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Alanna had folded her arms stubbornly and turned enough away so that she didn't have to meet Lancelot's eyes. Whether it was because she did not wish to look at him, or she simply knew that it bothered him to no end, even she wasn't sure. As was usual with their arguments of this nature, she had nearly forgotten what it was that had actually started the issue. Her discomfort with Lancelot's apparent eagerness to abandon their current life and, however indirectly, once again follow through with Vivienne's wishes, had somehow transformed into a completely unprecedented unwillingness to travel to Camelot. It had been their goal all along, and yet now it was her argument that they should put it off further. In her heart, she still felt the sour fear that Vivienne's role in Lancelot's life would return to the same strength it had once been. But she could not simply SAY such a thing, of course...

He voiced his reasons for needing to venture to Camelot, and Alanna only grew more distressed. War? Of all things...Her entire family had been dissolved due to war, as had his. She was immediately consumed by thoughts of what might happen if he were to go off to battle the Saxons. No self-respecting king in that day and age would allow a woman to accompany his armies...which meant that if Lancelot were to go, she would not see him if he returned. They had not spent a day apart since they had left his lake, and now he would be willing not to see her for possibly years on end. Or what if...but nay, she could not even bring herself to think of the possibility of his being injured. Or worse...

But then, her sinking spirits dropped to undiscovered depths. 'And sadly, you are either with me or against me.'

The unspoken matter of their broken relationship hung in his casual words like a grimy headstone on a grave. Alanna was at first stunned into silence, her hands falling limply to her sides and her eyes growing wide with shock as she face him fully at last. There was a pregnant pause as his words lingered between them, feeling very much like a thorny wall that was building up between them as the terrible moment dragged on. Alanna felt tortured, as though he had just denied ever loving her at all. He would banish her from his life, consider her an enemy, so easily? Just because they had argued over his going to Camelot? After her immediate shock faded, it was initially replaced with an uncomfortable, fearful anger. His expression showed no remorse, no concern over his easy dismissal of her. He would find it easier to ban her from his adventures than to hold off his knighthood. Briefly, she wondered how their bliss from only a few moments ago had abated so easily...as if it had never happened. As if they had never shared a tender kiss, or whispered sweet words to one another.

But she knew that they had, and her anger began to fizzle into a mere unhappiness. And then into a great grief. She resented his apparent lack of concern for her wishes, and his lack of hesitation in presenting her with such a cruel choice. But she could not bring herself to wholly resent him, no matter the venom in his words. So she drew herself up to her full height, her lips tightening as she fought to prevent them from trembling. At first, she spoke only a single word, one that left a good deal of questioning as to what she meant by it: "Fine."

And then, after an even longer pause, her eyes began to well up with tears and she began to lose the battle with her trembling lip. "Fine. I shall not question your wishes again, Lancelot. But...but I..."

And large wet tears began to stream down her cheeks as her hands balled into fists. "But I grow weary of being the one who must always relinquish their stance to preserve our relationship, Lancelot!"

And with this, she turned her back to him and pressed her hands to her face, sprinting away with a pitiful sob. She loathed weeping, particularly when she was not entirely certain of the cause. But she would not allow herself to do it in front of him, or any of the others, and so ran a short distance away to slump behind a large boulder next to the river within sigh of the camp to have a moment of privacy while she wrestled with her frustrating feelings. There, she crouched down and wept bitterly with her hands still covering her face. She had not been so miserable in many months. Not only had she and Lancelot gone from cuddling to quarreling with no more of a catalyst than the brief re-appearance of his foster parent (whom Alanna felt weak for fearing so dreadfully) but she had ended the fight by bursting into tears like a child. Her woe was made all the more bitter by the fact that she could not simply avoid him until her feelings had healed and his memory of her uncharacteristic outburst had faded...for they had only even stopped for a brief rest and a mid day meal. She would have to be brief with her tears, and then somehow manage to hold her puffy-eyed head up high as they continued what had so recently been an exciting adventure. And even as she worked to quickly stifle her annoyingly feminine weeping, Alanna could see nothing but an imaginary image of Lancelot riding off to battle with his standard held high while Vivienne cheered him on with a certain smug satisfaction.

Just a moment after Alanna had fled, of course, Bors returned from the forest and began preparing his snared rabbit. He looked around in confusion. "Where iz lady Alanna, coz?"

Mordred was only mildly disappointed that Morgan had disentangled herself. He had wanted to play a rotten joke on his cousin, but actually, to his secret preference, his aunt had chosen to protect her son. Of course, he was also secretly jealous—in fact, the more he thought of it, he was wildly jealous. Ywain had foul parents, but amazingly, he had come out virtuous, unlike Mordred. Perhaps it was because of the fact that he was actually legitimate. And for that matter, all of Mordred’s half-brothers (Gawain and his lot) were also virtuous (although certainly not prudish)—and they were all legitimate as well. Well, Agravaine was questionable, but at least King Lot had treated him with the benefit of the doubt. But Lot had hated Mordred since the day he came home from the war and found his wife with a new baby that could not possibly be his.

Morgause had never protected him from walking in on her with one of her lovers. The fact had not bothered him until now, when he witnessed Morgan actually preventing it from happening—for the sake of her son. She herself was desirous, he could tell. She was a cold woman in manner, but to touch—she could be incredibly warm. And after having her touch his hair and wriggle against him as she escaped—he found himself warming with a little bit of desire as well. But he let her go and he stood up and ran a hand down his doublet as she straightened her skirts. He all the sudden admired her sternness—the fact that behind her good humor, she would not let him have his way. He actually preferred ladies who would resist submission—it showed that they had some fire in their blood.

He smiled wryly and narrowed his eyes when Morgan gave him her look of playful warning. It was, of course, a look that made him want to act up again. But he behaved himself as Ywain opened the door, lowered his head to avoid bumping it on the doorway, and walked into the room. He easily overshadowed Mordred and Morgan in height.

“Cousin,” he acknowledged Mordred in his friendly voice. He didn’t have much suspicions about his cousin—in fact, his largest concern was over Mordred’s health, since he could, at times, look quite anemic.

