Molten

Get up, Rohan. Get up.

Break the ice from your fingers - that's it, bend the first, then the next. Let there be enough fire in your heart to melt this hate.

Get up.

Get up.

They need you. They call on you. You're their only warrior, Draganta. You're their last hope against the hailstorm. They will freeze without you, Rohan. You can't let them. Not again.

Not like Angus.

Get up.

The frosted blood on his eyes caused them to stick by the lash. His chest heaved under the clench of his crushed breastplate. Despite it all, there, unmistakably, was the fierce, white light of the moon gliding off the Dead Lord's armour. Behind him spun the shadows of this great mountain, swelling with cries of twisted banshees and unholy knights sworn again to their immortal thirsts for blood. Angus - what used to be Angus - hadn't shied from the dramatic. This would be a glorious end.

Rohan did not intend to lose today. Die? Perhaps. Fin Varra said such was fate, and his fate may have already been sealed. The wounds he suffered... The dead king was not bound by mere mortal strength. But not losing. If Rohan died, it would be in victory. He owed his brother nothing less.

He had to get up.

O O

"If it is good magic, we must wield it. Would it bear ill upon my kingdom, it must be destroyed. I will not allow Temra a new weapon to use against us," the king had decreed. "This is why I sent for you, my Mystic Knights. Although Cathbad has done much of the work for us by merely sensing this magic while he gathered herbs, more remains to be done in retrieving the source."

"Of course, King Conchobar," Rohan remembered saying, far too glib for what he knew now. "We'll fetch that source for you."

The King nodded in his royal gratitude. There always had been a difference between it and the real kind. True relief should have spread through his words as he realized his wish was to be granted. The royals, however, saw it as formality, as a fine gesture of a crowned head that expected no less than obedience from the start. He remembered this moment as well, along with the twinge of absurdity he'd felt. Angus would share it, Rohan knew, but unlike him, who thought it was funny for the king to bother feigning thanks, Rohan felt as though it were a dream. Near two years defending Kells as the legendary Draganta, and he had not erased the orphaned apprentice who never believed anyone - least of all his King - expected anything of him. This was the only reason his battle-worn mind spat out for why he had been too eager to accept this quest.

"It is not as easy as it sounds, my boy," Cathbad warned. He was a lone voice of reason that morning in the throne room. "I cannot identify this magic, and yet I sensed its presence from fields around. Something so beckoning will not go unguarded. You must take great care to avoid the perils surely surrounding..." The druid paused. "... whatever it may be."

"If you noticed, Cathbad," Deirdre asked next, standing at her place by her father's side, "would Maeve not have noticed as well?"

"This magic is far from her, princess," Cathbad assured. "But even banished, time runs short until she does. I fear this power will grow out of the place in which rests and catch the eye of many familiar with these matters. If Maeve or some person inclined to free the former queen gained this strength first..."

"Perhaps Fin Varra would know." Ivar. His loyal friend. The steady tide. Seeking Fin Varra had been a good suggestion. Rohan doubted the Little People's caution would have swayed them, but they might have been entered the cave better prepared. At least he tried. "If this magic is as unknown as you say, we would do ourselves a disservice by not heeding his words."

"Riddles," came the grunt, too low for any but Rohan to have heard. Angus buried the rest under a lazy scratch at his nose: "And a drop down a hole my belly'll not thank you for."

He could paint this morning. Every detail, every breath, every light as it flowed in around them spared itself in his memory. King Conchobar, with his golden crown and fine cloak of red furs, lorded over them from his noble throne. His beard had grown grayer as of late, but still it looked majestic. At the King's left was Cathbad, worrying into his staff and robes, and at his right, his daughter. For all the elegant gowns she wore and already glowing cheeks of moon-kissed silk, the princess grew lovelier each day. Rohan had it timed then: four beats to stare at the King; three beats, to Cathbad; two beats to watch the others. The last was spared as a swift glance to see she glanced at him. Most often, she wasn't, but those few seconds when their eyes met…

Deirdre was in green that morning. It suited her. He had yet to find a colour that didn't.

Facing them, Rohan wore his usual garb. The fashions of the age were, Draganta or not, too rich for his blood, but the clean stitches in his yellow shirt and brown, leather vest looked alright. Just alright. Were Garrett here, he might have changed his review to 'acceptable'. At any rate, King Conchobar hadn't complained, and Angus would have laughed if Rohan asked him for advice. The princess wouldn't be wooed by a shirt, and Angus gladly brought those truths to light.

Tears or blood. He didn't know which stung him.

Get up.

Ivar fared better. Common dress for his land involved well-knit cloths sewn to practical belts and pouches. If nothing else, he looked ready. The blue and his beard, trimmed as closely as his black hair, lent itself to both formal wear and battle. Ivar had a stern face, as though constantly teasing a frown, but the warmth of his eyes gave it away to them. He had always been fascinated by the man - not, as most would think, because of Ivar's darker skin, but because the prince could be this far from his kingdom but walk as comfortably as if he'd never left. Maybe it'd been how he stood. Rohan put his shoulders back, like Ivar had his. He lasted three minutes before he grew tired and slouched again.

Then Angus.

How Rohan thought of this now and how he thought of it then could not have differed more. Should he have lived to go through with his painting idea, Angus would appear the same, but the meaning behind his brushstrokes would change from a silent contest to quiet respect. A plain shirt with pockets, a plain vest with pockets, plain pants with pockets and plain bracers, cut from the same leather as Rohan's and trimmed with fur for warmth. And pockets. Angus either hadn't thought to try or didn't care to impress the royal family. Being a thief meant even less was expected of him, and he wore this freedom like a cape of precious threads. Rohan had hoped Deirdre would see the pair and marvel at the effort he had gone to, versus the almost intentionally dull clothes of his friend. Now, as his teeth scraped on ice, Rohan wondered if he shouldn't have been as brave and simply stood as himself, equally plain.

They understood that. King Conchobar, Princess Deirdre, Cathbad, Ivar and Angus all understood the best garb was honesty. In Angus' case, yes, also stuffed with coins Rohan knew perfectly well were warmed by the guards they first belonged to, but that was true to who he was. Rohan strained to carve a name the Draganta for himself, until the commoner was lost and only knight remained.

The lesson came from hindsight.

Rohan'ss answer to Angus was loosed as an answer to Ivar instead.

"We can't run to Fin Varra for each challenge we face. He gave us what we need to fend for ourselves. Isn't it enough to say it'll be dangerous and brace for what we find?"

"I second that," Angus chimed, very nearly not slurring. He might have lost their drinking game from the night before, but at least Rohan wasn't as green as the half-asleep victor. "What he said."

"I would still feel more at ease were we to go to Tir Na Nog."

