don't play with magic ` open for Merlin
Achilles sat in one of the many halls of the castle. Tonight he guarded, against what he didn't know but it was what he had been chosen to do. His fellow guardsman was sleeping peacefully on a pile of straw in an alcove and he was sitting at a table. His cup was filled with wine--a slightly more bitter red than he was used to--and his cloak was wrapped around himself.
Despite how close he sat to the fires that hung on the wall, how many layers he wore, he still could not shake the bitter cold of the English wind. He suppose there was an explanation for it only he didn't know what it was. He was cold, the wine was fairly decent and the bread in front of him had been out since they sat, it was stale.
'Oh, hey,' he leaned out, poking his head out from behind a wall, looking down the hall, 'you're Merlin, aren't you? Arthur's boy?'