“You need not leave, Sir Mordred. I only wanted to have a brief word with my mother.” His blue eyes shifted to Morgan, as he stepped forward and cupped one of her hands in both of his. As well as a gesture of filial regard, he was also checking her circulation. She was another that he feared was of ill health. But to his relief, her hand was not so very cold when he felt it.

“Mother, I was only inquiring as to if you were going to greet the King upon his return. He will probably be looking forward to seeing his sister again,” Ywain said optimistcally. Mordred had to stifle a snicker—how wonderfully naive Ywain was! Did he really think that his mother and his uncle were loving siblings?

"Oh I sincerely think so dearest." Morgan humored, mostly teasing Mordred whom she could hear snicker. She gestured to her son to bend his tall, lanky form down for her to kiss his cheek lightly, not only as a sign of love for him, but yet another way to put a pin in Mordred's side.

"I shall speak with him when the crowds of senseless drones have dispersed." She told him stiffly, as she was not up to waiting in line to hear how lovely the Queen was or how gallant her brother might've been in a particular battle. She'd hear all that individually later on. At the moment, she was quite happy to see Ywain had lived and come back looking fit as ever. She knew he would live... to do several things in his lifetime that she daren't think about at the moment, but it was so much more refreshing to see him in flesh rather than crystal.

Lancelot had stonily held to his verdict while Alanna looked on in shock. He surprised even himself by being so callous. He had not known that he was so adamant about being a warring knight until seeing that vision of Arthur. He doubted Alanna could understand. She was not a man, even if she carried a sword like one. She did not know the obligation he felt to share the fate of all other able-bodied men who fought in wars the land over. Questing was his love; but war was his duty.

However, his resolve began to strain as Alanna’s silence dragged on. He had been vexed that she had still not looked into his eyes before that. But now that he could see nothing but her wide brown eyes, he suddenly wished that she would turn away again. They made him feel guilty. They made him want to retract everything he had said. They were beautiful, hurt eyes that could easily turn him into a detestable hypocrite...

He himself had to look away, for he couldn’t bear to notice the shifting nuances of her emotions—shock, fear, anger, unhappiness, grief. He closed his eyes for several seconds, and then opened them in time to see her straighten and hold her lips tightly. “Fine,” she uttered at last. He stared at her, his face blanching. What did she mean? Fine, she was with him? Or fine, she was against him?

He was as still as a statue as he painfully awaited an elaboration. Then, in his stillness, he began to tremble, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. The emotion broke free on his own face when Alanna began to weep and her lips tremble. While he was not weeping himself, his face had contorted with anguish. He had brought her to tears. Alanna so rarely cried about anything—even when she was in the greatest of pain! And yet he had brought her to tears with his intolerant words! It was not the first time, and yet he had sworn to himself that he would never let it happen again! What a fine lover he was, if he had made his lady cry on multiple occasions!

Her relinquishing was not much of a victory for Lancelot, especially when her words were followed with an even greater flow of tears. She voiced her resentment, which made him physically wince with the sting it afflicted his heart. His throat constricted and his feet stood leaden on the ground as he watched her turn away and run to the nearby boulder. The pitiful sound of her sob lingered in his ears. He was in the greatest of pain and remorse and torment. It was by far one of their worst arguments...

In fact, he was so distressed, that for long agonizing moments, he could not spur himself to do anything. He stood dumbly in the middle of the encampment, watching the fish burn. He was paler than he had ever been in his life, and his face was stricken like a man beyond his years.

Then, Bors came into the clearing. Lancelot took one look at his inquiring cousin and the dead rabbit in his hands and he was instantly afflicted with a wave of nausea. It was all he could do not to empty his stomach on his innocent cousin. That was why he clamped his mouth shut immediately after Bors voiced his question.

Lionel came soon after his brother. He was also confused—and startled by Lancelot’s appearance. He wavered on the outskirts of the clearing, unsure of what to do. Lancelot in the meantime, let out a low moan and walked unsteadily to a nearby tree. He leaned against the trunk and held on to the rough branches as if he did not have the strength to stand upright.

“What ‘az ‘appened?” Lionel murmured to Bors uneasily. Then he heard the soft sound of a woman’s weeping, and he knew it was Alanna. He frowned deeply. If he had known of any other man making a woman weep, he would unquestioningly side with the lady. But since Lancelot was his kinsman, and Lionel had only seen him treat Alanna well, then chose to assume that Lancelot was not to blame in the matter. Even though he was obviously guilt-stricken. Choosing not to get involved, he set about saving the fish from overcooking. But all the while he sent worried glances at his older cousin.

Lancelot suffered for several minutes. He was loathing himself for what he had done. How he wanted to cross the short distance to Alanna and retract his careless words! But he kept himself from doing so. He figured that Alanna wanted to—needed to—be alone to weep. And he still struggled with the idea of making himself into a hypocrite. He was a man of his word, after all...

Clarric, who had been a witness to the altercation, halted his grazing and walked over to where Alanna was weeping behind the boulder. He was loyal to his master, of course, but he was also fond of Alanna, and knew well enough that she was upset. He sniffed the top of her head, and then nudged her gently with his broad gray nose.

At that moment, Lancelot had also recovered enough to part with the tree he had been leaning on. He turned around, and slowly brought himself to the boulder. His hand grasped the limestone rock uneasily as he looked down on Alanna’s crouched form. Clarric brought up his neck and snorted softly at his master, and then walked off to return to his grazing. Lancelot sighed miserably, and then lowered himself to his knees beside Alanna. While, amazingly, his initial stress had not brought tears to his eyes, he now felt the telltale burning and watering of his sight. He wiped away his first tear and then sniffed loudly to contain the rest.

