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Mennah was also basking in the glow of their loving moment, and looked down with Armand when she felt the tugging of her dress. She however was delighted at the sight of the infant she knew to be Aurora, and quickly picked her up and cradled her.

“Of course she’s not yours, this is Aurora, Roryn and Maraud’s daughter. Isn’t she lovely?” Mennah said smiling at her. She’d wanted to meet the little half fey child for a long while, for she’d met few others, and was overjoyed to finally meet her. She then took Armand’s hand in hers and held Aurora with the other, and walked back toward the group.

“Please forgive my failure to greet you all properly before. It’s wonderful to see you all again! Why don’t we head into the castle and catch up? Our cook Martha’s making apple tarts with mid day meal today, and I’m sure you’ll all find it delightful.” Mennah said warmly to Maraud and her company.



Juliana didn’t much like the idea of being left behind, for she knew she’d worry over them and possibly have no news for weeks. However there was little she could do about it, for they were helping them out of kindness, but smile and nod. Mary had even less desire to be left behind, for she’d become rather attached to their new company.

“When do you think you will return?” Juliana asked Lionel, deliberately leaving out any possibility that he might perish as the other knights had. It wasn’t a thought she particularly wished to entertain. Mary however thinking a bit more realistically had taken a handkerchief out of her dress and handed it to Lionel, pinning him with a particularly determined look.

“You have to promise to return this to my sister no matter what. It’s an old tradition in our family that our father always upheld. If you should leave your Lady you must take a token and promise to return it to her, for your not allowed to perish.” Mary explained, saying the words her sister had been too embarrassed to, and indeed Juliana’s face reddened with every word her sister said.

Lionel’s sternness alleviated slightly when he saw the disappointed faces of the two sisters of Oakford. He had known them for less than a fortnight, but he had certainly grown attached to the both of them. It would be heart-wrenching to leave them, even if it was a temporary absence.

Juliana asked him when he would return. “As soon as I can, Lady Juliana,” he vowed. “When we retrieve ze relic, Lanzelot will want to continue on to Rozeshire, to heal Sir Armand. I may… I may split ways with my cousin, so as to retrieve you first. I don’t mind if I miss Lady Mennah’s wedding. But I do care zat you and Lady Mary will not have to wait longer zan you need to.”

After he spoke he was handed a handkerchief by Mary. He raised his brows in surprise at Mary’s deliberate gaze. When she told him the significance of the piece of cloth, he felt fairly flushed with pride. It was akin to a favor; a token of remembrance—a designator that the woman he so admired was officially his Lady. It could even be seen as a sign of courtship—although it was made less so since it had been gifted to him by Juliana’s sister, and not Juliana herself. Either way, his heart was swelling as he reverently held the handkerchief.

He looked intently at Mary after she spoke on part of her sister. Then he turned to Juliana, whose pale complexion had been colored with a comely blush. Before he spoke, he dropped to his knees in knightly devotion, and kissed her hand. While still kneeling, and still clasping her hand, he promised: “You have ze word of Lionel de Ganis, Lady Juliana. I promise to return your token, against all odds.”

He stood and released her hand, and then placed the handkerchief inside of his surcoat and under his gambeson, close to his heart and next to the birthmark of his namesake. He gathered his strength and gave Juliana a look of reassurance. He was moved to lift his hand to her face and lightly brush her chin with his forefinger. “Stay well, ladies,” he said as a parting phrase. Then he turned away and followed dutifully after the rest of his party, withholding much of the pain he felt about leaving.

Soon they were on their horses again, riding away from the monastery. Lionel tenderly lifted his mail-mitted hand to his chest, thinking of the promise he had made to Juliana. It was a necessary pain, he told himself. All knights had to part ways with their ladies when it came time to quest. Well, all knights save for his cousin Lancelot, who was mad enough to quest side-by-side with his lady.

Lionel had become accustomed to the breach of tradition, and he knew full well that Alanna was worthy to engage in combat. Sometimes he was envious that Lancelot did not have to experience the long-term separation that Lionel was now preparing himself for. But he would not trade places with his cousin—not after he had witnessed how many times Alanna had suffered the pain of injury, or even risked losing her life.

After a few hours, they passed through the village of Winteringham. They were passing through a stretch of marshland, following the Humber River. They had not yet come to the bridge, or the forest, which the abbot had told them about. It came time for the midday meal. Lancelot offered to fish in the river, and invited Alanna to sit with him as the others went hunting for game fowl.

He cast the line and held the rod as he made some inconsequential conversation for a time. In truth, the weather was lovely, and the river was quite picturesque, but it hardly needed to be discussed to such length as Lancelot did. Finally, he overcame his shyness and brought up something that was a day overdue:

“Alanna,” he turned to her after preparing himself with a steadying breath. “I have been a complete dolt. What I did—after we faced the beastie in the lake the other day… perhaps you didn’t notice; nay, I’m sure you did…” He lowered his voice shamefully: “When I touched your bosom… I must let you know that I did not mean to do it, and I apologize. It would have been far better if I apologized at the time, I know. But… against my better judgment, I did not.”

He felt much relieved after he finally voiced his apology. True, it was an embarrassment to bring up the small indiscretion, but after it was said, it was far better to be out with it.

Aurora stared up at Sir Armand as he pointed and silently disclaimed her as his child. She gurgled happily as Mennah looked upon her with delight and picked her up. The little girl smiled as she was cradled in the stranger’s arms. She was tempted to pull a tress of Mennah’s auburn hair that was spilling over her shoulder. Instead, she spotted the necklace that Mennah wore around her neck, and touched the half-pendant with her small fingers.

Maraud looked up in surprise as Mennah appeared, holding Aurora. What an attentive mother she appeared to be—she hadn’t even noticed that her child had been missing!

“Oh, my, I’m sorry Mennah,” she laughed in chagrin. “I see that you’ve already met Aurora, our daughter.” She pulled Roryn closer to her. “She’s as sweet as a cherub—but she does love to explore. And she can get away from me so fast!”

Maraud stepped forward to reclaim her daughter, but it appeared that Aurora was content in Mennah’s arms, and Mennah was enjoying it as well. “Would you like to hold her a little longer, Mennah? It may be good practice for you—for the future.” Maraud smiled knowingly and gave the half-fey a small wink. “And, yes—apple tarts sound wonderful. Oh, and I brought you a gift for your birthday, but I suppose it could double as a wedding present as well!” She picked up the vase she had brought with her and presented it to Mennah.

She led Roryn along with her as they followed Mennah into Rozeshire’s castle. Mabuz walked along as well, although he kept to the rear of the group, not wishing to bump shoulders with Armand any time soon.

Maraud made the most conversation. She complimented Mennah extensively on the care of the gardens as she would stop to smell the roses they passed. “Oh, Rory—we must spend time in the Rose garden,” she cooed to her paramour, intertwining her arm with his. Feeling the youthful passion between Mennah and Armand had inspired a desire to rekindle her own fervor for Roryn.

Mordred noticed what Guinevere no doubt wanted him to overlook. Her trembling limbs, her faint blush. Even the elegant tendons in her fair neck appeared to be strained as she swallowed. But she did not step away, which he found to be pleasantly surprising. And then she did it—she touched her ring. She was surely tempted. A sly smile tugged at the corners of Mordred’s mouth.

