I've had to endure more than my fair share of awkward moments.

There was vomiting down the front of my teacher's dress when I was seven. That was an early highlight.

Then, there was that time I went to a party wearing what I thought was a very flattering maxi dress. Turned out to be maternity wear, as Felicity Hurndall took great delight in telling everyone for the next two years of my life.

Probably near the top of the list would be that, a few years later, I sent nudes to my best friend's husband. To be fair, he asked. Often. But, no, that wasn't viewed as an acceptable excuse back then either.

What I'm saying is that I'm not unused to people looking at me with 'what the fuck?' written all over their faces.

What was a new experience, though, was being responsible for chargrilling a significant part of British culture.

I'm making it sound worse than it is.

Marginally.

*

As soon as Arthur caught Drynwyn, the sword did its thing.

Fucking A. Prince or Pauper, you handle me, you better be able to handle me.

Merlin, can we have Drynwyn on mute for a bit, please? I'm catching the folks up, and I think we could all do without him adding his particular brand of colour commentary while I do.

Your wish is my command.

So, the giant silverback threw Drynwyn to Arthur, and the dopey fucker went and caught it. The sword went up in flames, at which stage, things became complicated.

As you would expect, Merlin had loaded his favourite future monarch with all manner of life-saving goodies. I'm sure they all had names and titles, but to spare me trying to pronounce words that will make me sound like I'm gargling granite, I'm going to refer to them all as 'plot armour'.

This is all very disrespectful to many priceless artefacts that your hooligan sword has just turned into ash. Llen Arthyr yng Nghernyw, on its own, was one of the wonders of the Dark Age.

Yes, fare thee well, sweet cloak: we will never see your like again. In mourning, I'll pour one out for the Llen the Voweless every bonfire night.

As I was saying ... When Drynwyn went boom, the various pieces of plot armour did their best to keep the timeline intact. They absorbed a fair amount of the fire, and when they became overwhelmed, they diverted quite a lot of the blaze straight upwards.

The keywords being 'a fair amount' and 'quite a lot', of course.

Yes, I'm getting there, aren't I? So, what I'm saying is that the Once and Future King is still very much alive. No worries on that score.

He's just a touch crispier than he formally was.

And you are all caught up.

*

After the sonic boom that comes with a myriad of magical items going up in flames faded, all that could be heard in the clearing were Arthur's screams.

For a moment, none of us moved.

Then, as I squirted some Qi around to rebuild my shattered eardrums, I dashed forward to wrench Drynwyn from Arthur's grasp. I took most of the skin on his hand and forearm with me as I did so, which was nice.

If you need a more vivid description for this moment, think of popping a giant blister that smelt of KFC.

You're welcome.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

I can feel his life force rapidly fading, my dear.

"That will be the full thickness burns across his whole body, Big M. Need a plan and fast."

I was aware of another figure kneeling next to me, and I scrabbled to get the sword back in its scabbard. I glanced over and met the eyes of the cultivator that beheaded Ealdgyð back in the village. Then his hands were on Arthur's chest, and he was ... doing something.

As I watched, the raw horror of the burns calmed slightly, and Arthur's screams reduced to sad little whimpers. A fusion of the scent of lavender, peppermint and juniper flooded my senses.

Interesting. Whoever this is has an impressive facility for Wood Qi. He's soothing the wounds with the fundamental essences of nearby herbs. Ah, now that is clever. He even anaesthetising him with something from those thyme bushes, too.

"Is it working?"

Define 'working', my dear. Merlin's voice was suddenly bitter. His ministrations will mean that Arthur dies in a few moments rather than right now.

The giant man who had thrown the sword was reaching out to pull the Saxon cultivator away. I glared at him.

"You touch him, and Arthur instantly dies. He's the only thing keeping him in one piece right now."

"He's a fucking Saxon." The man's teeth were bared.

"If you can't be helpful, fuck off." I activated [Personal Space Invader] and blew the man away into the trees. I was idly aware that I must have levelled that up as he was the only one sent hurtling.

"Merlin, come on, there's got to be something you can do to help. You've seen me through tighter spots than this."

I am linked to you. And you are a cultivator. There is not anything that connects me that way to Arthur.

I dropped inside my artist's studio and tried to direct my Qi to flow from me into the weeping man. But there was no pathway for my paint to flow. I was me, and Arthur was him. I growled in frustration and tried to get a read on what the other cultivator was doing.

I could feel him applying a thin coating of his Qi to Arthur's skin and that Qi was holding the properties of the soothing herbs. The thing is, even with my level of knowledge, I could tell this man's Qi was pretty thin gruel. For someone who had once seemed like an all-powerful, force-lightning-throwing Sith Lord, he was basically doling out nicely scented dishwater.

"Can we make what he is doing more effective?"

Merlin took a moment. Perhaps. He would need to allow us to help.

The Saxon cultivator's eyes were closed as he maintained the balm around Arthur. I tapped him lightly on his arm. "Dude, can you hear me?"

He nodded, his face a mask of concentration. "I dig what you're doing, but it's not going to be enough."

A frown creased his forehead. "I'm sorry. This is all I have left. And I'm afraid I'm nearly out."

Well, that wasn't great news. "No worries, mate. I am chockful of Qi goodness, you just need to tap me in."

"Tap you in?" It might have been my imagination, but the herby smell was getting distinctly fainter, and Arthur's cries were increasing.

"Sorry, WWE reference. Guess you guys aren't ready for that yet, but your kids are gonna love it. I don't know what you are doing, but if you let me, I think I can boost you."

"Do whatever you need to."

It was easier said than done. When I switched on my Magic Eyes, I could see his Qi, but it steadfastly refused to mix with mine. Wherever my purple energy touched the green light covering Arthur, it was pushed away.

Not like that. You're trying to dominate his casting. You need to merge with what he is doing. It's not like absorbing the Qi of a fallen foe. He won't be able to submit to that whilst alive, even if he is willing. You need to combine it with his spell.

You may have guessed, but I'm not good at performing under pressure. Bohemian Rhapsody, on the other hand ...

I needed to look at things in a different way. There was a rhythm, a pulse, to the Saxon's cycling. There was no point trying to do anything on his 'on' beat, but I could support what he was doing on the' off'.

Easy come. Easy go. Little high. Little low.

We fell into a rhythm, him pushing out the healing essence and me boosting it and strengthing the quality of what he was sending. I didn't need to know what he was doing to make it thicker. Soon, the smell of the herbs was almost overwhelming.

I know I seem to be saying this all too often, my dear, but you never cease to astonish me.

I don't know how long we maintained this give and take, but eventually, Merlin suggested I forced a manastone into Arthur's curled fist and tie what we were doing to its Earth Qi. If that sounds complicated, it absolutely was. The fourth or fifth time I lost grip of the different Qi strands, I was happy to let the Big M take charge.

The relief I felt when the manastone maintained the spell around Arthur was huge. I collapsed against the Saxon, both of us exhausted and drenched with sweat.

We weren't quite post-coital, but, you know, that was about the most satisfying workout I'd had for quite a number of years.

"How is he?" The giant man I'd thrown around like a ragdoll seemed a bit more respectful now.

"He's alive. I don't know there's much more to say than that."

He looked like he was about to say more when the howling of wolves interrupted him. But no, that didn't sound like actual wolves. The man's face creased into a frown. "Fuck it. That's the Saxons. They've found us."

He started to bellow orders to the men who had been silently crowded around us before turning back to glare at me.

"You got anything left, Celt?"

And that was the question, wasn't it?