"Ivar has the right of it," Cathbad told them. "The Little People are versed in tricks a wayward soul can befall. Their aid may be the difference between a sure success and tragic negligence."

"Then we shall take Aideen with us -"

"I'd love to go!"

The pink fairy spiralled out, trailed by an excited cloud of gold dust from whatever hiding place she'd taken to watch. Aideen was curiously reliable that way. Rohan saw her as an easy fix to their detour.

"We'll take Aideen," he repeated, deciding it. "She can guide us through the traps her magic eyes catch, and we won't lose the time it'd take to speak with Fin Varra." Rohan pulled his shoulders back like Ivar's once more, fiirm. "You said yourself, Cathbad, that time runs short."

"Rohan is correct, father." Deirdre hands found their way to the side of the king's throne. She held it as if it were his arm. "Send us now. We have fought to rid ourselves of Maeve. We can't sit back and let her use this magic against Kells."

Maeve. Months since she departed to her own, forsaken island and her name continued to strike fear. Temra wasn't the hostile nation it had been, but their lingering resistance did not go unnoticed. Rohan, as had the others, as had King Conchobar himself, wondered whether they would raise her as their queen again if she reappeared. He didn't like what his mind came up with.

"That's three of you," the King noted. "Prince Ivar, have you other thoughts on the matter?"

"I…" Stern most days, but occasionally a fish. Ivar's mouth hung open on the verge of voicing those other thoughts. The consensus, however, seemed to weaken his resolve. The foreign prince gave a nod of consent at last and finished, "I will follow Draganta."

It hurt Rohan as much now as he swelled with pride then.

"There. Glad that's settled," Angus said. "We'll be home in a few days."

"So it would appear." Angus was the first to step off to leave, and therefore the first to have to whirl back in line. King Conchobar wasn't done. "Cathbad? Your final assessment?"

The druid thought. The uneasiness during his silence should have been Rohan's best clue to what lied ahead. Instead, he assumed it impatience, and spent the moment willing his mentor to get on with it.

"I wish you all the kindest fortune in your quest. This magic," Cathbad murmured, trailing away. "I fear that whether for good or evil, it is wild." His ancient fingers tightened their hold, and he leaned his staff towards them, pointing with it and his hand. "If you cannot control this power, you must destroy its source."

"We can handle it, Cathbad," Rohan assured. "I swear."

"Our warrior has sworn to his ability, Cathbad," the King said approvingly. "We have trusted him before and he has shown himself worthy of such faith." Rohan didn't have a chance to let the words flatter him. His eyes were suddenly locked with the King's, and a regal finality entered the next words. "Draganta has led the Mystic Knights through many daunting tasks. As your king, I await good news." The stare broke off to drift softly down to Deirdre. "As a father, I expect it."

There was that smirk that lit the princess' face. With a tone Rohan could never dare to use, she objected, perhaps too proudly, "Have I not faced those same daunting tasks?"

"Yes, my dear, and triumphed," their King granted, "but you are my daughter nonetheless. So long as I breathe, I shall worry. It is every parent's duty to their child."

Ivar seemed relaxed in front of this tenderness. Rohan wasn't. Cathbad almost counted as his father, or at least as something beyond a teacher, but these moments felt lost on him. He stood mute, hoping to play his awkwardness as a polite reluctance to interrupt.

Angus followed a different approach.

"So… now it's settled. And we can go."

Sentiment interrupted.

"Yes, yes. You are dismissed," King Conchobar said. "Mind you return with the source, Angus. If I find you've taken it for yourself, I will be most displeased."

"Angus has reformed, your Majesty," Rohan promised his King.

"We'll return with the source together, father." Deirdre meant the same as, "I'll watch him."

"Good." Though Rohan was trusted to face danger, King Conchobar failed to hide his greater belief in the princess over Angus' habits. "Away with you then, my Mystic Knights. Ride to victory."

Ivar bowed. Rohan bowed. Deirdre curtsied. Angus gave a short bob of his head and a half-hearted wince of a smile, then stepped off as he'd planned to the first time. Rohan followed straight behind to hissed at his ear, "Don't run. You're in front of the King."

"If I walk," Angus hissed back, "I'll be sick on the King. I think that's a touch less polite, even if he called me a thief."

"You are a thief. Or did you happen to find my apple's twin, right down to its bruise on top?"

"I didn't see you eating it," Angus said. "Can't have you wasting a good apple."

Rohan let that comment lie and ushered his friend away from the throne. They waited there in the hall for Ivar - who joined quickly - and Deirdre, who stayed to leave on gentler terms. This struck Angus as the perfect time to eat the apple he'd swiped who-knew-when. Rohan got another "Can't have you wasting it" when he glared at the reformed criminal.

"I would still feel more comfortable consulting Fin Varra," Ivar told them.

"Why? We're the Mystic Knights. We've got the armour and the weapons," Angus said, gnawing on the core. "Unless you've got a hankering for a headache, we're better off alone."

"But we aren't alone. Aideen," Rohan called. She appeared in another blur of pink. "Aideen, you can help us, can't you? These traps that Cathbad spoke of - will you be able to find them in time?"

"I'll do my best," she sang.

"That's all we can ask for. You see, Ivar? We've got help." Aideen fluttered at that, tickled to be of assistance to the group. He noticed Deirdre pulling a face, but carried on, explaining, "Fin Varra would only give us puzzles we might not solve 'til it's too late. With this much unknown, we can't afford those distractions. Aideen is someone who'll guide us as we search."

"I suppose."

"Cheer up, Ivar. If anything goes wrong," Angus said, "I'll be there to save the day."

"We'll all be there to save the day," Deirdre said, in exactly the same voice as before. "Now come along. We didn't argue to leave this instant to burn daylight talking it over."

She left as swiftly as she arrived. Ivar left second, heading toward the stables. They would prepare the horses while the princess prepared herself. Gowns were not well suited to these adventures. Angus clearly planned to leave third, but Rohan yanked him back with a heavy hand. In his other hand was an apple core.

"How did this," the mighty Draganta inquired, "find its way to my pouch?"

Angus shrugged. Not at the knight of legends, but at his oldest friend.

"Sounded like you wanted it back."

O O

Blue. Hands are not meant to be blue. After this comes black, and then you will lose your hands forever.

Rather that than gray. Hands weren't meant to be gray. Skin was not meant to be gray. Angus wasn't meant to…

Rohan pressed on the snow, far past feeling it.

He had to get up.

Chapter 2: The Wooden Door

A/N: I've gotta say, I'm enjoying the look of the new line breaks. They used to be ugly, solid lines across the screen. Now they've got a neat fade in and out style. Nifty! I certainly hate how hard they are to format, though. I'm not going crazy with the 'O's because I think they're cute. I just don't trust these fade-y lines to actually show up.