Then he felt his eyebrows tweak upwards as Guinevere’s words entered his ears. His needs, she said? Private moments, to meet in the future? Was this an invitation to her bed in Queen-speak, or mere slips, and not unlike the accidental blush on her cheeks? If she had uttered her words with more confidence, he would have assumed them to be the former. But alas, her voice was weak. He was not to assume that she wanted an affair. At least, not at this time. The arrival of her husband surely didn’t help change her mind.

Her voice rang in Mordred’s mind: ‘My husband… your king.’

“Of course, milady,” Mordred said stiffly. He walked with her across the throne room. Before they existed, his hand covered the doorknob. He left it unopened a moment, and faced her as he spoke: “I would like those ‘private moments’ you mentioned, in the future. An afternoon of hawking, a walk through the garden, a game of chess… or whatever may suit your needs, my queen.”

His voice was pleasant, and his face was stoic, although there was nothing he could do to conceal the glint in his eyes. He was most certainly merciless in his word choice, however. He said no more to her as they exited the chamber, and walked into the halls. Soon enough she was joined by her ladies in waiting. He slowed his gait, and fell behind, briefly making conversation with one of the ladies who fancied him, and then falling back entirely.

He did not want to see Arthur. Earlier he had thought it would be amusing to meet eyes with his father, knowing that he had just been coveting his father’s wife. But after he heard the trumpets, along with the tone of Guinevere’s voice—it felt like there was a lump of ice in his stomach. It was something like guilt; but more like instinct.

He trailed down another corridor, until he came to Morgan’s door. He had nothing in particular to say to his aunt; he merely felt that he needed to be in the company of someone who shared a similar penchant for wickedness.

Mordred entered the chamber without knocking. He strolled in, seeing that his aunt was still present, sitting at her table. He stopped, however, when he saw that she had company: a stunning blond woman that he had never seen before.

Niniane rose from her seat when Mordred entered. “Well, here is a knight come to see you, Queen Morgan. I will take leave and join the others as they greet the great and wonderful king. Good day.” She fairly glided across the room, past Mordred, and exited the room.

Mordred stared after her. Once the door shut, his eyes darted to Morgan. “And you do not introduce me to such a goddess!” he exclaimed with feigned resentment. “Wait till my brothers get a look at her. Christ, woman!”

He sauntered over to one of her chairs and lounged in it impudently. Sometimes he would visit her and speak vulnerably. She was the only person he would confide in, besides his mother—but he was away from Morgause at the time, so he would reach out to his aunt. But other times he made light with her. Or as he was now, he was in the mood to tease… or even harass, if she was not in the mood to accept his irreverence.

“Are you ill?” he scoffed. “You look horrid.”

He remained silent through the whole affair. It was none of Roryn's business. He wished he had something to tell Mabuz when he asked him for advice, but there wasn't anything Roryn could say. Personally, Roryn hoped bygones would be bygones, but for arrogant knightly types like Armand, that seemed unlikely.

His hand subtly touched the hilt of one of his shortswords when Armand partially drew a sword. Yes, what Mabuz had done was wrong, but the past is called the past for a reason. Roryn believed Mabuz was already paying for his mistake through banishment, and had no intention of seeing Armand hurting his son-- pupil. Where had that come from? He had to admit to himself that he was probably the best thing to a father Mabuz had.

He relaxed a little when Armand apparantly decided not to challenge Mabuz. He and Mennah had went off somewhere to talk privately. While Maraud was unaware of Aurora's vanishing, Roryn saw the whole thing. He had his eyes on her the whole time. She was his daughter, his baby, why wouldn't he keep a close watch on her? He didn't do anything to stop her because she had followed Mennah and Armand, so he trusted she would be safe with them.

He silently followed the others when they headed inside. Apple-tarts surprisingly didn't sound appetizing to him. He had lived on venizen and wild fruits for years, so what most would consider a "normal" meal would be exotic to Roryn.

Lancelot, meanwhile, spoke to Alanna. “The abbot told me that my father once came to this monastery. I can’t believe it… and he told me that I share my father’s likeness. I must fulfill this quest, if I am to know anything more about King Ban. Just as you carry your father’s sword, Alanna… I believe this is my chance to carry on my father’s legacy… Let’s ready our horses and be off.”

Alanna's eyes grew wide with delight for her betrothed. To know that he had been granted a likeness and a similar path to his sire...it made her heart warm for joy at his fortune. She was genuinely thrilled at the news, and warmly clasped his hands to convey it. "Lancelot, that is...that is remarkable! Aye, aye, I am sure you resemble your father very much...and surely your mother will thrill at the sight of you when you finally meet. Yes, let us carry forth as once...you must carry on your father's legacy, surely it is your destiny as well as your birthright!"

And despite the awkwardness that had permeated between them (she had felt his eyes upon her the entire morning, and felt certain that it was his displeasure with...something), Alanna was eager to aid him on this quest. Her love for the squire was such that his discovery felt as close to her heart as if it had been her own father a-questing that had led them to this path. She was in high spirits throughout their entire journey, and her demeanor only brightened with every mile they crossed. Not only could Lancelot draw closer to his long-forgotten kingly kinsman, but they would be aiding men of God...and perhaps they could heal Armand! It was the sort of quest that all knights dreamed of!

When they came to a halt, Lancelot invited her to join him in a venture to fish and catch a mid-day meal. She eagerly accepted, her qualms about their standing having faded since the morning. She casually stripped her feet of their coverings, laying the wraps and boots neatly beside herself and digging her toes into the refreshing grass with evident pleasure. But even as she monitored her line and engaged in increasingly lengthy small talk with Lancelot, she began to guess that he had something alternative to fish on his mind. After all, they were quite alone by the river, and after their last adventure involving water...Alanna's cheeks began to flush, and she had to fight to maintain a pleasant and unassuming facade. But finally, he came out with it.

The moment she realized what he was apologizing for--and acknowledging--Alanna felt her entire form grow uncomfortably cold and stiff. She had wished to remain vacant about the matter, yet here it was out in the open. And he was apologizing! This was a good thing, she supposed, and yet she wasn't certain how to respond. Should she tell him it was all right? Nay, that would suggest that he should be comfortable repeating the offense. Should she tell him she was sorry as well? But then that would suggest that she abhorred his touch!

"I...I forgive you, of course," She finally stammered, her eyes fixed nervous on the spot in the water where her line connected to the surface. "A-after all, it was an accident...I know you'd not-oh!"

She was interrupted by a sudden jerk on her pole, which she tugged sharply in reply. In a flash of water and floppy speckled irritable fins, Alanna found herself with a very healthy looking fish. She laughed softly and helplessly as she struggled to bring the creature to the grass and cease its struggles. By the time she had it tied to a rock and wrapped in wet leaves to prevent its drying, she herself had become just a tad wet and some of her nerves regarding her fishing partner had abated. She sat back down next to him and returned her line to the water, shooting Lancelot a soft, amused smile as a few freckles of water slipped down her tanned face.

"I do appreciate your apology, my dear sir. But trust in me when I say you shall be informed if ever you truly offend me!" Alanna smiled and gingerly reached out to touch his cheek in affection, then she turned back to the gleaming water.

Lancelot’s heart sank when he saw Alanna become stiff and uncomfortable after he made his belated apology. He had done it again—it was his most recurring flaw—he had been too frank. Invariably, it had made him feel better to be open, but in turn he had transferred the discomfort unto his lady. It was more than frankness—he was just plain inconsiderate, he figured.

