Aidric glanced over his shoulder, checking to see if Dinadan was still asleep. The knight lay sprawled against a log, his cloak draped haphazardly over him, his head tilted back in the posture of a man who slept out of necessity rather than comfort. His breathing was steady, deep, and rhythmic—an anchor of calm in the stillness of the forest.


    Satisfied that Dinadan was none the wiser, Aidric turned his attention back to the helm, his fingers brushing away the last remnants of dirt clinging to its surface. The morning light filtered through the trees in golden shards, falling across the artifact and illuminating faint etchings on its rim. Aidric’s pulse quickened as the patterns emerged with clarity—intricate carvings that seemed almost alive under the shifting light, each curve and line whispering stories of an age long past.


    His fingertips traced the interlocking ravens etched around the edge, their wings stretching into twisting knots that wove endlessly, as if to bind together something ancient and powerful. The faint grooves felt cool and smooth under his touch, and as the light caught them, he could almost swear they shimmered.


    “You’re worse than a child with a forbidden sweet,” a low voice cut through the quiet, rough with sleep but carrying the unmistakable sharpness of Dinadan’s wit.


    Aidric froze, his hand still on the helm as though he’d been caught reaching into a treasure chest that wasn’t his. He turned slowly, already forming a half-hearted excuse. “I—uh, I was just—”


    “Digging it out,” Dinadan finished for him, pushing himself upright with a groan and stretching his arms until his shoulders cracked. His blue eyes, still hazy with sleep, narrowed as he glanced at the helm. “After I specifically told you not to.”


    Aidric ducked his head, a sheepish grin creeping across his face. “It’s not every day you find a Visigoth helm in the middle of nowhere. Can you really blame me?”


    Dinadan rolled his shoulders and rose to his feet, brushing leaves and twigs from his cloak. “Oh, I can, and I do,” he said, striding over with a look of exasperated bemusement. “Things that have been buried usually stayed there for a reason, lad. And it’s usually a reason involving curses, bloodshed, or both.” He sighed, shaking his head. “But since you’ve already gone and tempted fate, let’s at least see what your meddling’s uncovered.”


    With the ease of someone accustomed to digging both literally and figuratively, Dinadan knelt beside Aidric, his deft hands joining in to clear the remaining dirt. The cool metal of the helm emerged fully, its surface dulled with age but unmarred by rust, as though the years had respected its story.


    Dinadan lifted it carefully, his hands steady despite the weight of the artifact. He turned it over, studying every angle with the practiced eye of a knight who’d seen far more war than he cared to recount.


    The helm was heavier than it looked, its curved nose guard extending downward like a raven’s beak—a design as striking as it was functional. The interlocking ravens around the rim seemed to shift subtly in the light, their wings entwined in patterns that spoke of flight, freedom, and something darker beneath.


    “This wasn’t just armor,” Dinadan said after a long silence, his voice low with the weight of realization. “This was a symbol. A message.”


    Aidric tilted his head, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “What kind of message?”


    Dinadan ran his thumb over one of the carvings, his expression distant, as though the helm were whispering its secrets to him. “The Visigoths didn’t waste artistry on their weapons without a purpose. A raven... it’s more than just a bird to them. It’s a harbinger. A guide for the dead, a promise of vengeance.” He glanced up at Aidric, his voice darkening. “This helm wasn’t worn by just any soldier. Whoever owned this led men, and they led them into slaughter.”


    Aidric swallowed, his enthusiasm tempered by the weight of Dinadan’s words. “So, what do we do with it?”


    Dinadan stared at the helm for a moment longer, his grip tightening as if it might try to escape. Then, with a quiet sigh, he set it down between them, his gaze flickering to the trees surrounding their camp.


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    <hr>


    Aidric stared at it, wide-eyed. “A real Visigoth helm...” He grinned suddenly and snatched it from Dinadan’s hands. “Let me see how it fits.”


    Dinadan groaned. “Don’t put it—”


    Too late. Aidric jammed the helm onto his head, the nose guard covering half his face. “How do I look?” he asked, his voice muffled and oddly triumphant.


    “Like a lost puppy pretending to be a wolf,” Dinadan said flatly, though the corner of his mouth twitched.


    Aidric planted his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest. “You dare mock Magnus the Mighty? Scourge of Albion?” He grabbed an imaginary sword and swung it dramatically, striking a clumsy pose. “Tremble before me, peasant!”


    Dinadan snorted, finally letting a grin crack through. “Magnus the Mighty? You’re not even Magnus the Moderately Menacing.”