Anyway, don't be shy to leave a review! I noticed a little bump in traffic, so it seems like MK hasn't been forgotten. :)

~Qk

O O O O

You burn. You cannot feel the cold, so instead you burn. The frost will kill you before Angus ever lifts his sword.

They burn beside you.

Deirdre, Ivar, Garret. Your friends.

You save nothing from the ground.

It was blood stinging his eyes, he realized, but it was also tears. They mixed, as the salt water caught what dripped from his split forehead. The sad truth behind the faint warmth of his right arm was the blood running down it as well.

Call it madness or the last stage of panic that a bitter fit of laughter circled his throat. Rohan didn't have strength to release it, but knowing it hungered there felt like enough. A clear thought came to him, past the pain, past fear, past anger, past his loss, and lodged itself too deeply in his mind to be ignored.

Wonder how Deirdre thinks I look.

She could have been shouting. Rohan wouldn't have heard.

Get up.

O O

"This is it?"

It was Deirdre who spoke the words, but the question came from all of them. He remembered being blinded by sweat after climbing this mountain range, past the forest of a faded trail, beyond Cathbad's fields for gathering herbs, on foot because their horses were too spooked to cross those lands, only to stare at the entrance to the source a great energy none of them felt but had been dizzily led towards through Aideen's direction.

"I was… expecting," he panted, "something more than a… a wooden door."

As if they had stumbled onto a shack. Three wide, rotted planks had been hammered together with a browning strip of rusted metal, then nailed to the side of what seemed to be a squat cave.

"It's an unlocked, wooden door," Angus wheezed. "The latch. It's been… broke open."

"Does that mean," Ivar puffed, "we arrived too late? Is the power gone?"

"Nooooo," Aideen moaned. For the last few hours, the fairy had had to ride on Rohan's shoulder. In the last few minutes, he'd had to sit her inside the pouch at his waist. She'd become too weak to fly. Whatever magic this was, its effect on her was obvious. "It's still heeeeere."

"Aideen," Rohan asked, gathering her in his hand. He'd had to wipe it first, lest he drown her in a small pool. "Are you well? Can you manage going farther?"

"Ohhhhh, Roooohan," the fairy had wailed, lolling her head back and forth. "I'm not suuuuuure."

He knew the jokes Angus would have readied on his tongue, ones pitting the sounds of Aideen against a hungry Deirdre, who he'd already claimed to be a well-dressed bear with a crown. He treasured the restraint his friend showed then.

"She can't go on with us, Rohan," said bear insisted, winded like the rest of them but still gracefully voiced. "It's too much for her."

"Someone's carrying her back," Angus decided.

"And losing us the time saved by coming here directly." Rohan understood: Aideen could not remain in this place. Her wings had flapped, possessed and crippled by fatigue, and she held her tiny ears as if a screeching note blew across a pipe. They wouldn't keep her here, but they already arrived… Where was the noble wisdom of Draganta then? "Alright. One of us returns her to the fields. The others will clear the way to inside."

"I'll find some sticks."

"Only two, Angus. You and I can't draw for shortest," Rohan said, "I have a duty to the King to enter this door, and with Aideen unable to help, you're our best chance at avoiding traps. This must be left to Deirdre or Ivar." Already regretting his next words, he added, "Princess, because the King has wished for no harm -"

"I will go," Ivar cut in. "Deirdre is lighter of foot. That will help to navigate harsher terrain."

"And I will stay," she said, finishing with a glare, "for I am not some delicate flower to be coddled."

Angus was stood behind her. From his place of relative safety, he mouthed above Deirdre's shoulder, "Bear." The claws he made of his hands were a new touch.

"Angus, I can see your shadow."

"Just stretching, princess. Oh, I'm so tired…"

"Take her, Ivar." Rohan's hands softly parted from their cradle to let Aideen slip through. She had been collected as daintily as she fell, but her whimpers grew despite the gentleness. The sweat on his palms had not been entirely his own, it appeared. "Go. Fast. Make sure she's unharmed."

"Good luck," Ivar called.

He disappeared in moments. The silence his absence left did not ease them.

Rohan had few remarks worth making about the bluff they'd climbed. Their mountain was one of many arranged within a sierra. It looked no different to its uninspiring brothers, and he could not recall the wildlife that surrounded them or flora itching their feet. But the door - the devastatingly ordinary, knotted door - had etched itself inside his mind. He studied it while they recovered from their rough journey.

Three Mystic Knights.

Rohan was a fool.

"Well, this's a fine mess we've found ourselves." Angus flicked his nose at the cave, and at the mountains and everything. "Down to three with no fairy magic when we started with four and a sure plan to go around Fin Varra."

"You had time enough to protest at the castle," Rohan retorted. "We press on. Angus, check the door."

"Check it for what, exactly? If there's sorcery at work, I can't wave my hands and wizard it away."

"The door," he said again. "Do whatever you think might help."

What 'helped', according to the black-haired man from a life of stealth and clever infiltration, was chucking a rock at it. A stone, really, and by 'chucking', Rohan meant more 'lightly tossed'. The stuttered ping did not give them the confidence they had hoped for, even when Angus turned to them and shrugged.

"Seems fine."

Deirdre's eyes had flashed their gleaming emerald.

"You expect a princess to entrust her life to a pebble and 'Seems fine'?" This implied a 'no', which she strengthened by pushing ahead without their answer. "Stand aside. I'll check the door."

By 'check', the princess meant 'launch a gale at it'.

"Deirdre, wait -"

She fired her crossbow.

There'd been no time to yell sense. She'd left herself nowhere to hide from the shale, and Angus had to drop at his last instant. Still, he was lost under a wave of shrapnel. Rohan gagged, and though retreat brought a cowardly taste, he was forced to snap under his cloak to shield himself from the clawing dirt. The dust howled against the wind, furiously unleashed in a storm. For what felt like years, they choked and coughed, and each breath dragged more soil to Rohan's mouth. He spat for another lifetime when it settled enough to have called it passed. By the time he heard Angus' cursing, Rohan concluded this served for their dinner.

Yes. He remembered that useless dirt.

"You should have stood aside farther," Deirdre was saying, "or done what I did."

"I-might-have-if-my-head-wasn't-stuffed-by-you-tryin'-to-kill-me!"

"Is this how you address your future queen?"

Gravel dripped from Rohan's head. He felt his face caked with sand that crumbling as he blinked. One look at Angus proved their thief hadn't fared much better. The princess, on the other hand, stalked towards the intact door without a speck upon her silver figure. The mystic armour kept her safe. She had summoned it during storm, then. Rohan admired her quick thinking.

Although he might've done the same if his head wasn't stuffed by her trying to kill them.

"Need a hand, Angus?"