Thank goodness Alanna had a fish on her line at the moment—it was a merciful distraction. And it appeared to ease her to be able to do something practical instead of dwelling upon the unsettling awkwardness between them. He attended to his own pole—he still had not caught anything— as Alanna went about pulling the fish out of the water and took care of it once it stopped flopping and died. Lancelot preferred to chop off the head first thing—but that was an irrelevant matter. As he held his pole steady, he looked intermittently at Alanna as she maneuvered about.

The water brought out the worst in him, he decided internally. The most blaring example was the time two years ago when he had taken a bath with Alanna. It had not been his idea to do so, of course, but he had most certainly been too forward. And he had even touched her bosom… on purpose. And it was still unknown to him that he had been under the influence of Saturnus’s aphrodisiac. If he did know, he would have some choice words for the old meddling seneschal.

When he thought about how he was two years before, he found himself to be a bit of a wild child. It had to be a result of his fairy upbringing… He would cry and shout and fly into horrid fits and tantrums (he was even worse when he was younger). Half the time he had run about without his clothes. After all, how many times had Alanna seen him in the nude during their first week of knowing each other? Lord! He was proud to say that he had not been indecently exposed to her at all those two years since. And he never had tantrums…

His outlook brightened some when Alanna sat back down next to him and cast another line. At least she had forgiven him… and she even implied that she had not been very offended when his hand had slipped. It struck him as oddly amusing that he had been more alarmed by his accidental grab than being attacked by the monster itself. He supposed it was because they had seen quite a bit of monsters, but it was only every once in a while when he crossed a boundary over sensuality—accidental or not.

He looked at her and returned her smile as she touched his cheek. She looked unlike any other lady he had seen. She was beautiful… but not of the classical sense, and certainly not glamorous, and not ethereal. He looked closely at her tanned face, flecked with water--she was not tan enough to hide her blush. She turned her head and looked off at the water. He continued to look at her profile. Her features were regular, her complexion average, and her eyes of the most common color—brown... but no one had eyes that were as lovely a brown as Alanna. He had always admired her blond hair, and he found it especially appealing when it was a bit wild and flowing, and some of it was dampened by the water that had splashed on her. She plaited some of it on the sides of her head—a touch of femininity.

The scabbard attached to her belt was a startling possession to see on a woman. But on Alanna, it was miraculously fitting. Then, her clothes… boyish, but tailored. He didn’t know what she did to alter the tunic and chausses that he had once worn, but they fit her wonderfully. It was not custom for a lady to show her legs by wearing chausses, and in fact, it was a bit risqué according to the medieval tradition of ladies wearing dresses. There was a reason it was risqué, since Lancelot often found himself admiring her shapely limbs. And he did notice the minute details about how she wore her clothes—like when she didn’t lace up her tunic all the way.

As he looked at her now, he noticed that her feet were bare. He found himself staring at them, because he did not often see them uncovered. They were fair-skinned, from having less sun. Like her hands, they were calloused… but what did it matter? Lancelot was in love with every part of her. But most of all he loved what she looked like collectively: a maiden of great freedom.

And then he realized that her body and her spirit were profoundly intertwined, and that was why it was now impossible for him to exclusively follow Bors’s advice. It would work when he was alone. But when he was face to face with his golden beauty… he must accept that he could not ignore her looks… nor did he want to.

He slid closer to her and held his pole in between his knees as he rested one arm around her trim waist. “You’re beautiful,” he told her as he kissed her golden brow. He thought the compliment often enough—but it was not every day that he said it aloud. “And wonderfully forgiving,” he added, giving her another kiss at her hairline. “And smart. And tactful. And tenacious… Last night, I listed all of your virtues to Bors. Would you like to hear them?”

Without needing an affirmative answer, he continued on and listed all of her spiritual goods that he admired—or at least, as many as he could mention before he felt a tug on his line. And after he chopped off the trout’s head, he continued his list, but thoughtfully refrained from touching her after handling the fish.

Alanna had relaxed once more, allowing herself to enjoy the feel of the sun kissing the top of her head and the sound of the river gurgling by. But she was certainly not vacant enough to ignore Lancelot as he scooted in closer, though it was not an unwelcome sight. The corners of her mouth lifted in a smile as he placed his arm around her, and she quietly leaned into his form as he spoke. His compliments were humbly accepted and spread a soft blush onto her cheeks that had only so recently been banished, only increasing with each added word as he went one. What he and Bors would have been doing that needed a list of her virtues, she could not even imagine. But it was still...pleasing (her heart fluttered and her stomach knotted in uncomfortable pleasure) to know that her fiance thought so highly of her. How many women her age found themselves betrothed in such a manner? Why, even the High Queen had simply been selected by her husband...how many women at all were ever fortunate enough to have received a proposal out of love? Surely their case was unique...

And even as Lancelot murmured his praises, paused to catch a second fish, and then continued with his listing, Alanna dwelled a bit upon just how unique they truly were. Some nights she could not help but marvel at where she had found herself in the Lord's great design. Her entire meeting with Lancelot had been sheer chance; if he had felt too weary to invite a fellow squire to duel, or if she had accepted a different option for housing that night rather than working in a farmer's field all the day long, or if she had worked a bit more quickly...she would likely still be running around as a pious, just, lonely squire. Had she not been required to cleanse her body so as not to insult her faerie hosts, and not dressed herself as a lady...he may not have even once considered the possibility of loving her. And had they not had the opportunity to quest together so as to rescue his kidnapped foster mother...perhaps their bond would have been too weak, and would have broken at the first real strain. There had been so many opportunities for their love to dwindle and fade like an undernourished bloom, yet surely through God's graces they had made it to this point now, a man and a woman who loved one another and quested together as though it was what man and woman had been designed to do. The thought of their many triumphs not only as a team against monsters and woe, but as a couple through the unusual trials of their rather odd lives, caused Alanna's already brightly lit face to brighten even more with a high-spirited smile.

Once he finished his unbelievably flattering list of her better qualities, Alanna turned this searingly brilliant expression upon her paramour and delicately set down her fishing rod. Without warning or invitation, she suddenly leaned forward and lifted herself with one arm to close the distance between her face and his, which only seemed to grow greater as the years went by and he proceeded to grow more strapping (while she was certain she had finished her growing by the time they had met). She allowed herself only a brief moment to drink in the warmth of his dark eyes and the delightful way his even darker curls framed his tanned face, then quickly leaned a fraction closer and pressed a sudden and deep kiss to his lips. But for all the great passion compacted into it, the kiss was considerably brief (or seemed to be, but these things had a tendency to spiral if left unattended to) for she pulled away before a nearby cricket had stopped its song. Somehow, her smile managed to grow even more brilliant.

"You forget, my dearest Sir, that I am above all fortunate. It is surely my most powerful of all virtues...for I have somehow managed to find myself the happy recipient of the love of a man who is kind enough to aid all those who ask of him, even without the offer of reward...and so handsome as to have shamed each Lord or Count that he has thus far been in proximity to compare to...and so courteous as to apologize for even wrongs done long enough past to have been forgiven simply due to their stale nature...and so passionate as to shame even the famed Sir Armand the Bold! Aye, I am a fortunate woman indeed..."

