Celidon stood guard outside his fairy's tent. He could hear voices inside, Tristan slurring a little, the girl giggling. The cu-sith sighed. He hadn't heard his fairy laugh in weeks.

The rest of the camp still hummed with life. It was rarely entirely peaceful. Campfires crackled, men talked, dogs snapped, horses snorted. He could smell meat roasting, the open bottles of beer, the metallic tang of weapons being sharpened. His stomach rumbled as his eyes settled on a bird being turned on a spit nearby. He was starving.

In the castle there was a girl who worked in the kitchens. She always smelled of cooking food and she always had something in her apron pocket for him. He missed her. He hoped she was alright. Celidon doubted Angmar had as gentle a mouth as he did. The dragon had cold eyes and a hard scent. Celidon feared for his friend's fingers.

He felt his fairy's mind connect with his and wagged his tail. It bumped against the side of the tent, making it wobble just a little. The message inspired a weary sigh. The cu-sith hauled himself to his feet. It was time for a walk. He trotted to the edge of the camp and paused, looking back over his shoulder.

At least his boy wasn't thinking about Arthur. The respite, for both of them, was a relief.

He wound his way through the trees, following the scent trail of a herd of Umbariet deer through the gloom. The trees creaked around him, but Celidon paid them no heed. The plants here liked his fairy, kept him safe and protected from the wickedness at the castle.

It was strange how the men who smelled like stone were no longer friends but foe. And those who smelt of forest and campfires, of mud and leaf-litter, were no longer ruffians but comrades.

It was a world turned upside down.

Or was it? Celidon paused. A firebug passed over his head, its flames crackling. He could smell something else, something familiar. It was a feminine scent tempered by tavern smell and drink. It was accompanied by man-smell and the strong aroma of strong magic. He ignored the latter as he turned and adjusted his course.

The voice that echoed through the trees left him in no doubt. Bryar.

Celidon's trot became a run and his long legs made short work of the distance. With a deep ruff of greeting he burst from the trees and ran straight towards her. He ignored the man, even as he skidded past him and bumped into his legs. Celidon slid to a halt just short of knocking Bryar off her feet and pushed his great hand up into the flat of her hand.

Surely Bryar would be able to make Tristan laugh! She'd always been so good at it.

Celidon's tail wagged enthusiastically, betraying his hopes. He ruffed again for good measure, licking at her fingers. They tasted like the horrid liquid Tristan kept on drinking. The cu-sith snorted his distaste. And then he remembered the man.

He stared up at him reproachful and unsure. Celidon pressed his ribs against Bryar's legs.

He didn't like strangers.

Celidon