"No," his friend barked. "I need a bath."

"If that's all it takes -"

"You, I'll punch." Angus clambered to his feet and set about clapping the grime off his clothes. not wasting a moment to throw out, "I see your door held, princess."

Held it had. That struck Rohan as odd. He said as much, joining to its end, "How does rotted wood endure the force of a mystic weapon?"

"Perhaps the magic affecting Aideen has something to do with this." Deirdre looked for a moment as though she might step back, but it seemed her heart steeled. She stayed her ground. "Rohan? It's your turn."

"Earth beneath me!" The sudden flash of light left Rohan with spots dancing before his eyes. He blinked hard, now beside two armoured knights, neither of which bothered to give him forewarning and put one on testily telling the other, "I'm not falling for that twice."

"No one is falling for anything." He had to try a different way. His impatience strained already under the loss of Ivar and Aideen, and the Sword of Kells hung stiff from its leather strap, driving him towards the planks that thwarted a feral storm and terrifying pebble. "Be ready." Rohan placed his hand upon the door.

"Watch yourself," Angus cautioned.

Wedged. He had to work his fingers through a thin gap at the side, avoiding splinters as he brushed through mushy wood. It gave like cloth when Rohan pried it wider. Darkness laid well beyond its hinges, breathing cool along his nails as he pulled. He'd expected the door to swing open. Instead, with a pop, off came the plank he'd tugged.

"That easy." Deirdre's voice laced with an early sign of crossness. "Yet my Whirlwind Crossbow did nothing."

"Maybe you should've yelled at it to stand aside. That's never failed to knock everything down."

"Angus," Rohan scolded. "Both of you - come look." Stairs, but too many to count. They buried themselves in the shadows before they wound to an end, but he stepped in as though that might make all the difference. "What are your thoughts?"

"Chilly," Angus said.

"Another excellent observation. Soon you'll notice it's a cave."

"Deirdre," Rohan begged, quite unwilling to chide the princess the same as his friend. "We can't get anywhere with you two swiping at each other."

"I think she's hungry," Angus fecklessly swiped again.

"I think you were going first to check for traps," Deirdre served back. "Go on, then. Check."

"Rohan's the one with the flaming sword. I won't be able to see down there." Angus slapped him on the shoulder. "What do you say, Draganta? Care to shed a ray of light for us?"

His memory here was hazy. Rohan remembered answering, but he couldn't recall the words he used that moment. His sword brandished, nonetheless, and its fire was invoked, then invoked again, and again, and again and again, each request suffering a hollow repetition of itself. The Sword of Kells, second to none on the island, pride of Tir Na Nog and his kingdom, sat useless in his palm.

"I don't understand," he had said next that day, holding it up in case the problem was engrained on the blade.

"First her crossbow, now your sword." Angus crossed his arms. "I think my pebble's done the most so far. You two owe it an apology."

"Will our armour work?" The princess sought the insight herself. She stepped inside the cave. "What -"

Gone.

The silver and gold shimmered around her skin and disappeared, as if she un-summoned it of her own choice. Deirdre's red hair spilled across her shoulders and her travelling clothes reappeared, dusty but unharmed. Angus' entrance merely added to their worry. His armour left him, too, and he immediately went to work griping about it.

"Great," he started, meaning anything but. "Three of us, no Aideen, no Fin Varra and now no mystic amour. A finer mess, one can't ask for."

Draganta had been wise to enter first. He was glad of it, in fact. With Angus' review of their bleak circumstances, he needed to be up front to protect the others as they moved along.

"We still have our weapons," Rohan assured them. "Whatever it is preventing their magic, they'll serve us as they are."

"Yours do." Deirdre raised her crossbow again. "Without Fin Varra's enchantments, I'll be forced to use mine as a club."

"And while it would be incredible, watching the princess bash that around," Angus said, "we should wait for Ivar. We're no good like this."

Rohan was a fool.

"Waiting for Ivar might take even longer than it did to journey here," he urged. "I told him to be sure Aideen was unharmed. He may travel to Tir Na Nog, and we've no way of knowing who may have followed us."

"We know less about what awaits," Deirdre argued. "Our only certainty is that we now face it unarmed."

"We'll guard the entrance, Rohan," Angus said. "Outside the cave. If anyone does show up, it's better to be caught where there's room to fight - and no traps lurking from walls."

They spoke so many truths. Rohan had felt his certitude bend in light of their choices. It all made sense. But whether the travel had worn too harshly on him, or the fear of the cave and its horrors below, something unfurled within him. Pride curled through his belly and pulled him on.

Draganta was not to be tested. The King commanded his needs quite clearly. Temra, peaceful as it seemed, was still a land of wild unrest.

"Torches," he told them. "We need torches." He left the cave for that and that alone. "Deirdre will carry one, and we'll have our hands free to fight."

"Rohan…"

His memory hazed here as well. He didn't know who it was who'd pleaded, but steadfast, he snapped, "Torches. We'll need them either way, won't we?"

He saw the look they exchanged. Deirdre's concern. Angus' doubt. The downwards curve on both their mouths. Rohan realized then that he didn't understand his rising anger. On another day, he would have welcomed their foresight. They hadn't stalled out of spite, but out of love for their friends. Neither wanted to see careless blood shed, and despite how they bickered, Angus and Deirdre trusted each other's instincts. The former relished living, while the latter had been raised to guard her people. Were Ivar there, his diplomacy might have been the final nail in Rohan's arrogance.

Ivar wasn't there. Rohan built his torch. As much as they trusted each other, Angus and Deirdre trusted him more.

They trusted Draganta.

He returned to the cave, carrying his burning branch. The others lingered, setting their own ablaze. Rohan left them.

"I can't see the bottom yet," he called back. "I'll head in farther."

"Rohan, wait for us!"

"What about Deirdre carrying everything?"

Deaf. Deaf to it all.

Draganta led. He would clear the way.

"I'll only be a moment," he shouted. "I'll find the end, then come up."

Soon, he no longer heard them. He just as soon forgot to care. Perhaps it was that they were safer while he ventured alone, and his mind was put to better use watching for traps.

Rohan's foot touched on the final step. The cushion of air to escaped from under it blew a clean circle around his sole. Dead leaves and grass spattered the stone floor, having floated in from above over time. The cave felt still. He'd expected insects at the least, or structures or some small trace of those who had carved those stairs. The tunnel he occupied loomed over like a rich hall, grey stone the way through, dry, empty, dark - chilly, as Angus had noted. He remembered wondering how a place devoid of life could fill him with such a sense of power out there.

The magic.

Of course. This cave was flooded with magic. He simply found himself close enough to the source to sense it now. Rohan marvelled at the feeling. Nothing surrounded him, nothing touched him, and yet he swore he was not alone. His torch refused to reveal the cave's secrets. Bare wall. A second bare wall. Bare ceiling.