    “Ha! You’re just jealous,” Aidric retorted, marching around the clearing. He deepened his voice to a theatrical growl. “Bow before the great Visigoth warrior!”


    Dinadan sat back on his heels, watching Aidric’s antics with mild amusement. “I think the real Visigoths are rolling in their graves right now. Probably from laughter.”


    Aidric spun on him, pointing dramatically. “You’re just bitter because your ancestors lost to me on the field of glory.”


    Dinadan rolled his eyes. “Lost? My father fought the Visigoths at Londinium. Held the gates long enough to evacuate the city. I think that counts as winning.”


    <hr>


    Aidric stopped in his tracks, his grin fading as he slid the helm from his head. His fingers trembled slightly as he held it up, the intricate carvings of interlocking ravens catching the dappled sunlight. “Your father... he fought them?”


    Dinadan’s jaw tightened, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the forest. “Sir Alain of Londinium,” he said quietly, the name heavy with both reverence and bitterness. “They called him the Defender of Albion. He stood at the gates while Londinium burned behind him, held the line long enough to get the people out. They still sing songs about him.”


    “And you don’t like the songs?” Aidric’s voice was soft, hesitant, as though afraid to shatter the fragile moment.


    Dinadan let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “It’s not the songs I mind, lad. It’s what they leave out. They never sing about the silence that follows—the empty halls, the meals eaten alone. They don’t sing about my mother, left to raise a son on her own, wondering every day if his sacrifice was worth it. They never tell you what happens to the ones left behind.”


    Aidric glanced down at the helm, his fingers tracing the sharp curve of the nose guard, as though the metal might hold answers. “Do you think it was worth it?”


    Dinadan didn’t respond immediately. His eyes lingered on the helm, his expression hard and unreadable. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and measured, as if each word carried the weight of a memory he’d rather forget. “Some days, I think it was. Some days, I can almost convince myself he was a hero. Other days... other days, I think he was a fool chasing a dream that never cared about him.”


    “But without him, those people wouldn’t have survived,” Aidric countered, his voice firm despite the unease in his eyes.


    Dinadan’s mouth twisted into something resembling a smile, though it was brittle and humorless. “And without him, I might’ve had a father. Funny, isn’t it? How heroism never seems to count the cost for those left behind.”


    Aidric hesitated, his grip on the helm tightening. “Maybe he believed Albion was worth the cost,” he said softly. “Maybe... maybe he believed you were worth it, too.”


    The words landed with a quiet force, their sincerity cutting through the bitterness like the first rays of dawn breaking through storm clouds. Dinadan blinked, caught off guard. His lips parted as though to argue, but no words came. Instead, he let out a long, slow breath, running a hand through his disheveled hair.


    “Maybe,” he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “But the thing about belief, Aidric—it’s heavy. And not everyone’s strong enough to carry it.”


    Aidric’s eyes dropped back to the helm, the ancient metal still cool under his touch. “So... what do we do with it?”


    Dinadan rose slowly, brushing dirt from his knees as he looked down at the helm with something close to disdain. “We leave it where it belongs. Things like this—they’re the past’s burden, not ours. The dead have enough trouble without us dragging their ghosts into the present.”


    Aidric hesitated, then crouched beside the tree roots and carefully set the helm down, its raven motif gleaming faintly in the shifting light. “It feels wrong,” he admitted, his voice tight. “Like we’re abandoning something important.”


    Dinadan’s tone softened, the sharp edge of his usual wit giving way to something quieter, something almost kind. “Lad,” he said, clapping a hand on Aidric’s shoulder, “sometimes the best thing you can do for the past is let it rest. Albion doesn’t need another ghost to carry.”


    The two of them stood in silence, the quiet hum of the forest pressing in around them. The morning sun climbed higher, its light piercing the canopy and warming the earth.


    Finally, Dinadan gave a nod toward the path. “Come on,” he said, his voice returning to its usual briskness. “The Henge won’t wait for us, and I’d rather not spend another night with these trees looking over my shoulder.”


    Aidric lingered for a moment, casting a final glance at the helm. The carvings seemed alive in the shifting light, the interlocking ravens whispering of battlefields long forgotten and sacrifices remembered only in fragments. Then he turned, following Dinadan toward the forest path.


    As they disappeared into the shadows of the trees, the helm remained behind. Its raven emblem glinted faintly, the morning light catching its edges like a memory refusing to fade, a silent testament to the cost of dreams.