“It has never been my intent to make you weep, Alanna. Never...” he began meekly. “And... I was wrong... with what I said. It was what occurred to me at the moment, when I was... well, when I was angry with you. But, in truth, I would cater to your wants, Alanna, more than my own. If you should never wish to step foot in Camelot, by God... I’ll do the same, if it means we will be together... even if it should make me unhappy. Even if it should prove me a hypocrite unworthy of knighthood...Oh, God damn it all, I love you, Alanna! All of this was brought up with us arguing about the future. Let’s not pay any heed to the future right now. We have our quest, and we have our love, and we’re here in this forest, by this river. This is what matters. The future will play out as the Lord will have it, but right now we are in charge of the present. And I would much rather be loving you than fighting.” He brought his hand down and laid it gently on her back, hoping that his words had helped to relieve her.

Ywain readily bent his head to receive his mother’s kiss, unknowing that half of her motive behind doing so was to spite Mordred. When he straightened up again, he looked down at her with boyish joy and held both of her hands in his. He was a new knight, and had just returned home from his first military campaign. He was lucky to be whole and unharmed. He was lucky to be home!

“I’ve been away for a third of the year! That is a long while!” Ywain mused gleefully. Then he turned to Mordred, who was turning red from withholding his mocking laughter. “I am entirely grateful that you stayed here to keep mother company, Sir Mordred. And to watch over the Queen while Uncle was away. Why are you blushing, dear cousin?” He asked with a puzzled smile.

“Me? Blushing? Well, I must be so delighted to see you, dearest coz,” Mordred said breezily, bearing his teeth in a wide, unnatural smile. “Now, tell me, how was the campaign? Did you smote down many-a-wicked Saxon brute?”

“Oh, Lord, how there is much I could tell you about the campaign, Sir Mordred! I will have to tell you all the details of the strategies and tactics another time, so as not to bore dear mother. But, oh, how our Uncle Arthur is the greatest of military geniuses! He wielded his sword of power—Caledfwlch—and struck down a treacherous Saxon in single combat! It was the most brilliant duel I’ve ever seen under the heavens! The Saxon challenger—he dared charge at Arthur behind his back after he was granted mercy! Well, the High King turned right round and brought justice upon that knave. How brilliant Caledfwlch looks when it is unsheathed—truly, it shines like no other sword! And, oh, you should have seen your brother Gawain, and Sir Bedivere, smoting left and right, charging at our enemies like mighty lions—they our surely the best knights of the Round! Surely, the best knights in the world!”

By the end of his speech, Ywain’s eyes were bright and brilliantly blue, and he was breathing heavy with all his passion. Mordred had listened politely, but he was not near as thrilled as Ywain. Of course, there was a matter of feeling inferior and slighted. He could not be recognized as the son of his noble Uncle Arthur, nor was he even a knight of the Round Table yet. Ywain had already proven himself, and he was three years younger than Mordred. Surely Ywain would be given his seat at the Round soon. And he hardly needed to be reminded of the shining goldenness of Sir Gawain, his half-brother he had long felt overshadowed by.

“My word, Ywain, that sounds absolutely inspirational,” Mordred lied cheerfully.

“Ah, yes, you will hear plenty more from the bards,” Ywain nodded. “But I trust all has been well in Camelot? I saw the Queen and Princess, and they looked as well as ever. And Merlin was there, and a fairy lady, that I hear is rumored to be the legendary Lady of the Lake.”

Ywain paused a moment in his excitement to look again at his mother. “And, mother, I do want to hear about what has happened to you while I was away. But I did say I wouldn’t interrupt your conversation with cousin Mordred, and so I’ll be off to settle Cloven-Hoof in the stables. Ah, he’s been a good horse, he has.” He smiled once more, and kissed Morgan’s cheek fondly. “I will see you at the feast, surely!” he called after him as he left the chamber.

Mordred lost his own smile immediately after Ywain had exited. He turned to Morgan, his brows twisted in disbelief. “How the devil did you raise a son like him?”

Bors shrugged silently at Lionel, though he shared the worry over the state of the two lovers in their group. This was not the first time they had quarreled, but it was the first time he had ever seen the two of them wilted down to such a level of destitution. He knew not what they had bickered over, but he did know that this was the most distressing argument they had ever shared (in the sight of himself and his brother). He simply hoped that they would both recover...and it seemed that there was little could be done by a third party to ensure such a thing.




Alanna had nearly finished her sniffling and weeping when she felt a familiar nuzzle to the top of her head. Her mouth pulled into a weak smile as she reached up and gingerly patted Clarric's long face. The kelpie was such a friendly beast at times, and simply knowing that he somehow had the knowledge to pity her for her misery made her feel less like the abandoned wraith she had just a moment ago. But she still mourned for the harsh words between herself and her beloved, and grieved herself for behaving so emotionally. Sometimes, people who were as bottled-up as herself tended to overflow with their carefully guarded feelings at great inconvenience to themselves and all involved. And this was a certain testament to that. She had never really discussed her nerves and tremblings with Lancelot regarding Vivienne, for she had never wished to sound like a nightmaring child. She had never once suggested discontent with the idea of traveling to Camelot, though she knew it would be a difficult switch from her free reigning lifestyle currently (she would be expected to hang up her sword, to don womanly clothing and oh Lord, to take up idle activities that were associated with delicate women!) and that there would likely be a good deal of criticism of her character by those at court who would contrarily adore brave Lancelot. But she wished to make it to court, and to see him knighted, and to form a life with him and a future for the family they both desired...and yet, with the mere appearance of Vivienne...

While Alanna was mulling over these complicated emotions and trying to get to the root of the problem (she continuously arrived at the image of Vivienne sneering away Lancelot's past two years), she was interrupted from a solution by the sound of familiar heavy foot falls upon the nearby sod. She was unsure whether or not she wished to face Lancelot now, while her eyes were still puffy from their shouting. So she remained with her face planted in her arms, silent except for the occasional sniffle. But as he spoke, her stiff shoulders began to relax, and her head lifted just a bit so as to glance at his face.

