A/N – I can't remember when I first encountered Rosemary Sutcliff, but I've been in love with her ever writing ever since. Sword at Sunset is my benchmark for the Arthurian myth, and so far I haven't found anything to equal it.

Disclaimer – Not mine. Don't sue.


The night is bitterly cold.

They sit by the fire in grim, shared silence, two old, tired men who should have been long past their fighting age. White streaks Arthur's hair and the stubble of his beard, and Bedwyr's odd, ugly-beautiful face is lined with age and experience. But the old companionship remains, strong and vital as ever; the memory of more than twenty years of endless fighting, shared victories and defeats and stalemates, standing together, side by side in all things.

How many times had they sat thus, shoulder to shoulder, sharing a fire against the cold, dark night?