By now Alanna's eyes had become just the slightest bit misty, but her smile remained intact. Her heart felt swollen with love, and she might have continued the list of her beloved's virtues had she trusted her voice to do so. But she was not in the mood to weep, and so merely glanced back at the glimmer of the water and nodded. "You, Sir Lancelot, are surely the closest in perfection of all creatures that the Heavenly Father has deemed the earth worthy to carry...and I am grateful for your love."

Lightly resting her head against Lancelot's nearby shoulder, Alanna retrieved her rod--which thankfully had not been tugged into the water by a biting fish--and continued on with the task of catching lunch.

Vivienne wore a façade of ease and jubilance as she watched the return of the High King and his men. She also finally laid eyes on the true Guinevere, surrounded by her knights and ladies of the court. The Queen was very deserving of her title—her very presence commanded attention. Vivienne was pleased to see her. She was also pleased by the others who surrounded her—Sir Kay, Sir Gaheris, Merlin, and just joining her at the elbow was Niniane. These people were the elite of Camelot; the stunning individuals who would influence the course of events to come… but there was one face she did not see, and his absence racked her with bitterness.

She excused herself a moment and stepped away from the throng. Arthur had not yet ascended the hill, and so she had a few minutes before she would meet him. From under her robe, she pulled out what appeared to be a small hand-mirror. Its reflective surface shimmered like the surface of water. Small ripples appeared as she used it to channel the courses of rivers hundreds of miles away…

---

Lancelot had undoubtedly caught hold of the brilliance of Alanna’s smile after she kissed him. It was brief, yes, but the passion of it left his heart beating rapidly well after the fact. He gazed upon her lovingly as she whole-heartedly praised him of his own merits: kindness, handsomeness, courtesy, passion—before the beginnings of tears took her eyes and her voice. But she withheld them, and concluded with a similar summation that he had used for her: the closest achievement of perfection possible in one of God’s creatures.

He knew this wasn’t so, and he’d be shaming himself if he agreed with her generous praise. But he also knew that she believed in his goodness with complete sincerity, just as he believed that she was utterly infallible. It was not the first time they had fawned over each other aloud. He had learned not to reject her loving words out of humility… they were gifts after all. Gifts of gratitude— “I am grateful for your love,” she said.

“As I am grateful for yours, Lady Alanna,” he said in return. How he meant it, too! He kept his arm lightly about her waist as she placed her head on his shoulder. He tilted his head so as to rest it against hers and nuzzle his nose against her hair. Then he sighed softly—a sigh of loving contentment. Until…

“Lancelot!”

His head jerked up. He instantly recognized the sharp voice, even after he had not heard it for two years. His eyes darted about, expecting to see Vivienne suddenly appearing before him. But instead her voice was eerily disembodied. “Where--?”

“The river. Come here. Now.”

He looked at Alanna with an anxious expression, and then pulled away from her to walk over to the river bank with fishing pole in hand. There he could see where her voice was coming from—her face could be seen, projected on the surface of the lightly running water. Just like he recognized her voice, her face brought up a well of emotions in him. Her dark brows were arched and critical, and her eyes were stunning but stern. And her lips—crimson and lovely, but frowning very deeply at him. And the greenness of her skin was only enhanced by the color of the water, and the way her face translucently floated… she was communicating with him by some magical device, not unlike a crystal ball.

At first the breath caught in his throat out of fear, as if he was a guilty boy again, and deserving of another lecture from his mother. But then the happenings of when he had last seen her flooded him again, and he stared down at the water with a look of resentment. Not so much about what she had done to him, but what she had done (and said) to Alanna…

“Two years!” she burst first. Her speech was very clipped. And it sounded strange from being transferred through water. Not gurgling—but somewhat muffled and far-away. Still, her anger carried plenty well. “What have you been doing, Lancelot? Wasting time! Dawdling! Consorting with that girl! Is that what I trained you for?”

He had wondered if she had been spying on him during his travels—and so it appeared she had. He had crossed many rivers, not to mention bathing in them—no doubt she tracked him with her watery sight. She probably saw it when he was attacked by that lake monster. She could see into virtually any body of water in Logres. A wave of stark anger overtook him.

He pointed an accusatory finger at her. “You—Lady Vivienne—have no right to follow my whereabouts. I am free of your tutelage and I can do whatever I so please. You may think I am being idle, but I am in fact learning everything about the world that you never taught me. I’m much better off, and I’m happier, and this girl that you have wronged so profoundly--this stunning, beauteous gem of a lady, this fine woman, who embodies all the virtues of heaven and earth—this Alanna of Greensbury… is to be my wife! So long as you do not respect her, you will not have my regard, Lady Vivienne.”

He gruffly pulled his line out of the water, the worm bait still dangling from the hook, and turned his back to the river, preparing to leave. He was expecting Vivienne to bombard him with the extent of her rage upon learning of his betrothal to Alanna. Frankly, he did not want to hear any of it. He had thought he had missed his foster mother. But her reappearance had only instilled a greater dislike for her than he had ever felt before.

Vivienne was not happy to hear it--that was true. But she said nothing about it. Instead, she spoke to Lancelot’s back: “You could have been made a knight today, Lancelot.”

He stopped in his tracks. Her words had caught him off-guard. He turned back to face her partially.

“You should be in Camelot. The King is returning this day. There are empty chairs in the Round Table,” Vivienne continued, the anger in her voice being replaced by a calmer tone of disappointment. “Wander the woods, marry a peasant, live untitled and without a single coin in your purse. Oh, Lancelot, don’t you know that I only want what is best for you? Your potential lies in Camelot… your future in Camelot. I am only upset, that you have gone on for two years without yearning for the true title of a knight, and true purpose and renown, and a King and Queen to serve, and the goodly men who are to be your greatest friends, the Knights of the Round Table. By Jove, Lance, if only you knew what awaits you!”

Lancelot said nothing, but his wrath did calm, and he laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword with the slightest bit of uncertainty. Her words were having more power on him than he recognized. Perhaps he felt that indeed, sub-consciously, he was meant for these things.

“Come closer, Lancelot. I will show you King Arthur,” Vivienne said. As she stood in Camelot, she turned her mirror in the direction of Arthur and his men. Where her face had once been seen in the river, Lancelot could now see the image of marching men… the head of which was Arthur, atop of his horse, dressed in full armor. His standards were raised about him. Him and his men looked tired, as they were returning from war, but they were also the very image of honor and the last gallant burst of effort that comes with an army’s return to home.

Lancelot was drawn to look closely at the first sight he had ever seen of the king… the first sight he had ever seen of an army that size. The apparent brilliance of Arthur was profound. “The Pendragon,” he uttered when he saw the red dragon of Arthur’s standards and shield.

Vivienne’s tactic had worked. Lancelot was touched by the sight of his king. He knew instantly that he wanted to fight for this man--beside this man. He wanted to be one of the knights he saw now, riding close to the king, holding shields that proudly displayed their blazons. He longed for a larger cause. It was fine to be questing for personal matters, like the legacy of his father or the healing of a friend, but to be involved in a war, to be fighting for a kingdom… it seemed mind-bogglingly larger than all the quests he had undertaken.

“Please, Lancelot… come to Camelot,” Vivienne said as the mirror turned back to her face. She could see, from the awed look on his face, that he would not need much more persuading. She lowered the mirror from her face, and the image of her in the water slowly drifted apart and faded away.