He began meekly, which was rather unusual for him. But he was apologizing, which was actually not too far off from his history. She immediately began to feel guilty, for having wailed at him for something that was entirely untrue. He had always been just and fair, gentle and tender...in fact, as he continued on, voicing his willingness to cater to her desires, and to simply remain together...her guilt only grew stronger, and her eyes wetter as he rested his hand on her back. Finally, with a final sniff and a clearing of the throat to fight off the constriction therein, Alanna eased herself onto her knees so that she might wrap her arms around his middle and press her wet face into chest. She held him more tightly than she had in months, inhaling his scent and dwelling upon his words. Finally, she pulled away enough to gaze into his eyes as her tears dwindled down.

"Lancelot...I...I am...I apologize, I...I do not wish to cause any strife between us...I know, I know that you would..." She stopped, inhaling deeply and reaching up to gently catch hold of the pendant he wore. She leaned forward and kissed it, then looked up and met his eyes once more. She smiled softly, cupping his face as she would an invaluable treasure. "Lance, my darling...I fear nothing but to lose you. I care not what lies in my future, so long as you are a part of it. The only thing that could cause me to stray from your side would be your will. I wish for nothing but your happiness, my love...please, do not fret for me...By God, I love you still more today than I ever did before, yet I know I shall love you even more tomorrow."

With another deep sigh, she leaned forward to press her brow to his. Then, she rose shakily to her feet and rubbed briskly at her cheeks to remove any last moisture. She drew him up with her, hugged him once more, and nodded towards the camp they had both strayed from. "Shall we return to the fire, my love?"

Mennah grinned at Aurora as she devoured her sliced Apple tart happily (if not a bit messily). The blush upon her face that had installed itself quite nicely after Maraud’s comment upon such charms, still remained, though less prominent.

“Oh there’s nothing to excuse, children shall be children.” Mennah said grinning. She remembered herself covered in the sticky syrup many a time this time a year as a child from similar such tarts. Maraud then made mention of the guests for the wedding, and nodded presently when she made mention of their scaly friend Balthazar, and Lancelot and company, but was a bit unsure of the knights who were invited.

“I’m not entirely sure which knights are to be in attendance other than Sir Gabon, and Sir Renton.” She said first with Renton’s name a bit less pleasantly. “Perhaps we might ride to Camelot soon to announce our wedding personally. Our smithy was complaining earlier about wanting to purchase Iron for new horseshoes soon as it is.” Mennah said now looking to Armand for confirmation.

Ralcia nearly started chocking on her apple tart as she said this. “You mean now?!” Ralcia asked slightly frenzied. Mennah sent a questioning stare at her cousin’s odd behavior but answered tentatively. “Well if we did go it would need to be soon. The wedding is but three weeks away after all.” Ralcia didn’t get a chance to respond before her steward, looking quite flustered, came running into the hall.

“My Lady! Riders have come threw the gate requesting your presence! Large ones, and they’re led by a woman!” He said as if a fire had been lit under his arse. Ralcia quickly jumped up in response, a look of glee lit her face.

“Oh joy they’ve finally come! Oh Mennah I’ve such a wonderful surprise for you! You must meet them quickly!” Ralcia said happily, dragging her perplexed cousin from her seat and starting for the door.

As soon as the door had shut behind Ywain, Morgan could contain her laughter no longer. It filled her with delight to see her son so healthy and joyful in his return home. Although she thought she would lose her composure when she looked over at Mordred's reddening face.

Her son had dashed off so quickly she hadn't gotten to share a word with him rather than greeting. She brought her laugh to a conclusion with a pleasant sigh. "He may have slain a dozen men, spilled the blood of mortals, but he is still a boy at heart." This is truly what her son's glee reminded her of; as the first day he'd ridden a horse or was accepted as a warrior. It filled her with a sense of pride and comfort to know he was happy at the moment, but also a guilt that she knew what his fate was to be. It had been that way since she saw as far into his future as she dared go, and decided it was best not to speak of it. Although it had always been her policy not to speak to the person who was directly effected in her seeings.

At first Lancelot feared that his apologetic words were only making Alanna more upset. But he didn’t realize that she had continued to weep because of guilt. His heart squeezed with sympathy when she glanced at him, her eyes swimming with tears. Had he really been so monstrous as to cause Alanna to break down and melt into tears like this?

He began to think that there was something unsaid that still provoked Alanna—something that might not even have to do with him. Maybe she had been reminded of her family (he had mentioned war, after all), or maybe she was buckling under the stigma she encountered day-to-day, about being a woman who wished to fight. Or perhaps she was mourning over human mortality and Original Sin, or the evil that was ever present in the world. Suddenly Lancelot’s mindset broadened, and a great ease and loss of guilt came with it.

He felt even more relieved when Alanna rose to her knees and wrapped her arms around his middle. The tightness of her embrace pleasantly surprised him as he felt the squeezing pressure on his ribs (she was a strong-armed girl, after all), and heard the sound of her breathing deeply into his chest. He kept his one hand tenderly on her back, and his other felt her hair.

Then he met her gaze as her tears calmed, and she finally spoke. She apologized and kissed the pendant she had gifted him soon after they had first avowed their love for each other. He felt himself warm and his pulse quicken by her simple gesture, as he watched her press her lips to the small green gem. He felt a similar rush of affection when she cupped his face, and he was suddenly glad that he had shaved while he was in the monastery. He didn’t say so, but holding his face in such a way was something Vivienne used to do. But instead of thinking of Vivienne’s scorn, he was only thinking of the gesture as representative of a lady’s love, be it maternal or romantic.

She reaffirmed her lasting devotion to him. They were similar to heartfelt words that she had pledged before, but after the argument that had recently passed, he found himself touched through-and-through. “I will never will you from my side, Alanna,” he insisted after she cited that as the one condition that would cause them to part. “We can be sure… we will never part because of loss of love. We may have bitterness pass between us, like what has happened just minutes before, but Lord have it, our love will always prove stronger than our quarrels.”

He sighed along with her when she pressed her brow to his. He closed his eyes a moment, appreciating the relief of resolving their brief tiff. Soon after, they were on their feet again, risen from the shelter of the boulder. He accepted her hug and held her tightly. Then they returned to the fire, food and their other comrades.

