner gates as he tried to figure out how long twelve years was based on his last birthday. A few residents had realised it was time and came up to them and said their goodbyes to Arthur. By the time they’d finished preparing, dozens more were waiting. The ones closest to him started giving him gifts.
Uther gave Arthur a small drinking pouch filled with honeymead. It was made from beautiful leather and lined with gold, and bore the image of a proud boar, the family sigil. Egyr stepped forward and hugged him, and handed him a thick cloak in a green plaid pattern. Morgana put a necklace around his neck, and kissed him goodbye.
“To remember me by. And I’m giving you this ring on behalf of Madog, he can’t give anything obviously,” she said, placing it in his hand.
Pledd beamed and handed him a game of Gwyddbwyll. “For boring days”, he winked.
Bress had a few scrolls, which were about military tactics and fighting. “Not useful yet, but they will be.”
Finally, when they had all said their goodbyes and given their gifts, Mörddin hoisted Arthur up on to a large pony and got on his own horse. Uther came up to him.
“Look after our son.”
“I will. You have my word that I’ll do it, on my honour.”
“From any other man, I would not have believed that. Thank you.”
Mörddin smiled at the compliment, and he beckoned Arthur to follow him. After a slow trot through the outer gates, they galloped off into the distance following the old Roman crossroad.

ARTHUR
Mörddin whistled as his horse trodded slowly. Arthur was resting, half-awake half-asleep on his own horse, a few paces behind his protector. Tin Edyn was now long behind them, and they had been riding all day. It would soon be time to set up camp. He didn’t talk too much, usually uttering a ‘well, well’, or coughing loudly, but he still took the time to point out interesting sites and Arthur listened carefully with wide eyes. He had never gone this far out, not even his father did while hunting. A whole new world had opened up to him, full of flowers, mushrooms, and strange trees, with the road slowly going from cobble to mossy dirt, often giving way to grass.
Mörddin stopped in a small enclosure off the road, surrounded by trees and near a stream. He jumped off his horse and started leading him to a small patch of grass, close enough as to give it space but also to watch it. Arthur’s horse followed, and Mörddin helped the boy get off.
“We’re going to be setting up camp and sleeping here tonight,” Mörddin explained. “You need three things for a good camp. You ever been with your old man?” When Arthur shook his head, he chuckled slightly. “Hah, the old boor. I’m kidding,” he said, before the boy could really take any offense. “But still, I’ll teach’ya then. You want water nearby, grass for the horses to graze, a dry enough patch to sleep, and enough wood for a decent fire. Here, look.” He gathered some dry wood from the ground and in no time started a small fire, which he added a bowl over. He heated up some food they’d brought, and the two ate their meals. Arthur watched him attentively, having never travelled in this way before, or even outside of Tin Edyn.
“How do you know Father?” Arthur spoke up. Out of all his friends, Mörddin was one of the few where no link to the family was clear.
“Ah, we met a long time ago. I helped your uncle Emmrys fight against Gwörthigern, and I met your father in his army.”
“Gwörthigern?”
“Yes. He was a Briton like you and me, but he betrayed your other uncle, Oruyl Ürhygin, when he became king after your grandfather died. He took power himself, and even invited some Saxons and Norsemen into his army. He married the daughter of a Saxon warlord named Hengestae, Rowena, though the cur betrayed him.” He did not seem pleased with how short he’d made the story, but waved his paring-knife as if to say ‘that’s the gist of it’.
“Is he still alive?”
“No. It turned out his wife and the other Saxons were treacherous themselves. I heard she killed him once he was no longer needed, and the Saxons took over most of his kingdom.”
“Most? So where’s the rest?”
“It belongs in part to your father, and in part to Emmrys’ only son, your cousin Oruyl.”
“I’ve never met him”, reflected Arthur.
“No,” said Mörddin. “That’s to be expected. He lives on the other side of Pryden.”
Now that the story was over, Mörddin laid down on his side and threw his cloak over himself, acting as a blanket. He grabbed a branch and stoked the fire a bit before tossing it off into the distance, the darkness enveloping it as the flame died out.
“You should rest, we’ll have to leave early.”
“Okay,” said Arthur, doing the same as Mörddin. The cloak his mother had given was nice and warm, and he fell asleep quickly.

Arthur woke up to the sound of Mörddin putting out the fire. The old man poked at the braises, and then poured the pot’s water on to it, making some steam. Arthur rubbed his eyes.
“Ah, up are you?” said Mörddin. He had some bread and water ready for breakfast. “You’ll want some of that honeymead, too,” he added, throwing the pouch to Arthur.
He unscrewed the cap and took a sip of it. It was good but stung a bit. Arthur felt energised after drinking it, and was ready to tackle the day’s riding.
As he stared at the dark sky and the rising sun, Mörddin took out a cruth from his own saddlebag and started strumming it slowly, with old but veteran fingers. Arthur sat down, his back towards Mörddin, and enjoyed the music. The druid started playing an old tune Arthur had heard before in his father’s hall.
As he strummed the last notes, it started to rain heavily, and while cursing their luck and desperately wiping the droplets off the wooden frame, he quickly put it back in his bag and leapt on his horse.
“Time to be off. We still have a long way to go.”
He spurred onwards before Arthur had even gotten back on his horse, and the two set off at a brisk trot. Arthur noticed with some fear that the more they advanced, the more the road started to disappear.
“We’ll go a bit slower now, with no clear-cut road,” said Mörddin. “The Roman one fades out here, giving way to a mudpath. How are you holding up?”
“I’m not tired, but I miss mother and father,” admitted Arthur.
He noticed Mörddin turn his head in discomfort, fixing an imaginary point in the distance straight ahead.
“That’s only normal.”
Arthur grasped his reins a bit tighter. He would not admit the foreign landscape unnerved him, he had his pride to think about, but each time they heard a strange hoot or insect fly by he would spin his head. At one point, as his pony was closing in on Myrddin, he turned so briskly he made it strike its head against the horse’s flank, and it galloped off trailing a screaming Myrddin by the stirrups through the mud. He found him again a few hundred metres later, dusting off his clothes, tutting and still clutching on to his muddy hat, now stuck to his scalp. He kept quiet for the rest of that evening and abandoned the hat.