Lancelot stood and stared a moment at the river. Then he turned to Alanna, his mouth still hanging open in shock. He was not going to abandon the quest for the holy relic of the Abbey of Beale… but he all of the sudden was instilled with an added incentive to blaze through it, and continue on down the King’s Road… to finally meet the King.

Alanna sighed happily and snuggled a bit closer to her fiance. She felt a deep contentment settle into her being, and she felt as though she could easily rest there in his partial embrace until it was time to charge forth and continue the quest. The moments like this, where they could simply bask in one another's company in peace, were rare and precious. She hoped for many more in their future, and liked to think that at some time in the future, perhaps when they were both old and gray, there would be nothing but. However, the blissful moment was cut short...by the sharp sound of a voice she still occasionally (though she never dared speak of it to the others) heard in her less pleasant dreams. The last time she had heard this voice, it had been threatening to drown her. Lady Vivienne.

Lancelot jerked up and looked at her in a manner that suggested that he, too, was displeased to hear the voice. He pulled away and edged up to the river, to Alanna's great dismay (Vivienne had attempted to drown him once before as punishment for leaving her, who was to say she wouldn't try it again?) and so she edged up right along with him with one hand grasping his protectively. The Lady of the Lake frightened her, there could be no denying it. It was ironic, considering all that Alanna had put into once saving the Lady, but that was how it was now. She feared the sight of the sharply tempered woman, inwardly quaked at the power the Lady held with such ease, and was simply terrified of the grip Vivienne had once held over Lancelot. There had been a time when all he did was to please his foster mother, not knowing all that she withheld from him, not knowing that he had not been saved as an abandoned babe...but kidnapped, really. And Vivienne had held such designs for her ward! She had planned him to be the lover of a most powerful woman...the High Queen! Just the thought of Lancelot becoming and adulterer, a betrayer to his king...it made Alanna's stomach quiver uncomfortably and her eyes sting. But Vivienne had seen it as some great glory!

Now, Alanna remained silent as Vivienne and Lancelot spoke. She held her chin up defiantly as she was accused of being ill-fit for and dis-valuing Lancelot. She had been accused of such before, and likely would be to the end of her days. She was a true odd ball, she knew of no other woman who lived the unorthodox lifestyle she did and she was well aware that it was not a matter that she would be expected to be proud of. Vivienne was a very strong reminder of this. What had been her exact words on the matter? 'Not so much a lady as a snarling bitch?' Something along those lines, though Alanna's determination to lead her current life had only been strengthened by the challenge. She had feared, of course, that Vivienne's strong disgust with her would have turned Lancelot's heart away as well. But by that point...

But her years-old fear of having Lancelot torn from her by Vivienne's dislike paled in comparison to her anger at Vivienne's word. The Lady dared to sneer down her nose at all that they had accomplished during their travels! Certainly, Lancelot had yet to be knighted...but how many lives had they saved from certain destruction, in one form or another? How many towns, villages and shires had they rescued from beasts? How much more had they discovered of themselves, Lancelot in particular? He had grown from Vivienne's mind-numbed servant into a man of his own design! Was that not worth a detour from the courts and titles? Alanna's mouth set into a firm line as her eyes flared up with irritation, staring down at the image of the woman she secretly still feared. Vivienne had no right to wave away all that they had done. Alanna gently squeezed Lancelot's hand in support, but decided not to speak up. She wished for him to show his foster mother what a strong-minded man he had become away from her influence...though it sounded as if she had been watching long enough to have a general idea.

daughterofdon wrote:He pointed an accusatory finger at her. “You—Lady Vivienne—have no right to follow my whereabouts. I am free of your tutelage and I can do whatever I so please. You may think I am being idle, but I am in fact learning everything about the world that you never taught me. I’m much better off, and I’m happier, and this girl that you have wronged so profoundly--this stunning, beauteous gem of a lady, this fine woman, who embodies all the virtues of heaven and earth—this Alanna of Greensbury… is to be my wife! So long as you do not respect her, you will not have my regard, Lady Vivienne.”

Even now, Lancelot defended her...and was surely too generous. Alanna's face became tinted with a blush, and for a very brief moment her anger at Vivienne melted into adoration for the man whom she stood beside. She gazed lovingly upon him for just a second, and then forced herself out of the desire to return his doting. He turned to leave, and Alanna had the sense to retrieve her line as well as the fish they had caught as she followed him. But they were both stopped when Vivienne spoke again.

daughterofdon wrote:“You could have been made a knight today, Lancelot.”

He stopped in his tracks. Her words had caught him off-guard. He turned back to face her partially.

“You should be in Camelot. The King is returning this day. There are empty chairs in the Round Table,” Vivienne continued, the anger in her voice being replaced by a calmer tone of disappointment. “Wander the woods, marry a peasant, live untitled and without a single coin in your purse. Oh, Lancelot, don’t you know that I only want what is best for you? Your potential lies in Camelot… your future in Camelot. I am only upset, that you have gone on for two years without yearning for the true title of a knight, and true purpose and renown, and a King and Queen to serve, and the goodly men who are to be your greatest friends, the Knights of the Round Table. By Jove, Lance, if only you knew what awaits you!”

Alanna's lips pulled into a deep frown as she digested Vivienne's words. Wander the woods? Surely they did not always sleep in feather-down beds, but it was not as if they were constantly waddling around in marshes, either! Marry a peasant? Alanna may not have been of the purest and noblest lineage...and she did not have a king's ransom as a dowry...in fact, the only thing she had to her name was her father's blade and...well, herself. But she did offer Lancelot a deep and sincere love, and surely that was more valuable than a duchy. Live untitled, and without a purse? What good was a title when compared to...

But Alanna's nervous and hasty mental rationalizations came to a shuddering halt as she watched Lancelot retreat to the water to accept Vivienne's view of the king. Her eyes flicked up and down his form, his precious face, and her heart sank as she watched the desire form there to do Vivienne's bidding. Perhaps he did not think of it as such, but in the end...he wished to go to Camelot, to meet with the king, to have a splendid title and a purse full of coin. Perhaps, deep down, he even wished for a lady who was more...ladylike. She saw an underlying comparison in his head, no doubt thinking of how insignificant their two years wandering might have been to two years at court. Alanna's frown deepened as she heard Vivienne imploring Lancelot to hasten to Camelot, and she nervously gripped the hilt of Justice as she thought of what that would imply. How dissatisfying must their journeyings have been to him, in comparison to the thought of all that awaited at Camelot? Was a single glimpse of the High King enough to return Lancelot to the longings that Vivienne had originally instilled in him?

She wished to think that he would scoff at the matter and cheerily summon her to follow him on down the road to complete this quest that drew him closer to his father, would heal Sir Armand, and do a great service to a worthy monastery. It was, admittedly, a bit selfish. She did wish for him to achieve knighthood, of course. It was a dream she had once had, and now knew impossible, but for him she longed for it dearly. Not only was it his lifetime goal, as it had been hers, but it would mean that they could finally claim one another as husband and wife...and yet...She wished to think that the life she had led was desirable to him, much the way Vivienne wished to think that all he desired would be a life at court. But it still bothered her, like an insect rustling around in the nape of her tunic. She was still frowning as he turned to look at her, but she attempted to banish the look once she realized she had his attention. She flashed a brief smile and quickly turned away, bothered.