The mid-day meal passed with little conversation, but with quite a few tender looks from Lancelot to Alanna. He did not explain to his cousins what had happened. He left it up to them to conclude that it was resolved, though.
He was relieved to leave the riverbank encampment. Vivienne’s appearance had been a true ill omen, as it had spurred his spat with Alanna. He would be sure not to linger around rivers in the near future, being weary that Vivienne would return again and have more incendiary words for him and Alanna.

A light rain began to fall as they rode out of the shelter of the forest and into more hilly terrain. The hills were misty, and the weather had turned notably cool for a summer afternoon. It was not all comfortable to be damp in armor, but Lancelot had become altogether accustomed with the land’s frequent precipitation. He found it even refreshing--the wet air that made his hair curl more than usual and Clarric's coat shine at silvery as ever.

The hills were becoming steeper. As they rode over the top of one, a deeper valley came in sight before them, through which a thick, white fog was drifting. Lancelot reigned in Clarric, as it appeared that the green grass stopped all the sudden. It was apparent that the fog was settled in a deep gorge that they must cross.

“Why did you stop, coz? Zere iz a bridge,” Lionel pointed to several yards ahead of them.

But Lancelot did not see it. “Where do you say it is, Lionel?”

Lionel knitted his brows and rode forward, closer to the wooden stakes he saw, from which were suspended ropes and the wooden planks of a rickety bridge, receding phantom-like into the fog. Lancelot followed after. Lionel pointed to the bridge, right in front of it, but Lancelot still did not see it.

“I see nothing, Lionel,” he shook his head. “Only fog.”

“Zat makes no sense! You are not blind,” Lionel frowned. He turned to the others for a second opinion. “You see ze bridge, don’t you? Brother, you must see it? Lady Alanna?”

Mordred joined Morgan in her laughter, although he was much more malicious in his intent, and not sincerely delighted as Morgan was. He found Ywain to be both amusing and annoying because of his wholesomeness and gullibility. And yet, Morgan le Fay genuinely seemed to care for her son. Maybe she even liked it that he was pure and good. Mordred eyed her as she appeared to be thinking, reflecting on the nature of her son. She did not really answer his question, but he didn’t press it. Still, he did really wonder what she had done to parent young Ywain…

“You must be a good mother, Morgan,” Mordred speculated aloud, with a hint of negativity in his voice. “Why do you not have more children?” He crossed his arms and stared a moment at her shapely hips, as if his sight could pass into her womb. He imagined that she was fertile—in fact, he almost had an instinctive sense that she was still fertile, even in her progressing age. But it was either that she took measures to avoid being impregnated, or she had been cursed… maybe by her sister, Mordred’s mother. Morgause was a practicing witch, and her favorite thing to do to enemy women was to curse their fertility. Perhaps Morgan and Morgause had once gotten into an argument…

----

Maraud brightened at Mennah’s mention of going to Camelot to announce the wedding. Not only did she think it was exciting for all of the court to know that one of their knights was getting married, but Maraud was also interested in visiting the fair city again herself. She wanted to show her young daughter the tall white towers and the colorful waving flags. She was quick to voice her agreement: “Oh, I think that’s a splendid idea, Mennah! I have not visited Camelot in such a long while--”

Then, to her surprise, Ralcia disrupted her frantically. There was more interruption when the steward entered and announced the arrival of guests. Unlike the plan to travel to Camelot, Ralcia seemed quite happy over these guests that she had surely invited herself. Maraud looked at her curiously. Perhaps they were from the Lake, since it was Ralcia who knew them? But the steward’s description did not quite fit the residents of the Lake—being led by a lady was understandable, but large riders, implied to be men? And announced so urgently? No, Maraud could be sure they were not from the Lake.

But she was intensely curious to meet these guests, even if they might not have anything to do with her. Maraud rose from her seat and turned to Roryn. “Watch the baby, love,” she requested as she kissed his cheek. Then she followed after Ralcia and Mennah.

“Ralcia, whoever are these ‘large riders’ you know of?” Maraud asked her fellow fey, while looking ahead expectantly to the door.

Alanna's and Bors' lips pulled into similar frowns as they gazed in the direction Lionel suggested. Neither of them could see what Lionel claimed to be there, and while Bors wondered if Lionel was perhaps attempting to be humorous...Alanna wondered whether or not Lionel had spent too much time in the drizzling sun light. But neither had the heart to deny the possibility entirely.

"Lionel, are you...certain?" Alanna asked in her most mild voice, her smooth brow creasing as she attempted to look at some invisible crossing beyond Lionel's pointing finger. She dismounted, patting her disgruntled steed and striding forward carefully towards the edge of the cliff. Feeling somewhat foolish, she peered over the edge and around to either side of the seemingly endless gorge. She saw nary a stick that could serve as even a joking bridge. "I am sorry, Lionel...but...where..?"

Bors dismounted next, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. He did not wish to experience the sharp end of Lionel's tongue for not believing him, but he also did not wish to spend what could be hours convincing his stubborn brother that there was nothing there. Nor did he wish to disbelieve him. So he quietly stepped up next to Alanna, patting her shoulder affectionately to guide her to step back from the edge. Clearing his throat uncertainly, he performed the same careful examination that she had, occasionally shooting a worried glance over at his hot tempered sibling. "Lionel..."

But Bors stopped his apology before he began. He had lifted one hand to wave across the expansive mist and display the lack of plausible crossing. But his hand had been stopped mid-swing, by the unmistakable feeling of a very sturdy wooden stake. Bors turned his dark head to see what had halted him, his eyes wide and disbelieving...yet he saw nothing. And even still, no matter how firmly he pressed against the invisible blockade, he could not push past it. "Lady Alanna, come feel zis! Lanzelot, Bors!"

Alanna hurried back over, wary of the unsturdy looking edge where even the grass seemed to struggle not to fall. At Bors' bidding, she reached out an unsure hand. She nearly jumped from her boots as she found herself stopped by a similarly invisible wooden stake. "Lancelot! Come and see!" She gasped as she carefully explored the hidden structure. She and Bors remained cautious of stepping too far along the edge of the ravine, of course, but both were stunned at the existence of what the could not see.

