The King

The king was…young-looking. Handsome, possibly, beneath the mud smudging his face and the blood and gore staining his armor.

Lila cast another look around her and saw – oh. She was on a battlefield.

The king spoke in a low, patient voice. She couldn’t understand a word he was saying. Apparently her professor’s pronunciation was wrong.

One of the other men repeated the epithet, “Hóre.”

That required no translation. Lila turned a fierce glare on him, about to protest, and then she looked down at herself. She was wearing cut-off jeans and a tank top. To them, she was practically naked. Assuming, of course, they were actual medieval knights and this wasn’t some sort of horrible prank. Lila wrapped her arms around herself and hunched her shoulders, attempting to look small and embarrassed. It worked – the king gestured, and one of the knights unfastened his cloak, flung it at her.

Lila wrapped herself in it. Then she smiled faintly. “Ic i blétse.”

The king offered her a hand. “Mín ác sy Arthur.”

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