It was nearly midnight when the most unlikely court in Edinburgh gathered under a rope-tied torch beside a single, stubborn tent. Braveheart had just finished the bare basics—no live rounds, only mime and muscle memory—showing the crusaders where to rock and lock, how not to lose thumbs, what a safety did and why you loved it. Then Anna got bored, which ended the lesson by royal decree.
At her call, the band formed up before the tent she called Camelot. Braveheart went to one knee at the head of the line. Behind him the crusaders spread into a neat fan, mail and wool and winter breath, their eyes bright as altar lamps. Their leader had given his name—Sir Eòghan "Euan" of Craigies—a mouthful for a six-year-old; Anna decided he was Sir Egg and that was that.
Strong watched from inside Anna's jacket, clinging like a solemn little koala; Sheepy sat at her shin, proud as a herald. And Anna—wide awake, fizzing on the sugar of being listened to—glowed like a torch herself. For once, everybody wanted to play her game. For once, her words mattered.
Crown perched, plastic sword in hand, she lifted the blade and proclaimed, "Now hear me, my subjects! By the power gifted to me, your queen, by our miracle-maker and my son, Crown Prince Strong, I hereby knight… Sir Braveheart, first knight of the Round Table and my advisor of war and the matters of the sword and—stuff."
The crusaders murmured, delighted that the tiny queen spoke like a scripture. Braveheart, who had spent years avoiding kneeling to anything with a pulse, bowed his head because survival is an art.
"Oh yeah, an oath," Anna added, riffling her memory. "Right—remember, Sir Braveheart: be without fear in the face of your enemies. Be brave and upright, that God may love thee. Speak the truth, always, even if it leads to your death. Safeguard the helpless, and do no wrong… except upon your enemies."
She touched the sword to his right shoulder, then his left, then—because Disney always did—back to the right again.
"Now raise your head and look at me, Sir Braveheart."
He did, wary.
Anna set the sword down and slapped him.
The crack sounded like a twig snapping in frost. Braveheart rocked, more at the insult to physics than pride; no six-year-old should hit like that. Behind him, steel shifted meaningfully. Sir Egg's gaze went bright and narrow—as if any wrong twitch and Braveheart would be a useful cautionary tale.
Anna smirked. "Let that be the last slap you take without hitting back, and don't be a loser. Also, let it help you remember your oath. So—do you accept, Sir Braveheart, or do I cut off your fucking head and drink from your skull? Hi hi hii."
Braveheart, who had seen men die for less in rooms with worse carpet, felt the hairline between joke and execution and decided not to test it. The crusaders, hearing a queen, heard only command.
He laughed carefully. "Aye. I accept."
"Happy Christmas," Anna said, instantly sunny, pressing a cookie and a little carton of milk into his hands like a sacrament.
"Next! Sir Egg!"
Sir Eòghan stepped forward—land and iron shaped into a man—and knelt without hesitation. "At thy service, maistress."
"By my power," Anna intoned, tasting the music of it, "I dub thee Sir Egg, knight of Camelot." Tap, tap, tap. "Same rules: be good, be brave, don't be boring."
"Now look at me," she added.
He lifted his face. Up close he was rough-hewn but unscarred: long blond hair, a beard in need of a knife, blue eyes bright with expectation.
Anna set the sword aside, drew back, and slapped him.
The crack stunned the hedge. Sir Egg rocked, nearly toppled; the line froze. A few levies blinked like men waking from a dream. Braveheart smirked—see? told you—she hits like a real woman already. Sir Egg tasted copper, eyes wide, then deliberately straightened back onto both knees.
For him the blow landed like revelation. A sign. This tent-born queen was no ordinary child; God's favor smelled like frost and sounded like thunder in a little hand.
"Let that help you remember your oath," Anna said briskly. "And don't be a loser."
Sir Egg rose, smiling with his eyes.
Anna turned, blade poised over the nearest levy.
"With thy leave," Sir Egg said gently, hand lifted, "nae the rest. Knighthood is dear coin. Let them earn steel by travail—battle or deed. I'll need serjeants and levies to command. Keep their ranks true till God proves them."
Anna considered, queen-serious. "Oh! Right. Earn it first. No cheating. If everyone's a knight it's not special. Good thinking, Sir Egg—you look very cool and also you're wise."
A soft breath ran down the line—relief braided with pride. Not all of them wanted spurs; most had followed Sir Egg on the Fourth Crusade because he was a just landholder and they'd longed to see the Holy Land and do the righteous thing.
And so, under a torch tied to a tent rope, with a miracle baby peeking from a zip and a zealot holding milk like a chalice, the Round Table took its first two knights. The crusaders bowed; Braveheart swallowed his cookie; Strong blinked like a satisfied little god; Sheepy wagged once, judicious.