Armand had remained reasonably quiet (of course) during the brief repast and the conversation with Maraud, Mennah, Roryn, Ralcia, and the baby...the baby.

Armand had to suppress a shudder at the sight of Maraud's babe. She was by no means an unsightly child, nor an unpleasantly mannered one. But just the presence of such a young child send his thoughts tumbling back to his--his possible child. Mennah seemed to have moved on from the trauma, and either Maraud and Roryn did not know or they did not care. Mabuz, of course, remained his usual green and gloomy self...and his very presence served to stoke up Armand's ire. He did not enjoy the sight of the man, injured throat or not. He had still once been attracted to Mennah, which meant that he was no friend to Armand. But he was in no temper nor position to be making demands of men who had wronged her in the past (as Armand felt Mabuz had done with his cold words long past) when he was currently in a situation as he was...

However, when the idea came up regarding wedding guests, Armand's strong jaw tightened irritably. He leaned over a murmured to Mennah, grumbling that he was not at all interested in Renton's being invited. He had not enjoyed his younger cousin's company in the recent years past...particularly not when word had reached him that his bride to be had been...pestered by him. There had been certain words (and heavy objects mysteriously launching themselves across rooms) and they had not spoken since. Before the matter could be further discussed, however, Ralcia was suddenly squealing about a new arrival. A woman on a horse? Good Lord, what next?

Warily, but not wishing to cause any extra tension by refusing to comply with his cousin-in-law's will, Armand rose from his seat and followed his lady and her friends out to meet the unexpected guests.

----

On the opposing side of the manor, soft steps echoed gracefully through the humble halls. A woman, lovely beyond peasant means with honey-glazed blue eyes and a perfectly formed babe in her arms, slipped through the passageways like a beautiful ghost. The baby had his dark-topped and sleepy head resting against her pale breast, but his eyes roved curiously along the decorations of Rozeshire manor as he clutched at a lock of her dark hair. The woman's skirts swished delicately, and her carefully crafted features remained poised if slightly curious. At that moment, there was a collection of highly confused servants at Getonsburg...but she cared very little for that just then.

Just moments after Mennah, Armand, Ralcia and Maraud bustled away to meet the horse riding visitors, Clarisin stepped daintily into the room where she could hear Aurora's babbling. There, she found Mabuz, Roryn, and the half-fey baby. She cleared her throat softly, shifting her grip on her own little lad and asking in her most gentle voice, "Forgive my intrusion...is Sir Armand the Bold here?"

Wonderful. It seemed Roryn was to be dragged to Camelot of all places. He was not a fan of crowded places, and Camelot was about as urban and crowded as you could get. Of course he'd likely just go anyway, because it would make Maraud happy. And he did want his daughter to see Camelot. It probably wouldn't hurt for Mabuz to see it either. One couldn't live his entire life knowing only the woods.

He still had not eaten a tart, much preferring his famous Wildberry Pie, which tasted differently depending on the berries Roryn used in the recipe. Though he never seemed it, he was an accomplished cook, particularly with meat and deserts. So, over the years, he grew to prefer his own cooking over others.

While he was wishing for one of his own home-cooked meals, a stranger appeared and asked to find Armand. Roryn shrugged, "They said something about meeting riders that have just arrived... try the main gate." he suggested, grabbing Aurora just as she was about to fall off the table and held her in his knee, bumping it up and down so it would feel like she was riding a horse.




A village was in panic, people screaming and running aound in terror. Half the people were already dead, cleanly slashed or stabbed by his sword. It was an utter nightmare. People were being cut down left and right by a nameless killer. Village militia were no match for his mastery of the sword, and were just as easily cut down in cold blood. In a few quick, albeit agonizing moments, the village was no more. Their killer, a devilish man with eyes of hell's fury, rode away on an equally dark black horse. The only sounds now were the sounds of barking dogs and whinnying horses who were now without owners. Just then, the rider stopped, and turned around, showing his face and smirked.

"YOU MONSTER!"

He awoke with that scream. A nightmare. It was all a nightmare. They were outside, having made camp for the night. Dawn was still 3 hours away. He looked around, manically. The campfire was out, of course. Elaine was sleeping nearby, but Marrik's screaming would have likely woke her. Marrik had also been shouting in his sleep, so that too may have also awakened her. It was suddenly cold. Marrik wrapped his blanket around himself, trying to get warm. His body was freezing, but was also sweating. The only thing he was wearing was his trousers. His other clothes, and Redemption (his greatsword), lay on the ground nearby.

It had been two long, and agonizing years for Marrik. Night after night, he was tormented with nightmares of that village he had destroyed. It had gotten to where he avoided sleeping altogether. Dark circles were constantly under his eyes. Clearly he was troubled and depressed, but refused to talk about it, even with Elaine.

He had met Elaine some 2 or 3 weeks ago. She had found herself lost in Marrik's Castle after stepping through a magic mirror placed by Dame Brisen. She was Corbenic, a kingdom far to the North, and Marrik agreed to take her home. In the last couple of weeks, he felt himself grow closer to Elaine, but still would not tell her what his constant nightmares were.

His torments drove him to occasionally consider suicide. He was considering it now. It would be easy. His weapon lay within reach. But, no. He could not, not after promising to take Elaine home. Also, his good friend the Friar would not approve of his suicide. For now, Marrik forced himself to live a little longer.

Morgan's laughter subsided and she became a bit more rigid. "Ywain lived, that is why I felt... I felt as though he were enough." The smile returned to her face soon after. "As for being a good mother, he turned out to be quite the oposite of myself. I would speculate that to be a bad thing, although to the popular majority, it's benificial I suppose."

She swayed a little in place, mostly milling until the feast, which she didn't plan on missing. Wondering if Mordred would attend, she looked him over again, paying goodly attention to the details. He didn't seem like the sort who would be comfertable in crowds.

