Stand Tall

Part Twelve: The Fen

It made the back of his neck tingle to walk through them. Many could be seen into through crumbling holes, and their stone hearths, once-beds of mummified pelt, and other echoes of life chilled him deeply. From one house, a little chime of bone and wire still clacked in the faint breath of breeze. Save their crunching footsteps, it was the only sound in the field.

"Arnanóst. This was one of the Danes' ancient settlements, from when they first tried to claim this part of the land," Braith explained, her voice strong in the silence. "Something came out from the treeline - and that was that. No one has tried to tame the fen since."

Something beneath the servant's foot cracked, and he started back. He'd stepped on skull of a dead horse, semi-preserved in the bog-water. He cringed, and cupped a hand over his nose and mouth. The thing's hide looked like it had melted over the bones.

The young viking woman stopped beside the edge of an old, in-ground well, no more than a great round tunnel overflowing with water. She knelt, shed her coat, and made sure her sword was fastened at her waist. "This is it. The entrance to the She thing's lair."

"The well?" Merlin asked in alarm. The distance across the hole was small enough for him to keep a hand planted firmly on either side at once.

"Precisely," she stood and turned to him. "I know this is not an easy thing to ask - you might call it a leap of faith, even." The look in her eyes was hardened, but pleading ever so slightly. "Do you trust me?"

Did he trust her enough? The servant suddenly found himself wondering. He remembered Kilgharrah's warning - that the Dane was a threat to his destiny.

"I'll have to go head first," she continued, "so you can hold on to my legs as I feel for the cavern."

"Braith," his hand went to hers. "There isn't enough room to turn around."

"I know." Her lips were pressed tight. "That is why I need you to trust me."

The young woman was going to have both their lives in her hands. Was this what the great dragon had meant? That she should be his death in that wet grave? Merlin wet his lips, and took a moment before he spoke - and said the words that would change their fates forever.

"I trust you."

A wash of relief flowed over the Dane, but it was followed quick by one of apprehension. She brought the warlock's head down, pressing their foreheads together in a gesture of cherishing.

Merlin took off his jacket wearily, and the Dane pointed for him to to hand a rock the size of a small cat. "What's this for?"

"I hold on to it to take us straight to the bottom," the girl explained. She took the stone, and looked at the water disdainfully before laying on her stomach beside it. Her body slipped through the film on top of the water, and disappeared into the darkness. The young warlock had no choice but to hold on, and dive after her head first. Taking a deep breath and preparing himself for cold, he was pulled in. The light of the world was sucked away above his feet, and his face was washed with the slime of rot. He had the distinct impression that this was birth in reverse.

The water, to his discomfort, was not cold, but unseasonably warm. Like decay. It felt like a lifetime he clung to her legs, falling through the dark and stagnant water. So dark was the water, he shut his eyes, for it was brighter behind his eyelids.

The Dane, eyes clamped shut as she fell, kept one hand pressed to the side of the well, looking for a gap in the stone. Below her, the bottom of the well hit hard against her arm - they'd been dropping much faster than she'd thought. Heart pattering out a rhythm of fear, she let go of the stone and felt frantically for the crevice that her father had assured her so many times before was there.