"And did those feet in ancient time

Walk upon England's mountains green:

And was the something something odd

On England's pleasant pastures seen!

And did da da da da da dee

Do da da da da do da do dee?

And was Jerusalem builded here,

Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of some sort of gold:

Bring me my Arrows of rhymes with fire:

Bring me my Spear: bold bold bold bold

Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from doo da Fight,

Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:

Till we have built Jerusalem,

In England's green and pleasant Land."

There was an awkward silence in which there was no applause.

I wonder if the impact of that stirring melody is lessened somewhat by you not knowing all the words?

That and she can't fucking sing.

Well, that, too. But I cannot help feeling the overall thrust would be more inspiring with fewer ad libs.

And, for the love of all the gods, picking a fucking key. Any fucking key.

To be sure. Also, in our current circumstances, I think it would be prudent of me to advise against promoting the concept of 'England' whilst we're at war with the Saxons. Somewhat mixed messages there.

Mixed fucking everything, if you ask me.

And contemporary audiences will be rather confused by mentions of 'Jerusalem' and 'Satan', at least for the next few hundred years.

"If everyone is quite finished being critical dicks?"

We'd been sat in the grass on top of a hill for a few hours. Arthur's screams whenever I touched him were pretty inhibitive to my desire to carry him much further. After a few, harrowing, tries, I'd simply settled him down a few hundred metres from where we'd come through Melehan's portal. Once on the ground, he'd calmed down and then passed out.

Looking at the state of him, that seemed like the kindest thing.

After that, I whiled away some time trying not to think about what had just happened in the battle.

We appeared to be in the middle of nowhere. The lushness of the grass, the rolling hills and the sheer volume of sheep made me think we might be somewhere in Wales - but considering my geographical knowledge was about two thousand years out of date, I was taking that with a bucketload of salt.

Merlin still had me on a strict 'no Qi' regime, so it wasn't even like I could spend the time working on my cycling.

I am not sure how we got on to the topic of national anthems - you try making small talk with a dead wizard and a psychotic sword, with a crispy legend whimpering in the background, and see in what direction the conversation takes you - but I was happy to pronounce forth on my firmly held opinion that 'Jerusalem' was a more stirring song for the country than 'God Save the King.'

The critical reception was not kind.

"All I'm saying is that if Camelot is looking to adopt a national anthem, it would do worse than go for something like Jerusalem."

You say your people sing the national anthem to show respect to the country? Sounds to me like your rulers need to round some fuckers up and get heads on sticks sharpish. Given a choice of summary execution or enforced dirge singing, I know which one I reckon would engender the most fucking respect.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

I didn't have much to say to that. Fortunately, Arthur chose that moment to become lucid.

Slowly but surely, the manastone I'd lodged in his hands seemed to be calming down the worst of the burns. The scent of soothing herbs that emanated from him brought tears to my eyes, reminding me as it did of the Saxon wizard who'd given his life so we could escape.

I appeared to have entered the sniffing-his-old-sweatshirts-and-weeping stage of a relationship I'd never actually been in.

Don't get me wrong, the Prince of the Britons was an absolute sight. All his hair had been burned away, leaving his head looking like nothing more than a misshapen thumb. However, the raw lividity of the burns had faded to something that looked survivable.

His eyes opened, and he made a noise that sounded like, 'Where am I?' However, with no lips, it was pretty hard to tell. He might have been asking me for the most appropriate wine to accompany roast lamb at dinner. I mean, that seems pretty unlikely, but I didn't want to rule it out.

Once he'd finished gurgling up at me, I leaned into where his ears used to be. "You're safe. We left the battle behind, but now we're stuck in the middle of nowhere. We're going to wait until I have enough Qi to try fast-travelling back to Cornwall." His pain-filled eyes regarded me blankly. "Or, if I'm understanding you correctly, personally, I'd go for a Cabernet Sauvignon."

I do not think he can hear you, my dear. In the process of healing him, you moved his conscious mind behind some rather thick mental shields of imagination. If I know Arthur, his spirit is probably engaged in a rather licentious orgy right now.

So what's with all the fucking screaming?