Mabuz listlessly looked on as Mennah and the others left the table. He felt horribly out of place. But he couldn’t help but take some pleasure in seeing Mennah again. Mennah, in her purity and loveliness, blushing and smiling… But he could not gaze at Mennah without seeing Armand as well, by her side. Even though Mabuz had asked for forgiveness for injuring the knight, he still harbored a strong aversion to him. He was a despicably handsome brute of a man—reminiscent of Lancelot, but far worse. And just like Lancelot, he always had the lady of his choice. Mabuz sourly averted his eyes when he saw Armand silently whisper something to Mennah. He doesn’t deserve her, was the claim of Mabuz's private thoughts.

As he sat at the table beside Roryn and Aurora, he was looking glum and wondering how much longer he’d have to sit there waiting. He wondered if Roryn was as unhappy as he was. Not likely—at least Roryn had managed to reclaim his lady from the arms of Sir Armand the Bold…

“… Is Sir Armand the Bold here?” A gentle female voice echoed his thoughts. Mabuz turned around and found himself looking up at two eyes of an exquisite honey-glazed blue. Mabuz instinctually rose from his seat to greet the woman. When he did so, he was too distracted to speak, for he found himself noticing all that was connected to the eyes. She was raven-headed and blue-eyed like his mother, but instead of having skin that shined an aquatic green, her porcelain complexion proved her to be human—wonderfully so. And in her arms, she held a dark-haired baby that rivaled Aurora in infantine perfection.

Of course, he was only awed because this young peasant woman happened to be the most beautiful female he had seen since he left the Lake. Of course, Maraud was arguably just as strikingly beauteous, but after seeing her every day, and knowing that she was entirely Roryn’s, her beauty had become much less important—in fact, hardly of any consequence at all. But this lady…

He glanced at Roryn, who answered with a shrug and then returned his attention to his daughter. Clearly the beauty of this stranger was of no consequence to him, as it should be. Mabuz admired Roryn for his immunity to feminine charm, but at the same time he felt that the lady needed more assistance than Roryn’s curt reply.

“Sir Armand… he was just here,” Mabuz said to her, turning his head to where Armand had been sitting no more than a minute before. “I will show you which way he went, milady. I’m sure we can catch up to him quickly.”

Aurora had been giggling with delight as Roryn bounced her on his knee. Once the new woman appeared, though, Aurora placed her hands on Roryn’s chest and stepped off of his knee and on to the chair. She turned her large head to look curiously at the fellow infant that was being cradled by the woman. Aurora had never seen a child her age before, and so the sight of the little boy interested her greatly. “Daddy! Who is dat?” she asked her father, pointing at the other baby.

Mabuz, preparing to leave with the woman in pursuit of Armand, stopped a moment when he heard Aurora. He smiled in good humor, and turned to the beauteous lady. “It appears that little Aurora has taken an interest in your child.” He hesitated a moment when he spoke assumingly about the babe the lady held. But it could be no mistaking that the infant was hers, judging from how he clung to her breast. “How old is he?” Mabuz asked out of genuine curiosity. He had learned quite a bit about babies after being around Aurora, which gave him cause to look fondly at the little baby boy the dark-haired woman was holding.

Lionel was understandably frustrated. After he roughly dismounted his steed, he rubbed his eyes and his temple and drew his breath sharply through his nose, his nostrils flaring with vexation. He watched tensely as Alanna and Bors took turns inspecting the edge of the hill. They looked utterly ridiculous, searching for something that was right before their eyes!

“Mother Mary, it iz right zere! Do you all mean to mock me by claiming you cannot see it?” His voice turned to growling as his suspicion grew. He lost his temper when Bors looked at him, doubt riddling his face and voice. He stomped over to where Bors was looking over the ledge. Lancelot followed after, suddenly cautious in case Lionel lost his head and pushed his brother into the gorge. But before Lionel could reach his brother and grab a fistful of his surcoat, Bors had discovered the post by touch. Lionel halted and looked on confoundedly as Bors and Alanna ran their hands along the post blindly.

Lancelot came near where they were gathered, and laid his hand to the invisible stake as well. “S’blood! So it is,” he marveled. He looked down at Alanna, laughing with relief at their discovery.

“Zere’s a post on zis side, too,” Lionel said, crossing to the other post. He brought his hand to touch it, only to find that his hand came upon nothing. The illusion held, but it only appeared that his hand went straight through the wood. He was caught by such surprise, that he nearly lost his balance and fell over the ledge. He saved himself, though, and took a large step away from the edge. “Sacrebleu! I can see it, but I can’t touch it!”

Lancelot joined him at the post and struck his hand blindly against it. “And I can touch it, but I can’t see it. Clearly… it is a cursed bridge.”

“But why am I ze only one who can see it?” Lionel demanded testily, futilely attempting to kick the phantom stump.

Lancelot didn’t answer, because he didn’t have the slightest idea why. He considered his cousin a moment. Then he lifted his arms at his sides and held his hands open, his eyes suggesting what he knew they must do.

Lionel looked at him, confused. Then he understood, and his temper flared. “No! I will not be carried like a damsel!” He caught Alanna’s eye a moment, and added guiltily, “No offense, Lady Alanna.”

“Come, cousin. You will be my eyes,” Lancelot insisted, thrusting his arms out even more pressingly. “Either I carry you, or the quest will fail. It will be too perilous for us to cross blindly, and you won’t be able to cross at all.”

Lionel groaned in protest. But Lancelot fixed him with such an authoritative look, that Lionel could not possibly argue further with his older cousin. “Oh, bother!” Lionel snapped, scowling deeply as he allowed Lancelot to lift him under his knees and back. It helped that Lionel was a smaller man than Lancelot—but he was still a heavy burden, and Lancelot had to suck in his breath as he hoisted.

Lancelot stepped unsurely towards the beginning of the bridge that he could not see, with Lionel directing him. He stepped onto the first plank with a loud creak—and exhaled tensely when he found it was sturdy enough, although the bridge had a slight unsettling swing to it once a person stepped upon it. Lancelot stopped a moment until the bridge stopped jiggling. “Lord,” he uttered tightly, resisting the urge to look below and see himself virtually suspended on air. “Lionel, put your arms around my neck so I can grasp the rope with a free hand,” Lancelot instructed quickly.