Would he suddenly exclaim a desire to race away to Camelot, to do his foster mother's bidding once again? She did not wish to hear it if he did. But then how could she still claim herself undyingly devoted if she ignored his wants when they were displeasing to her? Was that not emulating Vivienne?

As she kneeled by the fire and began gutting and scaling the fish, she asked very softly, "Do you wish to hurry to Camelot, My Lord?"

"Hail Aurthur!" Merlin bowed, but promptly rose again and stood regally and readily by. He had not yet considered what Aurthur might say when asked about his recent quest, but having known the outcome, he wagered it would be best to discuss what he'd "learned".


"A goddess you say?" Morgan ignored his attention to her looks and smiled slyly at him, languishing a long fingered hand to her side and propped her elbow on the table. "Yes, the half-sister of M'lady de Lac would make an excellant prize for my dearest of nephews." She laughed mockingly at him and his lack of tact. "And what have you to say to me on this long overdue visit, hmm?" She chuckled a little. "Shouldn't you be off greating our..." she made a grand sarcastic gesture of the face. "most wonderful and great King Aurthur, your father?"

She stood, no longer looking at him and folded her hands behind her back and gazed out the window, parting her thick and dusty curtains. "I know you've been covetting his child-wife." Her head snapped back to look at him as though it were supported with a wooden peg. "How interesting that you wish for such an affair. She is indeed beautiful..."

Morgan had forseen some of what would happen, how it might effect the courts; it wouldn't change much, she supposed. So there wasn't much harm she could see in teasing him about it, as he knew her distaste for the Queen Gueniveire. She simply wanted a reaction from her little peacock.

Mennah beamed at Maraud when she allowed her to continue to hold her daughter. She adored children, and found no acceptation to Aurora. She smiled with a slight blush when Maraud mentioned ‘practice’, but the slight embarrassment did nothing to squash her joy. Playing with Aurora she couldn’t help thinking about children of her own, and as much as she loved children, she was still a bit worried. Not that she wouldn’t be able to handle children, but of something quite out of her control. Her heritage. It was a well-known fact that fey women, even half blooded, were twice as likely to give birth to daughters than they were sons. Oh she’d cherish any and all her daughters to be sure, and she knew Armand would certainly love them, but she was also equally certain he’d want sons. Sons she might not be able to birth. She sighed slightly and gave Armand’s hand a little squeeze before returning her gaze to Aurora’s cherub smiling face. Mennah smiled back at her.

‘Well we’ll just have lots of children then now won’t we.’ A small inner voice said cheerfully. That thought put a whole knew blush upon her face.

Maraud smiled at Mennah’s blush. As if telepathically reading the half fey’s concerns, she walked closer to Mennah and whispered reassurance in her ear: “If you want sons, my dear pupil, there are charms for that. But you need not worry about that until… you are married, of course.”

Then they settled down inside the castle to eat the apple tartlets. Maraud carefully cut a slice of her piece into smaller chunks for Aurora to eat. The hungry baby grabbed the tart and stuffed it in her mouth. She looked to enjoy the pastry, but she was negligent to keep her hands and face from getting sticky with the tart’s syrup. Maraud looked on with mild dismay as she daintily finished her tart, and then ate Roryn’s as well, since he did not appear interested in it.

“You must excuse my daughter’s table etiquette,” she said amusedly to Mennah and Armand. “At least she does not spit out of her food, as she used to do when I first gave her solids. Ah, children. They’re so delightful, aren’t they?” There was a note of sarcasm in her voice, but she softly pat her daughter’s head in true affection.

She finished Roryn’s tart, and then took up Mabuz’s, since he did not appear to want his, either. He was still clearly uncomfortable with the situation of being in Mennah and Armand’s presence, and so he stayed withdrawn, and as far away from Sir Armand as possible.

“Rory, dear, you really must try some of this tart,” Maraud coaxed once she was half-finished with it, and now feeling the guilt of indulging in three tarts. She was already unhappy that she had lost some of her slimness after her pregnancy. Eating sweets would not help at all… but she had not had something so tasty while living off of venison and forest fruits.

To distract herself from continuing to nimble, Maraud set down the tart to chat with the bride and groom to-be. “Well, I do want to know who you are inviting to the wedding. I assume, Sir Armand, that you will invite some of the knights of your order, will you not? And will you have some of our mutual friends, like Lord Balthazar? And let us not forget the ever-popular young Lancelot, and dear Alanna, and the charming Sir Kantus, and Lancelot’s sweet cousins? I do wonder where they are, these days.”

Lancelot had recovered shortly after from the vision of Arthur. What hastened his return to his present company was the frown he glimpsed on Alanna’s face. It only lasted a moment, but it still lingered behind her brief smile. And then she turned away. Perhaps she was frowning because of Vivienne’s shrill interruption. But if that was all that bothered her, he imagined that she would be more relieved now that Vivienne had left.

But… he knew her well enough to detect the change in her carriage: the overall tenseness, the lack of light on her face—the blaring fact that she had said nothing and turned her back to him. His own face fell and his body stiffened. She was upset with him.

And yet, what did he do to turn her sour, and so quickly? Minutes before, she had looked upon him with the utmost adoration. In fact, when he had spoken up to Vivienne, she was looking fondly at him instead of casting her wary gaze to Vivienne. It had to be something he had done in the last minute…

If ever there was an argument between Alanna and Lancelot (which there occasionally was), half the time it was the result of a stressful situation of great peril, in which Lancelot had been too impetuous or Alanna had risked her life too grievously; or some other matter on how the situation was handled. The other times, it was like this—a disagreement rooted in personality differences. It invariably started when Lancelot, in his forthrightness, said or did something that gave Alanna offense. She would not always be open about what she was upset over, but Lancelot would feel that she was angry with him. He would become defensive and frustrated that she left him to guess his offense. But once one of them brought the issue to light, soon enough there would be forgiveness, and they would return to doting on each other as they usually did.

But at the moment, he was in a state of discomfort because he didn’t know why Alanna looked bothered as she began to prepare the fish. Finally she spoke (in a quiet voice, which furthered his impression that she was hurt and restraining herself), and he had a hint of what it was that had pricked her. The key word in her terse question was ‘hurry’—it had the connotation that she may have found fault with. He now assumed that she thought he would abandon their current quest, so as to make the greatest haste towards Camelot… she must have noticed how longingly he had looked upon the vision of the king.

He did not immediately reply to her question. In fact, he let perhaps a dozen long seconds pass before he finally breathed deeply through his nose, and uttered in low, vexed voice: “I have displeased you, haven’t I?” There was another pause, and he cringed a little. “Is it because you think that I do not wish to continue the quest for Saint Congar’s chalice? Nay—you know I would not abandon such a quest, Alanna! Especially knowing that my father… and what the relic could do for Sir Armand… Nay!”

He now felt somewhat insulted. ‘Hurry to Camelot’, she asked? She must have truly thought that he would desert the quest. But she undoubtedly knew him better. She must have misgivings about him wanting to go to Camelot at all, quest or no quest. And Vivienne must have had something to do with it… perhaps because she was in Camelot?

“I know you must be gravely insulted by what Lady Vivienne has said about you. She cared for me well as my foster mother, but I must admit that she can be incredibly cruel at times… but she is not entirely wrong in everything. I need to go to Camelot… eventually. Two years is a long time, and we have had that time to travel around as Good Samaritans… But… Why should I not go to Camelot? I thought you agreed, Alanna, that we ought to join Arthur’s court one day. What has made you suddenly change your mind?”