Residual reaction. There is probably just enough of 'him' there to undertake spontaneous responses. But I can promise you, he is not suffering anywhere near as much as it looks like.

I wasn't sure I believed what Merlin was selling here. I didn't have the faintest idea how to hide someone behind mental shields - okay, even as I said that, I know that's basically my entire life, but I don't know how to do it to someone else, you know? Melehan maybe had the knowledge, but he was focusing more on pulling in as much Earth Qi as he could without sparing time to fiddle around with Arthur's mental state.

I dropped down into my artist's studio.

My dear ...

"Cool your jets, Big M. I'm just looking around."

Things were still pretty ropey in here but were undoubtedly much better than they'd been. My Qi was moving relatively smoothly around Vitruvian-me, and there didn't seem to be too many inflamed areas left. I wasn't going to risk doing anything until Merlin gave me the all-clear, though: absorbing a mana stone taught me everything I needed to know there.

The hard core at my centre that appeared when I developed [Personal Space Invader] was still acting like a spinning water feature within my channels, but I sensed it was slowly starting to fill with Qi. It was less than a quarter full right now, but I imagined something either awesome or catastrophic would happen when it was full.

Probably both.

Interestingly, I could see a thick line of Qi leading from that spinning core to the mana stone Arthur was holding so tightly. That made sense. Merlin had said that I was, through the mana stone, maintaining Melehan's spell, but now I wondered if it was doing something more.

"Mate, you say I'm keeping Arthur's mind locked away in his Playboy Manor happy place?"

I do not recall using those words, but from context, I tentatively agree.

"Is the mental orgy being hosted in the stone?"

Indeed.

"And is the only place that mind can go is back to the body from where it came?"

Well, not strictly speaking. You are the exception that proves the rule, after all. Where are you going with this?

"Arthur's body is like, totally fucked, right?"

I am not sure I would put it that way, my dear.

Absolutely screwed. Fucked up beyond all saving. Borked forwards and backwards with a sharp stick.

"Thanks for that. So, what is to stop us from finding him another body, a healthy one, and putting his mind in that?"

Other than professional pride at not stealing the plot of a terrible Wonder Woman sequel?

"You didn't get a Playboy reference, but you're all into throwing shade at Patty Jenkins?"

I take my DC adaptations seriously. I understand what you are asking, my dear, but that sort of mental transplantation is psychically traumatic. You were only able to cope with it due to your own mental strength and considerable potential as a cultivator. Arthur, sadly, does not have access to either of those reserves of power. The most likely outcome would result in the complete shattering of his mind.

"Okay, let's not do that then. How about, I don't know, shapeshifting his body so it was healthy? Like you did with me?"

There was a pause.

That is not an absolutely terrible idea. However, I was only able to do that with you because of our Qi connection. I would not be able to achieve the same effect with someone else.

"Can't you guide me through it?"

Perhaps. But I fear reshaping Arthur's body when it is so damaged would cause a level of pain he would have no capacity to survive.

"But you said he's in his happy place. Fucking imaginary bunnygirls."

There was another pause.

In all honesty, I lack confidence you would be able to maintain the integrity of those mental shields whilst also reworking his physical form.

"But it's possible."

All things are possible for a cultivator. But I cannot condone us placing Arthur in such a situation. Even if it all went perfectly, the pain he would suffer would be beyond excruciating. We could repair his body but end up breaking his mind. I do not feel we can take such a risk.

The body at our feet gurgled emphatically.

"That was either 'stop fucking around and fix me', or he was clarifying he fancied the Côte du Rhône."

More frustrated gurgling.

"Pardon me. A good Rioja Crianza."

My dear, you need to understand if this goes wrong, it will be the end of the story of King Arthur. I think we both know what that could mean.

I looked down. "Dude, unless we do something radical, the only Sword and the Stone this realm is going to be seeing is when I flip out and bury Drynwyn in concrete."

Hang on. What the fuck did I do?

The eyes of Arthur stared up at me, unblinking. I knew what I would want to happen if I was in his situation.

"Big M, we're doing this. As soon as I have enough Qi in the tank, we're going all Mystique on Arthur's arse."

Martian Manhunter would have been a better callback gag.

"Fucking critic."