And then the mark.

"Rohan."

"Rohan, what are you doing? You nearly cut his head off!" Princesses did not snarl, but Deirdre had come closer than ever. "Watch your sword!"

His sword?

The listless Sword of Kells rested in his hand. He had brought it around when Angus appeared from the shadows behind him. Deirdre's words occurred to Rohan then, and he sheathed the blade where he'd thought he had it at the outset.

"I'm sorry," he said, sounding awkward as the cave mimicked him. "I didn't... I didn't hear you."

"You didn't hear us shouting? There's no other sound to confuse it with," Angus spat. "The princess hurt her ankle on the stairs where you left us." Sure enough, Deirdre had an arm around their thief, leaning off of her right side and griping a second torch with her left. "I think this King's quest has gotten to you. You're a little overly excited, and now you're being that wayward soul of Cathbad's."

"I'm alright," Rohan promised. "I was just impatient -"

"No armour, no Aideen, no Ivar," Angus threw at him. "I already said we should wait. This seals it. Come on, Deirdre."

"The markings," he blurted. "Look at these markings - triangles and circles. They're carved into the rock."

Angus' glare had always struck worse than the others'. Deirdre sold the expression to anything offending her sensibilities. Ivar's were less frequent, often standing for a moral cause. Rohan could hardly call them disagreeable when they meant to shake their quarry onto the proper path they'd fallen from. His friend, however, who glared rarest of all - at Rohan - intended it personally. It was out of disappointment. His eyes cut through Draganta to the boy Angus had grown with. Rohan never asked what happened if he kept on with whatever it was. He could guess. There'd been a fair number of bruises in the past to help.

"Perhaps a quick look," Deirdre told Angus. "We'll leave to discuss it outside while we wait for Ivar."

Rohan could have kissed her for an entirely new reason. The thief, during then, took his time to reply. Angus' eyes didn't soften, though he bent his head towards the princess to take her advice.

"One quick, short look," he finally said. With as much care as Rohan showed Aideen, Angus let the princess gather herself, then strode forth and snatched Rohan's torch from him. "Where is it?"

Everywhere. When the fire raised, the symbols glinted in mad harmony, smiling like haunted faces. They patterned down the stone hall and away to the darkness.

"A triangle," Deirdre mused, "spearing a circle."

"It's no symbol of magic I've ever seen," Rohan said eagerly. "It isn't magic at all. It simply is, and it must mean something."

"Danger."

The cave held its breath. Angus' grip had tightened on the torch, and he'd winced at the cold echoes of the gray stone. 'Danger' rang true to them, but somehow, the cave seemed too innocent. Rohan frowned.

"Danger," Deirdre spoke at last. "Of what?"

"Of something that does not like thieves." Angus handed the torch back, no longer glaring, but serious. "It's the earliest sign any pickpocket learns. A triangle half inside a circle points to danger at the circle's end. Of what," he said, before Deirdre prompted twice, "I have no idea. You've got to just trust it."

"Trust thieves?" Rohan's frown deepened - then pulled itself up short at the look Angus sent over. "I meant… not former…"

He quieted himself.

"Trust that there's danger," his friend resumed. "Who would stick around to draw all these if they weren't afraid of what's ahead? I've heard some try to trick others, but -"

"Then it might be a trick," Rohan picked up.

"Or," Angus said, "a very dire warning to leave while we can."

"We're not here to run from the source of this place. We're here to claim it."

"Not without our armour."

"We have our weapons!"

"They don't work, Rohan."

"My sword's still sharp. Are you too scared?"

"Boys," Deirdre broke through. "We will discuss this matter outside. Now."

The glare returned. Angus stared Rohan down until he eventually huffed, "Fine by me."

"Yes. That's a good idea. Outside." The King's orders were the King's orders. "Angus, escort the princess upstairs. Wait for Ivar. If I need you, I'll holler."

Danger at the circle's end. Symbols written by thieves. Draganta was not a coward, and he didn't concern himself with cave pictures. The weight of the Sword of Kells continued to comfort him, not as a well of enchantment, but as a tool of defence. This was right, he'd told himself. This was honourable. He kept his promise to both the King and to Deirdre's father: the princess would go unharmed, and Rohan would see this strange magic controlled.

O O

Too far. Too far. Your sword is too far, Rohan. You must reach it to survive. You must survive.

His arms surged with pain as he pushed his weight onto his hands. That was a bad sign. If he touched his sword again, how well would he lift it? How would he parry or dodge? The heavy glass blade shone under the moonlight, hardly a wrist length's away, but as his arms trembled, it might just have slid down the mountain for all its use.

Get up.

Chapter 3: The Cave Itself

A/N: I feel like the harshest language I'm going to use is in this chapter. That makes giggle. In my original stuff, I've got one character who talks almost predominantly in F-bombs.

I've been going through the little archive here! A lot of the plots were fantastic, and honestly, fully in line with what a few second season episodes could've been. At least we have each other!

O O O O

Fallen. Their weapons have fallen and failed. They lie too far to be of use to you. A true warrior could reach.

Look how the snow buries Ivar's glaive and Garrett's hammer. Deirdre's quills are lost to the valley of death below. Your sword will freeze, and then you will burn, Rohan.

I did not choose you to fail. Show me your flames can tame this ice, and I will grant you the strength you need to strike.

Take your sword.

Get up.

Were these the voices Angus heard? Little wonder he was consumed. Rohan suffered his for only months, and already he felt the madness of these whispers.

Part of him understood he didn't fight his brother at all. Not really. Rohan was just a hand for the wild magic that smithed its Molten Knight, and the price of undeath was the Dead Lord's very soul. They were their weapons' champions, the glass and runed blades alike, but not their masters. Killing Angus wouldn't stop the darkness that fed his sword. It would move on, simply feasting until the next life it deemed worthy had been drained of its purity as well.

Rohan was granted his armour to deliver mercy, not salvation. Fin Varra said it clearly: only a fool would still hold hope.

He strained to get up.

O O

The markings grew deeper the farther Rohan walked. There had been nothing to do but study the cuts; the stone hall went, carrying on in such an unfeeling line that without the symbols, he might have sworn he went no distance at all. Still, he wondered. Was this the trap? None of his mystical items worked inside the mountain, but who was to say it didn't allow its own? And so, Rohan had gone this way, questioning the meaning of the depth of lines as he wrestled new concerns about his plight.

Then the markings stopped, and he was alone with his torch.

There had been a last, richly defined sign for the danger its writer promised. The triangle flickered in the fire with three neat sides, deliberate and cleanly angled into the well-curved circle. He remembered staring at it, observing the slope of the ceiling it adorned, impossible to miss as its circle pointed down the path Rohan intended. This looked chiselled. The others were scraped like afterthoughts, but this had been fashioned with care. He grew cautious of stepping forward after that, unable to convince himself the danger was yet to come. Now, he entered it.