He stepped closer to her. His tone was serious. He was trying not to take offense too quickly, but he was also unnerved that she had become unhappy and asked such a question of him. They had been getting along so well before Vivienne made her appearance in the river. In fact, it had been almost paradisiacal how well they had got along. And now Lancelot found himself almost resenting his betrothed because she had frowned and asked him a question, that was really quite innocent, although it insinuated what he found to be quite troubling. And then, he resented himself for resenting Alanna. Because he loved her more than anything… and resentment did not fit in to his chivalric ideal of love.

Morgan le Fay was providing quite a bit of amusement to Mordred. He grinned roguishly as he pealed his eyes on the parts of her that a nephew ought not to notice in his aunt. He had a despicable habit of mentally unclothing any lady he came upon—be it his mother, his aunt, the sweethearts of his brothers (like the Lady Ragnell, Gawain’s wife) and especially the High Queen.

He snickered at Morgan’s sarcastic description of the King. “Ah, yes--my king, my father, and my mother’s brother. Of course I’m dying to greet him and welcome him home from war with the Saxons. Commiserate with him… those damn Saxons.” He grinned.

There was a lull when Morgan stood and went to the window. Mordred looked at her expectantly, wondering what she would say next to entertain him. Then she opened her drapes partially, and the sunlight flashed into his face. As he shielded his eyes, she brought up Guinevere. He was silent immediately after. He knew that she knew that he was Arthur’s son (his most well-kept secret), but he had not told her, nor did he expect her to know, that he was lusting after Guinevere. But he didn’t express his surprise. Morgan was a witch, after all, and had supernatural means of determining the motives of those she associated with. He should hardly be surprised. Still…

He was puzzled by her words, ‘child-wife.’ Guinevere was younger than Arthur, yes, but the age difference was not different from the gap between Guinevere and Mordred. Did Morgan insinuate that Mordred had eyes for Guinevere’s daughter as well? That was not readily the case. Mordred had no interest at all in romancing an adolescent princess, who was in fact, his half-sister. But whatever Morgan meant in her often cryptic wording, he let it pass unquestioned.

“Interesting, is it?” he said nonchalantly. What was interesting was that Morgan and Guinevere were rivals… at least, Morgan absolutely hated the Queen. Guinevere probably hated her as just as stridently. Mordred wouldn’t blame her… and it added just that much more excitement to know that such animosity existed between his aunt and the Queen.

“Aunt Morgan, might you be jealous of the Queen?” he asked with mock innocence. “There could be so many reasons for you to be jealous of her… her beauty, or the fact that she is fair and bright, and you are altogether very dark. Or is it that she is the High Queen of Logres, and you are only the Queen of… Gore, of all the pitifully small kingdoms? And it might be that she has a far more handsome husband than the old ass that you were forced to marry. And might I compare myself favorably to Accolon—your young paramour who I sorely unseated in a joust last month?” An impish smile had now spread across his lips as he continued to lounge cooly in his chair.

Alanna felt a twinge of guilt as she caught Lancelot's irritation in his tone. She continued mutely preparing the fish, removing the scales and the larger bones she could find and replacing the innards with a few dried herbs she had been lent from Greensbury. The fish were fixed on sticks and set over the fire to cook, and all this while Lancelot launched into a muted but un-ignorable start to an argument. And Alanna, despite her silence and refusal to meet his gaze as he spoke, felt her own ire rising. Perhaps it was just the reminder of how badly things had nearly ended for them, with the sight of Vivienne. Perhaps it was anger at herself for thinking such wildly impossible things of her betrothed. That he would abandon a quest for personal gain at court!

And she also knew that he was correct in his statements about going to Camelot at all. Two years was not quite as long as she had intended on traveling when she was alone, or even as long as she had traveled alone prior to meeting the French prince. But it was far longer than he had ever designed for, and much good had been done. And, they had long agreed to go to Camelot. It was even imperative to their impending wedding!

Yet there was something, something between his words, that only served to poke at her usually dormant temper. She was confused by her own inner struggle to remain different from Vivienne and her tactics concerning the squire, and deeply troubled by the nagging feeling of Lancelot's indifference to their ventures. He had said nothing, but the look she had seen on his handsome face as he surely dreamed of better things...somehow, it brought to mind the look she had sworn she had seen years before when he had been in the company of a gorgeous fey girl. As though she were watching him yearn after another household's warm steak and carefully measured mead after having just fed him cold tubers and raw fish. She knew it was silly, and even dwelling upon the thought of feeling in such a manner made her guilt grow in a cold pile within her stomach. But now as he spoke, this nagging concern strengthened and began to pull apart his words and give them special meanings.

'I know you must be gravely insulted' began to sound as though he were speaking to a child that had been shoved by an older lass while at play and was throwing a tantrum. 'She cared for me well as my foster mother' rang through her hardening heart mingling unpleasantly with 'but she is not entirely wrong in everything.' Though she had just moments ago listened to Lancelot defend her in front of Vivienne, and quite vehemently so, the bitter portion of her that remained in all human souls began to growl that he partially agreed...nay, surely he wholly agreed but was too embarrassed to say so, with Vivienne's assessment of her. 'We have had time to travel as Good Samaritans' was a goodly thing to say, and humble, but the irate monster growing in her tightening throat only heard it as 'we have played long enough.' Each tightly placed phrase from Lancelot only caused Alanna to grow more and more prepared for a spat, which of course only served to make her feel ever more unworthy of the gracious praises he had poured upon her not ten minutes ago.

Her love for him burned as brightly as ever, of course, and as even-tempered as she was the tightening of her jaw and furrowing of her brow were the only signs that Lancelot's words bothered her. The bitter and angry portions of her were minute, barely even noticeable. And the thoughts of how cruel his words could be taken as were little more than whining whispers in her ears. But they were there, and as infrequently as they fought the seeds for a complete argument had been sown. She quickly washed the fish parts off of her hands and pushed herself up from her knees, frowning as she searched for non-combative words to reply with. She found very few.

"Of course I do not believe you would abandon the quest for the monks. You are, after all, and honorable man." Alanna set her hands at her hips and pursed her lips, her fine tanned brow creasing in the manner it always did when they argued, or when she thought very deeply.

"I am not insulted by what Vivienne has said, for it is no different from what all who meet me say! But that is not a matter that needs any further discussing than it has received already...Lancelot, why do you need to go to Camelot? Aye, I've agreed, and it seems...logical, but what is so unsatisfactory with what we have done? We've saved lives, Lancelot! Lives and villages and the purity of countless maidens! Do you feel no pride at all in the time you have spent with m...with us?" She heaved a soft and aggravated sigh, turning back away from him and agitatedly running one hand through her long mane. "Nay, nay, forget what I...it is nothing. I wish you to go to Camelot, I simply...but nay, forget I have said anything. Do as you please, My Lord."

And with this last, which was surely the introduction to the second leg of the argument, Alanna turned her back upon him once more and retreated back to the river to wash off her knife.