Anna felt it settle in her bones: Camelot was beginning to take shape. Best Christmas ever.
However, a good queen looks after her people, and her people were starting to shiver. The crusaders had no winter coats—just mail and wool—and the three women, being the thinnest and shortest, had already begun that little shuffle people do when their toes go numb and the cold starts biting.
There wasn't much space either: only her tent, the crates tucked under the bushes, and a small patch of path where they could sit in a circle and pretend it wasn't freezing.
"Well," she said, suddenly practical in the way only a six-year-old can be. "We can't have a kingdom where all my subjects sleep in the cold."
Sir Egg looked startled, mumbling something about it being no trouble, but Anna only shook her head and turned to Strong.
The baby was still wide awake, clutching the empty bottle that had rolled to the ground. "Okay, Strong," she said brightly, "my little Christmas miracle—we need a proper Christmas party before midnight. And a home! So listen, I've got an idea. We'll do what me and the other girls used to do in gymnastics class."
She began explaining with all the authority of an architect and the excitement of a child building a fort. "We'll put big gymnastics mats on the ground side by side for the floor. Then more mats for the walls, and one thick one in the middle as a pillar. A big mat goes on top for the roof! We can block the entrance with a smaller one—though maybe that'll make it stuffy—so sleeping bags should be enough to keep us warm. We can leave the doorway open. What do you think, Strong? Isn't that a good idea?"
Strong made his usual thoughtful sound. "Hmm."
Braveheart opened his mouth to suggest that his apartment might be warmer—that he had floor space enough for all of them—but Sir Egg's sharp glance stopped him cold. Questioning the queen's will was, at this point, unwise. So he folded his arms and watched.
Anna already had the whole plan in her head. Back at gymnastics, she and the other girls would stack the mats into forts, crawl inside to tell stories, and snack until the coach threw them out for getting frosting on the vinyl. Now she wanted the same for her new friends: a place to sit, tell stories, gossip, eat biscuits, and just be happy together.
Strong blinked once.
The air flared white.
Then came the soft thuds and fwumps—the unmistakable sound of something solid appearing from nowhere. Everyone hit the ground at once as smooth blue shapes rained down around them. Not heavy—nothing like the rifles or crates before—just the gentle slap of vinyl on frost.
Sheepy dove for cover under the bushes like a soldier reconsidering bravery. Braveheart threw up an arm, then stared in disbelief, the expression of a man watching the moon landing for the first time.
Blue slabs. Tri-fold panels with Velcro tongues. Wedge blocks that folded into perfect cubes. A thick crash mat with hand grips. Everything smelled faintly of a new-shoe shop and hospital-clean sterility—no logos, no labels, no explanation.
"Right!" Anna clapped, instantly becoming the smallest site boss in Scotland. "No pointy bits on my mats. Sir Braveheart, you're on the floor. Sir Egg, you're walls. Everyone else, roof duty at the end. And you three ladies—woman privilege. No heavy lifting. Clear sticks and bushes so we've got room. Sheepy, guard the tent and the thunder-staves."
They obeyed like happy zealots.
Sir Egg and Braveheart moved through the line, correcting hands and angles, turning awe into work. The women snapped twigs and dragged brush aside with shields and spear hafts until the ground was neat enough to pass inspection. At first the crusaders could hardly stop petting the smooth blue surfaces; then muscle memory won and the lot of them of them fell into rhythm, krtt-rrrip went the velcro seams as panels locked tight.
Piece by piece the blue block-house took shape.
Crash mats settled as a soft, warm floor. Panel mats stood up as walls. A stack in the center braced the roof. Wedges pitched inward to make a low lid. Sheepy made a wide patrol of the weapons, slunk down to the river for a sip, then returned to plant himself by the tent door like a shaggy sentry. Strong dozed under Anna's jacket while she sat cross-legged, supervising with grave satisfaction.
When they were done, the band stepped back to admire the thing they'd made: a squat blue box, tidy and absurd and perfect.
Braveheart just huffed a laugh. He could not believe he was spending Christmas night in a bush building a play-home on the orders of a red-haired child, a musclebound baby, and a sheepdog—and somehow it felt like the sanest choice in the world.
Anna raised one arm like a union leader calling a vote. Silence fell.
"Okay, Strong—sorry to wake you," she whispered, looking down. "But every proper Christmas needs supplies. We need twelve sleeping bags—Sheepy wants one too—plus bread rolls, a big cooked turkey, mashed potatoes, biscuits, milk, and eggnog for all. Even you, Strong."
Strong yawned, blinked his icy eyes once, and let his lids drift shut.