Rohan had kept the torch low, watching the ground, then the walls, then ahead, over and over again and almost losing the meaning behind his actions. Time slowed exactly as he feared, so he took to counting his heartbeats. They came quicker than he liked.

It was right to spared the others of this and walk by himself. Draganta meant to save Kells. He couldn't do that if he kept dragging its people and princess along.

Rohan.

A whisper brushed his ear. The voice was too far to identify. He'd thought briefly of Angus and almost made to return the call. Draganta closed his mouth. The markings and the magic were enough to win his silence. Tricks, he realized, crafted to slow and trap him here.

The Sword of Kells had felt heavier. Outside, there was a draw between him and the blade. Its warm edges seemed proud to slash at Rohan's will, and the magic given by Tir Na Nog came more naturally than any potion taught by Cathbad. Now as he marched, his attention came thanks to the ache it'd become on his neck. The strap dug in, and although he moved his shirt to cushion its bite, the relief wore thin soon. Following two hundred beats, Rohan took the sword off and carried it sheathed in his hand instead.

Rohan.

Whatever sorcery had a hold on the mountain, Rohan remembered it weighing harsher here. 'Here' - well… He hadn't known where 'here' was. His legs suggested he'd walked the entire mountain range from inside. But there was an end. He sensed it. He never sensed anything before, and that he knew he was became its own excitement. What started as a vague hope turned to instinct, then conscious belief, then a final certainty. The source of it was small but amazing. He pictured the shape in his mind's eye. Forgetting his heartbeats, he turned to counting the distance between him and the soft, untouchable breeze.

Rohan.

The distance ticked down. His feet moved faster, lighter, gently cooled. The source fashioned itself like a silhouette against a clear moon. It reached for him, almost in his hands. He couldn't stop himself. He wouldn't have stopped at any rate.

Rohan.

He smelled something. Sweet. Fresh.

Water?

Rohan!

He put it from his mind. There, ahead, at the end of the hall's dark nothingness, was a light. The glowing mass held an orange dimness, and it watched him steadily approach, gingerly crooning -

"Rohan, you insufferable ass!" He barely kept his sheath in hand as his shoulders slammed against a wall. The wing roared out of him. "If your mother wasn't Maeve, she'd hang herself in shame at stickin' us with you. We'd have done better with Lugad!"

"Angus, let go -"

Slammed again, harder. His sword did drop this time.

"You got the princess waitin' alone 'cause I had come drag you out by your throat." Rohan's shirt was balled inside both Angus' fists. That grip wasn't likely to break. "You're coming with me 'fore I drag you by something more creative."

"Angus, stop -"

Hardest yet, and now the pain spread through his chest. Rohan had started coughing.

"I thought you died," Angus seethed. "I ran 'til the bleedin' marks gave out and still you weren't answering. You don't have your armour! You don't have Aideen. You don't Ivar or Deirdre, and 'til I found you, you didn't have me. I should've left you here, you stupid -" He was too enraged to even think of what to call Rohan next. Or else Angus couldn't decide from among his many choices. Either way, disgusted, his alleged friend had released him roughly. "We're goin'."

"But I'm almost -"

That crack echoed louder than any spoken word. It rang for eternity in the stone hall, endlessly repeating in writhing glee. Rohan reached a hand to the side of his face. Like he'd been hit again, his fingers drew a flare of soreness. Angus hadn't smacked him to hurt. That would've been a punch, and Rohan earned enough of those to tell. This had been to wake him. It stung, but he didn't bleed.

"We," Angus said, the fury rising from low in his throat, "are going."

"But -"

"I am going, and if you decide you'd rather make the trip slidin' 'cross the floor, I'll arrange it." Rohan's mouth had gone dry. He must have shown it, because Angus broke his scowl to roll his lip and shove a water skin at Rohan's face. "Thick as champ, you are. How embarrassed the King would be to hear his favourite warrior up an' died o' thirst. You bloody well deserve it."

"At least," he had said around gulps, "I brought a torch with me."

"I dropped mine," Angus shot back. "All the freer hands to hit you with."

He sounded out of breath while he spoke. Rohan lowered the water to ask, "Did you run here?"

"I wouldn't've caught up if not."

"Without a torch. In pitch blackness."

"'Cross whatever lay in my way after I passed the grand sign for danger - aye, all that." Angus usually cleaned his language when he spoke in front of the others. He didn't try as hard when it was the two of them, and not at all when he worked himself to these worried, nannying fits. "I really wanted to hit you."

"Well, you have," Rohan assured him. "Now can you stop jumping to do it again and look down there?"

Despite himself, Angus did look. The wait for his comment had stretched so far to Rohan that he'd doubted his friend would speak. When at last he turned back, there were no shakes of awe or puzzled reactions. Angus offered only a shrug and clipped, "I guess you think you've found the magic source."

Rohan gaped in return.

"'Think'? You think that's the source? Angus," he cried, grabbing their thief's shoulder with the hand not supporting their light. "That's it. We're almost there! We've come this far, and to what? To turn back?"

"You're supposed to be the noble one." The torch let Rohan watch Angus' face for signs of understanding, but instead of blossoming joy, he'd been greeted with stony flatness. "You're Draganta. Your princess is outside alone while we're in this freezing cave, and you swore to see her home safely."

"Once," he'd retorted, "we've destroyed whatever's -"

"You're not thinkin' of destroying it, Rohan. You want it, otherwise you'd go back to the stairs and seal this cave forever. That's destroying it."

"What if -"

Angus refused to let him loose another word. He smacked a hand over Rohan's mouth, forcing it shut to listen to him. The other, as if hoping to choke some sense in, squeezed the back of Rohan's neck. He did not let go. Angus instead watched Rohan's eyes intently.

"Might not be as good at this as you, but something's not right in your head." Like a mother scolding her child. "Rohan. We need to go back."

"I can feel the source of it, Angus. Out there," Rohan pressed. He glimpsed towards the quiet light resting on their horizon. "Can't you?"

"No. I feel hungry. And since you drank my water, soon I'll be feelin' thirsty." Now like a stableboy leading a mare home, Angus flexed his grip on Rohan and pulled him away. "Come on. Ivar might've returned. Deirdre may need you."

He remembered what came next. This, in his throes of death, was one of the clearest memories; not for words that'd been said, but for the hearts changed. His eyes swept again across the shrinking orange light. Rohan's face started to flush. His breathing quickened. This felt wrong to him, to leave.