At the edge of the sparse woods not far away, Bors halted with a rabbit in his hand. When he was out hunting, or washing clothes in the river, or sparring with Lionel and Kantus, or anything that meant Lancelot and Alanna would be alone, he always tried to hasten his chore so that the temptation between the two would be minimized. More than once he had purposefully stumbled in and been treated with rather sour looks. But this time, it looked as though they were in the middle of something far less romantic and needed absolutely none of his interruptions. So he silently stepped backward and returned to the woods to inform his comrades to avoid the camp site at all costs until the scene appeared to have smoothed itself out.

"The gaul you have entertains me." She told him flatly, vertually slamming her drapery shut. The glint in Morgan's eyes dimmed as she stared down at him. "And I bare no jealousy towards the High Queen, or her mate." She spat the words like bitter berries.

She sat back in her chair and lay her head on her hand again. "As for my own lord, an old ass he is, but was once a better lover than thee." She took the olde diolect because she felt it added an extra pinch of scorne to her statement. She smiled lazily at her nephew and waited for a reaction, most likely protestation. Gaining his ire was one of her few past times, like a game they played over and over again.

For the longest time, it seemed, Alanna had not once looked at Lancelot. From what he could see of her lowered face, a whole storm of thoughts was going on in her head… but she spoke of none of them. While waiting for her to reply, he felt like he was standing on the edge of a precipice. He was tormented; he was even readying himself to physically intervene by pulling her up by the shoulders and forcing her to look at him. But he did not, because he had vowed to himself that he would never handle a lady roughly in any manner—especially not the lady of his heart.

Then, finally, Alanna washed her hands and stood up and faced him. It did not bring him much relief, though, to see the clear signs of discontent present on her frowning face and the way she set her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. He assumed his own argumentative stance: arms crossed over his chest and mouth narrowed to but a stubborn line.

He silently took in her words, even though he wanted to interrupt at certain points. Then, when she finished, he found himself gnashing his teeth because she had turned away again to tend to her chore.

“Alanna, please, don’t turn your back on me. It’s clear that we need to talk about this, but I can’t stand to talk to you while you are snubbing me like this… and I want you to stop addressing me as your 'lord'. I don’t address you by an honorable title—unless you request it and I will—but I assume that we know each other well enough to use our given names exclusively… and I really am not your lord, in any sense… And we shall not forget about this matter. It is of import to the both of us!”

He had never before been especially bothered by Alanna showing him respect in this way, but it suddenly seemed unfitting and an unnecessary reminder of the difference in their stations—and it added to a spoken coldness on Alanna’s part. He did not desire his lady to be submissive, and when she did ‘my lord’ him, he felt guilty, as if he had become Alanna’s lord and master. Of course, she did often call him by his given name (middle name, really), but when she concluded her speech with a “my Lord,” he all the sudden was very bothered by it.

Then, regardless of whether she turned to face him or not, Lancelot went on frowningly to answer Alanna’s fundamental question: why did he need to go to Camelot? He didn’t need to go over the practical reasons so much… for example, when the knights he faced asked him which king he served, he would prefer it if he could answer positively, instead of humiliating himself by replying, “I have no king, Sir. I have yet to be knighted.” He would love to introduce himself as Sir Lancelot, one of King Arthur’s knights. But Alanna already knew that, and it appeared she agreed that it was necessary.

“Alanna. Do you wish that we could continue like this till the end of our days? Our travels have been well and good; I agree… the lives, the villages, the maidens… but why must you even question me in such a way, Alanna? Asking me if I have any pride at all in what we have done… I find it insulting, Alanna! Why must I constantly affirm it with words? Have I not said it enough; have you not seen me prove it with my acts—? I thought you knew me well enough to know that I take a full amount of pride in our noble deeds! And yet—you doubt and sigh as if you did not know me at all!”

He had moved his arms out of the stiff crossed position, and they now gesticulated pointedly. He was also raising his voice. When he had concluded, his tone was clearly hurt and defensive. It took him a moment to calm himself. When he did, he was able to continue, but more rationally:

“But I do need to go to Camelot eventually, Alanna. It is because we are at war. I never realized the extent of it while I was living in the Lake. But now I have seen, and I know you have seen—our fair kingdom is threatened from all directions—like a noble stag surrounded by wolves. There are troubles within, yes, and that is what we have seen the most of, and we have been able to do good and help people… but if it is just the two of us, or the six of us, or what small number it may be—there is little we can do against… say, a full-size army of Saxons. And that is the gravest threat to every Briton. I support Arthur, from what I have heard of him. He is a just king; a true leader. But I can only truly serve him if I meet him and prove myself worthy of his table. And that is why I must go to Camelot. Not because Vivienne has told me to and not because I am not proud of what I have accomplished as a squire errant; but because I myself feel that I want to and must... I feel that it is what the Lord has ordained me to do, and so I must. And sadly, Alanna... you are either with me or against me."

It did not sit well with him to make such an ultimatum. What if she told him that she wanted to continue questing while he settled in Camelot, or was dispatched to war? Unless he took it back, they would part ways... their betrothal would be broken... they may never see eachother again. While he waited for her to respond, his insides were quaking... but externally, he was quite still and his eyes flashed with determination for his cause.

Mordred was affronted. But he would not give his Aunt Morgan any satisfaction by showing it. And so, he remained in his seat, running his thumb and forefinger along his short beard. He made one amused-sounding grunt.

He was, of course, insulted that she had compared him to her husband King Urien (who looked like an orangutan, mind you), but also that she had brought up their past breach of the proper aunt-nephew relationship. It had been a true indiscretion on his part, a while back, after getting drunk while his Aunt had been visiting. Morgan was gorgeous of course, but he was not particularly inclined towards incest, and given that she was the sister of both his mother and father… But, alas, it had happened, and Mordred was too prideful to express his shame.

In fact, he wanted to outwardly prove that he was comfortable with their past intimacy, that he acted in contradiction to his natural inclination. He rose from his chair and eyed his aunt with a dark grin. Then he walked over to where she sat, placed his hands on the arms of her chair, and leaned in over her, his look turning sultry. It was, of course, contrived, but fairly convincing.

“I highly doubt you speak truthfully, dear Aunt,” he said lowly to her, taking a lock of her long, dark hair and holding it up to his nose. “I am sure I have always been superior to old Uncle Urien… in all facets, not excluding…”

But before he could complete his sentence, there was a knock of the chamber door. “Mother, may I speak to you a moment?” It was Sir Ywain, concerned over his mother keeping herself locked up all day.

Mordred froze where he stood over Morgan. Then, a most malicious smile crept onto his face. Before Morgan could answer Ywain, Mordred swiftly pulled his aunt out of her seat and dropped her to the floor onto her back. Then he leapt on top of her and snickered in her face.

“Well, will you call in your son?” he asked, fairly nose to nose with her. He was in a devilish mood, and his breath had caught with amusement when he thought about what his goodly cousin would think when he opened the door and saw them on the floor in such suggestive positions. Of course, Morgan still had the opportunity to throw him off. But in the meantime, he was just as interested in her reaction of being put in such a scandalous situation.

"Stop teasing, you might just get what you position yourself to recieve." She told him coldly, as she herself was quite aroused and narrily wished to move her petiskirts for him. She recognized the sensitivity of her son and decided against it. "Now, remove yourself from me or I shall transfigure you into the toad that you are." She brushed her hand through his hair and squirmed out from beneath him.

She straightened her skirts and stood firmly, calling to her son that he may enter, but not without casting a playfully warning look at Mordred first.