Chapter Text
Sir John was aimlessly wandering through the aimlessly wandering forest. It was getting dark and he was running an increasingly high risk of getting lost or eaten; but then, if he was entirely honest with himself, that was probably the reason why he was here in the first place. His leg, though, was troubling him more than he had thought it would, and the tremor in his hand would not subside. Well, if his injuries troubled him when he was simply walking, perhaps King Arthur had been right: He, John, was no longer fit to perform the duties of a Knight of Camelot.
Listlessly, he plodded through the undergrowth, willing his leg to stop aching and his hand to stop shaking. He had been ignoring the fact that he had no idea where he was headed, but he was well aware that going for a little mosey in the Wandering Forest was a reckless idea, even by his – admittedly unusual – standards. He needed to find shelter, and quickly, or else the forest creatures would be upon him. John did not want to acknowledge that he had to keep reminding himself that this was a bad thing. He applied the first and oldest rule of navigation and decided to keep going straight ahead. That way, he was sure to end up somewhere.
The noises of the forest seemed to grow louder as evening fell. Rustling, hissing and huffing in the undergrowth indicated all the usual forest dwellers: birds and deer, rabbits and badgers, and perhaps the occasional dragon. A soft, silvery tinkling noise in the distance suggested that even one of the unicorns had left the safety of the woods around Camelot and entered the Wandering Forest instead.
John thought the Wandering Forest could have been quite peaceful if it wasn’t the Wandering Forest. The nightly sounds and the smell of moss, wet earth and leaves was quite pleasant. The winter snow that was lying so thickly around Camelot had not penetrated to the forest floor, and it was considerably warmer here than in the open land. The last time he had been here, it had been autumn, and the ground had been thickly strewn with colourful leaves. He remembered liking the forest even then, although he had been on one of the most dangerous missions of his life at the time. He and a contingent of other knights of the Round Table had been sent by King Arthur to rout out a group of smugglers who had been hiding in the Forest. The Wandering Forest often served as a hiding place for gangs of that kind – simply because no one in their right mind entered it of their own free will. Because the Forest was usually too far away from Camelot to be any concern of King Arthur’s, he also did not send regular patrols there, unless the forest came so close that it became a threat to Camelot and the surrounding villages. Therefore, it had gained the reputation of being the perfect place for practising illegal activities without being disturbed by a royal patrol, which only added to the dangers of the Forest.
Suddenly, John heard something rustle behind an old, gnarled tree to his right. He drew his sword in a flash – the old reflexes from his knight training died hard, and tonight, John was glad of it – and turned to face the tree, gripping his sword tightly. The noise was repeated, and John stepped forward, sword raised and ready to strike. A figure emerged from behind the tree, moving towards John. John could make out very little in the darkness. He took another step forward and cried: “Who goes there?”
The figure halted and said, “John?”
John wasn’t fooled. Traditional names in Camelot being what they were, calling out “John” would offer any criminal a chance of approximately fifty-fifty to hit the mark and be taken for a friend. He raised his sword higher and repeated: “Who are you? Show yourself!”
The figure stepped out of the shadow of the tree and into a patch of moonlight. Drawing back its hood, it said: “It’s me, John, it’s Michael!”
John did not recall ever meeting anyone called Michael. He drew closer, pointing his sword directly at Michael’s heart.
“Michael the hermit! We did our healer training together!” the figure called out desperately.
John suddenly remembered the round, good-natured face of the man now looking at him pleadingly. They had indeed done their healer training together, several years ago now, under the court physician of Camelot. John and Michael had never been particularly close friends during their training, but all the same, it was a pleasant surprise that he was not about to duel an outlaw. Or at least it should have been.
“Michael!” John said, sheathing his sword and shaking Michael’s hand. “What on earth are you doing in the Wandering forest?”
“I could ask you the same question,” Michael said. “Are you alone? Where’s your horse?”
John shook his head. “I’ll explain later. We should really try and find shelter first.”
“You can stay at my place tonight,” Michael replied. “It’s not far from here. Come on.”
Michael’s hermitage was indeed not far away. It was a small and simple little hut perched on a rocky hill surrounded by tall trees. There was only one room, but Michael lit a fire and soon he and John were enjoying hot soup and mulled mead.
“So,” said Michael. “I heard you joined the round table, what happened?”
“I did,” said John, “but I was badly wounded on a crusade a few months ago. The new court physician did his best, but you’ve seen my leg – it’s never going to be the same again. So I was honourably discharged by King Arthur. He offered me to stay in court as an advisor, but –”
“But you couldn’t sit there and watch all the action without being able to join in, not if you’re still the John I know. Sir John, I should say.”
John stared into the fire. “I’m not the same person any more, Mike. Just John is fine, though. Anyway, what about you? How come you live in the Wandering Forest? I’m sure it’s very quiet here, but it’s still no place for an unarmed hermit, is it?”
Michael shook his head sadly. “No, no it’s not. You see, I don’t strictly live in the Wandering Forest. It simply came wandering here and closed in around my hill overnight one day. By the time I woke up, it was too late to get out. So for the time being, it seems I’m stuck here.”
“I could help you get out of here if you want me to”, John suggested. “Could do with a nice quest.”
“It’s fine, don’t worry. The Forest never stays in one place for too long, so I’m sure I’ll be fine. You can stay with me for a bit though. Not forever, of course, because that would sort of defeat the object of being a hermit, but for as long as you need to. Where do you live at the moment, anyway?”
John looked out of the window into the dark Forest. “Nowhere really. Been sleeping outdoors for the last few nights.”
“Must be murder on the leg though.”
John didn’t reply. He did want somewhere to stay, but he did not want to live either in Camelot or too far away from it. Which did not leave many places to live at all, really. He also neither had the means to buy a house nor build one. The obvious solution was to enter someone’s service in some capacity or other, but there were not many people whose company he could stand for more than a few hours at a time at the moment.
Michael looked at him thoughtfully. “I think I might know of a place for you to stay. Have you ever heard of Sherlock the Sorcerer?”