Draganta did not shy from a challenge. Draganta did not fail his King for a fear of the unknown. But Angus was right. The dangers ahead might prove too great for him alone, and the Sword of Kells was not the ally that his blood brother was. These thoughts arose and settled as swiftly as the plan he hatched and whispered with just a damned breath.

"What if," Rohan's lips unfurled, "it's gold?"

"What if what's gold?"

"The light. The source. What if the markings were a trick intended to keep us from a dragon's hoard? The magic could be a small part of a bigger share."

Years would pass. For few of them, Rohan would sleep, and the times he did were plagued by this moment. Angus was greedy. The plain fact did not require the life shared as children and young men to learn. Right then, Rohan felt the hand on his neck slacken in interest, and though his chosen family kept a dull voice, feigning aloofness for the notion, the torch revealed a truth that sealed a fate.

"You," the blasted, incurable, cursed thief before him then said, "want to stay and hunt treasure."

"I want to stay and reveal what's hidden under false markings and shadows. It might be treasure," Rohan said, playing just as aloof, "or the magic the King requests. It's worth investigating."

Lost.

"Deirdre's waiting," Angus tried, already edging closer to the light.

"She was the one who told us we face only uncertainty here. One look," he promised. "One fast, short look."

Lost to all of them.

It was Rohan's fault.

Angus bit his lip, as if he hadn't decided long ago.

"One fast, very short look, then we return to Deirdre. We don't touch anything, we don't take anything, and we don't linger."

"Agreed."

Rohan had beamed. That Angus' impish grin joined his own was why he found himself wandering the castle walls, wasting years as he pitied their low height. It wasn't enough to end it, but high enough to toy the hope. Had Angus seen him then, he would have punched Rohan properly. Back then, as they walked along towards the source, he felt safe to simply enjoy the hall as it seemed less dark for a while.

Angus would have punched him for his poetry as well.

Orange did not do the light justice. It was a distant cascade of colours, reds on yellows, golds mixing with coppers, full of vibrant glow. But the light itself bore no heat. Over the thin scent of water, Rohan caught a draft sliding by. The light was a song of sirens, beautiful but empty.

"More danger." For a stunning change, the light continued around a corner. The change was the first of its kind. Joining them was another chiselled triangle and circle. Angus snorted. "I'm gettin' tired of these."

"Why do you suppose this and the other were so..." How should he have described it? "... pleasant, while the ones by the stairs were..."

"Mad?" Angus' spirit dampened. "Probably torn between escapin' and warning us."

"It must have been a lot of gold."

"Or danger."

"Or gold," Rohan offered twice.

"Or gold. Nothing wrong with protecting what's yours." His friend squinted. "Just wish they'd spared a blade to carve the whole story."

Rohan waited for the doubt to resurface. He'd noted the thrill of victory seize him when Angus moved on instead. They took the corner then, arriving at a change now to the stone's formation. The walls were stacked upon bricks, the colour of the hall before, but more somber as the torch wafted along its crevices. Even the ceiling bore this design, twinned with the ground. An odd style, he'd felt, but it left no mistake of where the orange light nested. It waved to them from a yawning entrance on their right farther in.

"It's bright," Rohan said. He didn't mind the cold as largely. "We shouldn't need long to search."

"Stop." Angus had had his head trained on the entrance's upper wall. "Holes."

Six… seven…

"Nine of them," he observed. "Is this the trap?"

"Well, maybe. That looks like a gate," Angus said. "Dunno what closes it, but if it doesn't open when we're inside, then yes, a trap."

They studied the ground. Rohan had less idea why, but his thief appeared to trust their steps. They reached an arm's length of the gate holes, which housed thick spikes of black iron. Lulled chills crept through his boot, numbing the heels of his feet. He hardly noticed the floor, so focused on the second corner turning left, as if meaning to continue the impossibly long hall after this short deviation. He certainly hadn't caught eye of the wire.

"The gate didn't fall," he remarked, drawing cautious breaths while he passed. Safe. That source touched nearer. He alighted on his path towards it to enjoy the easy pleasure of being almost at its side. "These are good signs."

"Steady there. On your left." Angus pointed. "There's a flat stone with a line around. It looks raised."

It had been.

"So?"

"So," Angus divined, "don't touch it. That'll be a tackle for the gate, I bet." The wire would have shivered in anticipation. "Come back a touch to where I was. I'll go first, if we're going at all."

"Of course we're going." Twing. "You're slowing us -"

The clash of iron burst through his ears. The stone of the ground scoured the right of his face. Rohan had been thrown, suddenly bruised and rubbed bloody, and that shove tagged the last hand Angus laid on him alive.

"Rohan."

The torch had clattered between them. It wasn't alone doing this, for nine, black spikes stood there, too.

"Angus?"

"There's a chance I was too kind when I called you an insufferable ass."

Deirdre. Ivar. Aideen. Outside. As furiously as the thoughts had returned to him, the image of his shining source crumbled. There'd been a draft, sure enough, as well as a chill seeping to his toes. Nearly at once, it changed from a quiet balm to a disturbed, paining numbness. How hadn't he noticed the frost that coated the stones? How had he not seen his breath fog the air before him? He curled his feet, and shivering under his vest, Rohan rolled to his stiff knees and gracelessly wiped a sleeve against his cheek.

"Angus…"

"Why is it," his friend said, "wherever there's bars to get locked behind, it's always ever me?" Angus sounded annoyed more than anything. "You'd think just once - even by mistake - it would happen to someone else."

"You…" Rohan's speech was thick. "You saved me."

"Well, we can't both be stuck," Angus grunted. "That's thanks for being your hero."

"I have to free you." The orange light he'd been so desperate to find has lost its brilliance. Rohan rose shakily, weak with realization and cold. "It isn't… It's not safe. I think this cave…" The magic. "I need to get you out."

"You know what would help with that? A magic sword," Angus told him. "Go fetch Deirdre and Ivar. I can wait."

"You'll wait? Here?" Rohan refused. "We fix this now." But the spikes, he saw as he approached, were too much to lift on his own. They had pierced all the way through to the stone, and hardly a hand of theirs would fit through. "I'll - just…" What could he do? "I can try -"

"Fetch Deirdre and Ivar," his friend repeated from between the bars. "Rohan, I'm fine. Believe me, I've had experience with these situations."

"No, it's..." The cold. His arms shook, desperate for warmth. "You can't stay here." None of had dressed for these temperatures, and the torch on the ground did little to fight against it. "You'll freeze. The time it'll take to return might be too long."

"That sounds familiar." Angus gave a grin. "Go on. The cold isn't so bad. I'm more worried about going blind to that light back there. Don't worry - I'll shut my eyes and stay put."

Would he? Angus wasn't even shivering.

"Don't move," Rohan had insisted. "Not a foot, Angus."

