Arthur sat. He did a lot of sitting. He didn't mind. He had done a lot of running in his lives, and he was likely to do more of it. The weight of years he didn't feel in his body, young and strong as it was, but it hung over his soul like a cloak heavy with dust. He shook his head to clear his brain of cobwebs to again observe the scene from his perch.

An old Scottish fishing village. Maybe a hundred years old. Maybe a thousand. No sign of life. Just some mild decay. He shuffled around in his swaddle of blankets and coats and produced a pocket watch. Even with his hand in his lap the cold winter air bit into his skin. Nothing had changed yet. Mild magic. Slight temporal disruption. As it should be. The Directorate kept its sanctuaries in pristine condition... From the outside. But everyone in Larcarn had gone and disappeared in a day. That was... unusual.

So Arthur sat, and watched, and waited. He had some thoughts, an idea of what happened, but he also had the patience of a glacier.

The call had come in two days ago, when a fishing boat sailed out through the barrier without resistance - which it should not have been able to do - and without a crew - which it would have had. Arthur had no connection with the village or its inhabitants, but this was his land. A sovereign must care for all his people, he had argued to the director. She had agreed. She'd offered to send someone with him but he didn't need anyone more.

He'd drove up the coast in a small Directorate van. They were big enough for a cot and small desk in the back, so he'd done his research on the way up. Larcarn, the files said, didn't exist. Not officially. Or it hadn't for about 1600 years when it had popped off the map. Then, it reappeared in '76 for no discernable reason. The local populace, some 200 Scots who had barely heard of the concept of writing, hadn't noticed a thing. So the Directorate had set up a cloaking field and a temporal disruptor for good measure, to make sure the sodding place stayed unofficial.

The cloaking field kept anyone from wanting to go in. The temporal field kept time going out. It didn't really stop time, or slow it, or speed it up. It just made things a bit more... Malleable. Anyone trying to leave would find themselves at the exact spot they left, a few hours later, with hazy memories of travelling outside and a killer headache. Useful. But it also made surveillance and communication impossible because it's hard to monitor a video feed that shows you two weeks at the same time, or listen to a recording of what the weather was going to be like three weeks ago from two weeks from now. It got wonky.

So Arthur had taken a watch, parked his van outside the bubble and packed his weapon. He'd been waiting for five hours on top of the church tower now, certain he would have seen something. But now it started snowing, thick and wet, blowing in from the sea, indistinguishable from rain only by size and the bone-chilling cold. He was going to freeze to death if he stayed up here. He unfurled from his cotton cocoon and made his way down to the church proper where he'd set up Base Camp. Using a flare, he made a small campfire and prayed to Gentle Annie, and thanked any local spirits for their hospitality.

Warming up by the fire for a few hours, Arthur barely noticed night had started to fall and the snow had died down, already freezing to the ground. He would have sat there in contemplative silence for hours more if he hadn't heard the sound outside, snow being walked on by something large. He finished his cup of soup, carefully stowed his thermos, took his weapon and went outside. It was indeed night, but the moon was full and the snow cast everything in a beautiful white light.

There was a dragon in front of the church.

It was gold and not particularly big, but not particularly small either. Arthur guessed it was about five meters tall, ground to crown. It was a rough estimate but he'd slain dragons twice this size and one of them had been a solid eleven. But that was lifetimes ago. He didn't think there were any more dragons. He raised his weapon.

"Hello," he wagered.

"And to you," the dragon replied.

"It's a nice night."

The dragon shrugged. "It's a bit cold."

Arthur didn't move his weapon, training it between the dragon's eyes. "I have a fire inside."

"I'm afraid," the dragon responded with a toothy smile, "that the doors are a bit small for me."

"What's your name, friend?"

The dragon began pacing left and right. Despite its size, the only noise it made was the soft whisper its tail made when it sliced through the air, and the soft crunch of snow beneath its feet. "You're no Fae, are you? You have their scent on you."

Arthur mirrored its movement, slowly circling the town square. "I am Artúr. I've had dealings with the folk, but owe them nothing. Not my allegiance."

The dragon seemed to chew on this for a moment. "Well met, Arthur. I am Fannar, barn of Frænir. What are you doing in my village?"

"I'm looking for its people. What are you doing in this village?"

The dragon stopped circling. "I do not recognise your weapon, Artúr, though you wield it like one, and the look in your eye tells me you are confident."

It was Arthur's turn to shrug. "It's reliable."

Fannar laughed at the obvious understatement, a low sound that reminded Arthur of deep caves and large fires.

"Is it faster than dragonfire?"

"I'd say so."

"Is it stronger than my obsidian talons?"

"Yes."

"Could it pierce my golden hide?"

"Definitely."

The dragon tilted its head with curiosity. "What manner of weapon can do this, Arthur? Even for a dragon I am quite strong."

Arthur looked down the barrel into Fannar's eyes. "This weapon was given to me by Nimue on Eamhna, blessed by gods and blood. Her name is Excalibur and there are none like it. Where are the people of this town?"

The dragon peered into his eyes. "Arthur."

There was a moment of silence.

Then, Fannar shrunk, until he was a human. Their skin, however, had a golden glow to it.

"They're gone."

Arthur didn't relax.

"I didn't kill them, if that's what you're thinking. I'd like to sit by the fire now if you don't mind."

Arthur finally lowered Excalibur and joined Fannar inside. They sat down, starting into the enthousiastic fire for a minute. He offered the dragon a piece of salted pork, who lowered their head in quiet gratitude.

"It's a long story. But the short version is that my father was cursed, and I with it. When I made this town my home, it was cursed to stop existing after fifty years. I asked the Fae for help, who promised me it would exist to see ."

Arthur nodded. "The Lords and Ladies have a wicked sense of humour."

"They do," Fannar agreed with a resigned sigh. "Then, when we reappeared and everything was different, it did indeed seem like thousands of years had passed. But then another spell was cast and all went back to how it was. I didn't dare question it, afraid to break the magic, living among them hidden. Two days ago my fifty years ran out. When I saw light in the church I'd grown hopeful, until I saw you."

Arthur took out his thermos and drank some soup to think on this.

A minute passed in silence.

"Are you liable to lay waste to the countryside if you left?"

Fannar looked taken aback, insulted even. "Heavens no!"

Arthur got up and walked Fannar to the edge of the bubble, bid he wait there for a moment, and contacted the Directorate. After a few minutes he returned.

"The 'magic' around your village, Fannar. It's ours. We can set time back by forty-two years. So long as you're not inside it, time will pass normally and all will be well. But every day you spend in the village, time will tick down. We can't break Fae "promises". It's dangerous. So you can spend up to 42 years in town."

"But if I leave they'll be fine?"

"Right as rain."

"Could I visit?"

"Of course. But it'd cost them some time."

"Why would you do this for me?"

"Because," Arthur smiled, "we'd like to offer you a job."