White flares winked across the ground. Then the loot arrived: tidy bundles thumped into the frost—rolled sleeping bags, even a lantern for light, boxed rolls, a domed turkey, steaming mash, stacks of biscuits, clinking milk cartons, and a tray of eggnog in squat bottles. Crusader stomachs growled in unison.
Anna set crown and toy sword on the grass like she was hanging up a badge and baton. "By royal decree," she said, very official, "carry everything inside. We're going to have a real Christmas feast."
No one argued. Food and kit flowed into the blue house. Inside, they unrolled sleeping bags in a ring. Anna pointed like a traffic warden: "Yucky boys on that side. We girls on this side with Strong and Sheepy. Food in the middle. No crumbs in the corners."
They sat. The sleeping bags might as well have been thrones to medieval backs and knees; the crusaders sighed at the softness as if forgiven. In the circle's center, the feast steamed gently in lantern light.
Strong had already tipped into his second true sleep—first in a bin, now on Anna's lap—wrapped in the Hulk towel and trusting his Pawn without a thought.
Sheepy finished his patrol, slid inside, and flopped exactly across the doorway like a furry bar. Sir Egg cleared his throat; by instinct more than plan the circle bowed heads while he said a plain grace.
They ate, well all except Strong of course who was passed out in happy dream land.
Braveheart felt the odd, clean absence of beer and shrugged toward the eggnog. The first taste was… fine. The turkey was perfect, if unseasoned—he minded, no one else did. The rolls were warm in the hand. The mash was smooth. The biscuits were biscuits. It was all impossibly normal for food that had fallen out of nothing.
Conversation thinned to the good sounds: hungry men, happy dog, a baby breathing small and even, and now and then a tiny queen's satisfied hum.
Weirdest Christmas ever, Braveheart thought, and went back for another roll.
***
[Quick interlude — Strong checks the books]
The feast hummed on without Strong—soft talk, the quiet clink of cartons, the buttered sound of rolls being torn. In Strong's head the lantern's glow folded down to a point and opened into the place his mind knew best: dark, river-cold, rimed with memory.
He sat on a green council wheelie bin like a throne with wheels, bare feet swinging. Ahead, the Water of Leith unspooled in a straight, impossible line—no bends, just a midnight corridor under a low sky. Along the path, objects appeared in order as if laid out for inspection.
First: the Hulk towel, drying on a ghost-rail. Then the bunny bottle, neat ears up, the first milk still steaming in his head.
He blinked once, and the darkness gave him a ledger—clean white text, floating:
> [SOUL SYSTEM — LEDGER]
Hulk towel-blanket — 6 SP
Bunny bottle — 24 SP
Enhanced human milk (240 ml) — 240 SP
Baby-kit subtotal: 270 SP
Further down the path, the air coughed up a heap of unmarked crates with AK silhouettes; beside them, a dim procession of nine medieval figures stepped out of sand and psalm and took a knee. The system stamped the numbers as if amused:
> Summon — 1 Knight, 2 Serjeants, 6 Levies — 19,500 SP
Armament — AK crates ×15 + ammo ×2 — 7,500 SP
Warpack subtotal: 27,000 SP
Running spent: 27,270 SP
He slid off the bin and padded forward. More flashes. Crash mats bloomed blue as a shallow sea; panel mats rose into walls; wedge blocks pitched a roof; a warm lantern clicked on by itself; a stack of silver blankets whispered open.
> Crash mats ×3; panel mats ×6; wedges ×2; straps; lantern; thermal blankets ×12 — 13,800 SP
Next came twelve sleeping bags thumping down like docile animals and a small parade of food—rolls, a domed turkey, mash, biscuits—followed by cartons of milk and squat bottles of eggnog that didn't quite know whether they were allowed.
> Sleeping bags ×12 — 1,200 SP
Feast bundle (turkey, rolls, mash, biscuits, milk, eggnog) — 620 SP
Tonight's subtotal: 15,620 SP
The numbers clicked to a halt. Total lines stacked cleanly; the river breathed.
> Grand total spent: 42,890 SP
Balance remaining: 2,957,110 SP
Commentary: Shelter acquired. Morale ↑. Expenditure: negligible.
Strong stood in the middle of it all—blanket, bottle, milk, men, guns, mats, lantern, bags, feast—like a very small shopkeeper in a very strange store. He reached into the air without thinking and an AK-47 settled into his hands, black and blunt, heavier than it looked. He turned it, felt the weight, the corners, the oily hush of the bolt as it wanted to move.
He made his thoughtful sound. "Hmm."
On the real side of sleep, Anna laughed at something and a dozen men answered softly with their mouths full. In the dark place, the river kept the books, and the boy on the bin watched his purchases shine a little and then go quiet again, waiting for whatever he would decide to want next.