"Alright, alright. Although…" He didn't care for that pause. "Now that I think of it, I might better going on to find what other traps are in the way."

Rohan's sharp protest fell to a hiss of fire. His looked to the fallen torch. There around it, crawling closer, was a dark line. A faint understanding came upon on him that the line had spread out from the bars, and as he neared his head towards them, he heard the base of the spikes burbling softly. Angus appeared to notice on his side, too.

Water.

"We sprung a leak."

"'We'?" But his thief agreed and shuffled back. "It's coming from the ground, seems like."

The torch hissed again, sputtering as the liquid drifted into it. Rohan moved, grabbing the stick, only to see while he'd leaped forward that a steady trickle poured from the sides of the brick entrance.

"And from the walls," Rohan said.

There flashed Angus as he let go of the spikes he'd been holding. He wiped his hands on his chest, then added, "And above."

A new coldness gripped them then. Rohan fought to hold the concern off his face. Instead, ignoring the sound of sloshing, he brought the torch to the spikes where they met the floor. Like a spring, water indeed spilled forth. Each of the nine broke ground on their own well, and as he led the fire around to the sides, he followed a hair thin crack up and across the ceiling.

"You need to be out from there," Rohan murmured, as though too loud a word would collapse the cave. "Now."

"I'll try my mace."

"No," he stressed. "If it works, it could make the stone break faster."

Even as they stared, a web of fissures spread out among the bricks. This place, he learned, was designed with such intent. The trap wasn't being jailed. The trap was being jailed and under water.

"You're not leaving many choices, Rohan," Angus said. His mace waited in hand. "Unless you've a better plan for -"

"I'm trying." The cave began raining on their heads. The torch twitched with agony. "A key! Find one - there must be a key."

"To what? To fit where?"

Only weeping brick, or solid iron. There'd been nothing, no way back through for Angus to where they came.

"I don't know," he snapped, choking on panic. "Find something." The rage of the river had already drowned their voices. "What's behind you? Anything? A way out?" From droplets to streams, the water poured faster. "Find another exit!"

"Rohan." Angus had sounded strangely calm. His hands returned to lay on the iron bars, where waves of the stuff flooded over them. It flowed too swiftly to have seen how tight he must have squeezed. He simply said, "I think you need to go."

No.

"Don't be stupid. Look for a way out." Rohan understood this rage. This rage had meant grief. "Stop waiting there! Move!"

"Can't 'til you're gone, mate. I don't trust you not to drown yourself otherwise, and the longer you take, the less time I have." The water gnawed at their ankles, licking their calves with ice. "How bad would that look? Me dyin' 'cause you didn't clear out?" Angus tsk-ed. "That's not very Draganta of you."

Draganta would have known the hopeless case for what it was. Draganta would left.

Rohan stayed, shamelessly moved to pleading.

"Angus -"

"You know how long it took getting here! You're wasting breath on the dead and losing your half a chance to live."

The bluntness stunned him. They never cut to that point before - always, there was some solution to be found, even in their darkest hour. That day, Angus refused. He'd shaken the denial and hope that went with it, drawn to only one answer: how to stop this cave from claiming Rohan as well.

And Rohan threw that back at him by managing a falsely noble, "I won't let you die alone."

"That's a pretty thought," Angus growled. "I'll carve it on the wall, so when Ivar swims down to find two bloated corpses, he'll say, 'At least poor Angus didn't go it alone'. Run, you gobshite!"

Overhead, a massive crack split. Rohan finally felt the instinct to flee. But he couldn't. That would mean leaving.

"This isn't the end," he swore.

"Of course it's not." It was. "I've been in worse, drier scrapes." Angus hadn't. "I'll be fine. Please, Rohan."

Betraying him, and of their own power, Rohan's legs began to withdraw.

"I'll…" What could he have possibly said? "… Thank you."

"Kells still needs its warrior of legends." Angus had smiled at him. "Don't let it get to your head."

"We'll find you outside." Finally - impossibly - there was a distance between them. Rohan had barely been able to keep the torch flickering, and the orange light he'd followed desperately through the hall had taken its own leave of him. "Angus, we'll find you."

He never knew if Angus heard that. Rohan raced back around the corner, and then his friend was gone, alone in a place that flooded to their calf and lapped higher. Rohan's feet were numb as he waded through, moving like stones the cave meant to bury over him. The Sword of Kells dragged on his neck, and from that pathetic image, the great Draganta, Kells' legendary warrior, bringer of peace for a hundred lifetimes, fled for his life and abandoned the truest family he'd had.

The breaks split on. The water hit his waist by the time the torch gave out. He hadn't even reached the marks of danger then.

Danger. As though it taunted him. Danger. Like Angus warned.

None of Rohan's actions had made sense in coming here alone. His knees struggled to breach the surface while he thought back, mind racing. An enchantment - earlier, when Angus had searched his eyes, that must have been what he was looking for. Some magic - the magic that fueled this grave, the magic Cathbad sensed while gathering herbs, the magic his King tasked him to control - had damned them to an insanity too simple for Angus to see. This was Rohan's fault. All his fault. He'd been blind to the help his friends thrust at his lap and now he swam, grateful for the current gliding towards the stairs but hating it for that.

Angus would find a way out, he remembered chanting to himself.

His breathing strained from the frigidness. There no longer was a ground he could feel. Neither was there light. He had only the smell of water for company, and when the hope he might survive survived itself no more, the ceiling broke behind him and kicked off a tidal wave of raw speed.

Rohan.

He had hit the wall at the foot of the stairs. The force of the blow doubled on the weight of the water. That he endured spoke well of Angus' urgency. Had he stayed seconds longer, caught behind the collapsing ceiling rather than ahead of it…

Rohan.

Either he'd floated to the wooden door or he was dragged out. The detail had been stolen by time.

Rohan!

Daylight had turned to dusk.

"Rohan!"

"Deirdre," he whispered.

His eyes were too cold to see beyond a blurred shape of red hair.

"We nearly lost you," he heard another say.

"Ivar." Had Aideen been saved then, he wondered. "And… Angus? Where…?"

"He followed you," Deirdre explained. "Did you not find him? Is he still inside? The water -"

Deaf again, as he would be for days to follow. Whatever he shouted in that moment, he screamed until his throat ran red. The water gushed from the stairs and brought end to the royals' confusion. They knew, and they would mourn as well. Garret would send his regrets. The King would speak highly of the sacrifice made that day. It would all be appropriately lovely.

None of it would help.

O O

The sword, Rohan. The sword. You need your sword to win.

There was more to gain from air than swords. This mountain… It made him dizzy and faint…

The sword. Get up, and claim your sword.

Rohan's shoulders heaved as he sat up. He drew a long, stuttered breath. To his knees, then. To stand.

Get up. Get up.