Lionel begrudgingly did as he was told, but not without muttering about how he felt like a true damsel in distress. While holding onto one of the rope guides that ran parallel to the bridge, Lancelot turned his head to call back to Alanna and Bors.

“You two you should cross close behind us, and follow in my steed! The bridge shakes—but we’ll cross slowly. Be sure to hold on to the ropes—and watch out for each other!” Lancelot turned back to looking ahead, which was incredibly unsettling, given that it only appeared that he was venturing into misty nothingness. A slim bead of sweat worked its way down his back, making him shiver all over. He could catch glimpses of the landscape of the gorge he was crossing as the mist drifted past. He was disturbed by the invisibility of the bridge, and so he closed his eyes tightly, and waited until Bors and Alanna took their first step.

Clarisin's soft lips had tightened slightly at Roryn's curt reply. He was no doubt one of the nobles to be found in abundance at a manor such as Rozeshire, and no doubt insanely loyal to this Lady Mennah that there had been so much fuss about. It surprised her some to see the rough looking man's attention so drawn to the little girl child on his knee; men were not generally so interested in making babies laugh. But she had an answer to her question (in a matter of speaking) and was content to curtsy silently and go on in the direction she had been offered. But she was stopped in her retreat by the speaking of the other man in the room, a man who was of a most unusual pallor...

Clarisin smiled softly as the unusual looking man as he offered to guide her towards Armand. He looked eager, and yet held a certain unease that suggested he was not yet comfortable in his own green skin. Perhaps he was under some sort of curse? Clarisin had heard of the fey-folk, but never seen one in person. And so she resigned herself to the thought that perhaps he had some malady, or was a magician's assistant who had yet to work out where a new spell had gone wrong. Either way, the closeness of the gruff man and his girl to the green man made her assume that he was also safe to be near, and so she did not insult him by shying away. His interest in Liam caused her determined, cool features to warm slightly. Liam had shifted his position enough to gaze across at Aurora with shy interest, and when the precocious half-fey child pointed at him he responded by tucking his thumb into his mouth and hiding his face in his mother's neck.

Clarisin smiled with subtle pride and stroked the little boy's curly dark hair. "Liam will be two years of age soon. I...nay, I mean to say, at the end of this year. I suppose it is not so soon, and yet he grows so quickly."

Clarisin placed a feathery kiss on Liam's young brow, shifting her grip on him so that he was made to face the others in the room. This did not sit well with the boy, for he squirmed nervously to hide in her arms again. "Come now, Liam, do not be shy. Say 'hello,' to the little girl, darling."

Liam sulked a bit at being forced into a social moment, and distracted himself with one of the fraying pieces of fabric that made up his clothing. At last, however, he lifted his piercingly blue eyes to once more look across at Roryn and Aurora. He lifted on chubby hand and began to open and close his tiny fingers in an incredibly shy wave. "...He'wo."

"Wonderful, darling," Clarisin congratulated him, beaming with a delicacy of a true lady. She turned her attention back to Mabuz, clearing her throat softly. "Forgive my rudeness, My Lord. I do not mean to intrude upon your time. I am Clarisin Ayres Maerwynn of Getonsberg. This is my son, Liam. May I be so bold as to ask your name?"

Elaine was wide awake after hearing Marrik’s screams and shouts. She turned over to face him and blinked fearfully in the dark. It was not the first time this had happened. She knew she was being escorted by a very haunted man. While it frightened and pained her, she tried to be tolerant and reach out to him. She remembered that during the day time he acted quite normal, and he was even kind and pleasant to be around. It was only during the night, when he would cry out in his sleep about blood and monsters.

He seemed to have calmed down on his own, or at least his shouting had. Elaine wrapped herself more snuggly in her hooded cloak, feeling the cold. Then she crawled along the ground so she could kneel closer to his side. His eyes looked a little wild, which made her tremble. “Marrik,” she touched his blanket-covered arm. “You must let me know… if there is anything at all I can do to ease whatever plagues you.” She spoke with an extreme quietness that was appropriate for late-night waking. “You are helping me; I wish to help you in return. And do not tell me that you are not in need, milord… It’s near every night, when you wake like this.”

She reached over where her things were gathered, fetching her water skin. “Here, milord, have some of my water. It has a spot of honey in it.” She offered it to him.

Normally at that point she would return to sleep, or at least try to. Sometimes she would turn her back to him and shed a silent tear for her troubled friend. But this night she sat beside him and breathed deeply. She cast her eyes up to the dark trees and the star-sprinkled sky and the sharply pointed crescent moon. Then she returned her worried gaze to Marrik, and then to his possessions, the focus of which was his great sword.

“So… this is how knights live while they are questing,” she spoke, as a soft rain began to fall. She sat still as if she didn’t even notice it, even when the drops became heavier and fell onto her lashes and rolled down her small nose. “Out in the woods, sleeping in the rain, subject to bandit raids… I suppose there’s some things to like about it. But really, I… oh, never mind.” She was going to say that she missed sleeping in a castle, but she didn’t want to sound like a frail damsel who was bothered by rain and dirt.

She wanted to persuade him to finally confess the nature of his troubles. But she knew if she were to ask him what his nightmares entailed, he would refuse to answer as he always did. On this night, she decided that if she had any hope of him opening up to her, then she must confess something about herself first.

She was thinking about knights. In fact, one knight in particular, whom she had never met but heard mentioned in her father’s secret conversations with Dame Brisen and his chamberlain.

“Have you ever heard of a knight named… Sir Lancelot?” she asked Marrik, not expecting that he had. Still, she gazed intently at him, with her finger absently touching her lip.

Bors kept his eyes politely glued to the ground, apparently highly interested in the shade of the grass. But his shoulders trembled with mirth. He simply could not bring himself to stare at his humiliated brother and laugh. Alanna, however, could not bring herself to be so polite. Particularly when Lionel protested being treated as a maiden. Alanna was very proud of herself for rarely being drawn into a situation where she required carrying (not that she minded the very secure feeling of Lancelot's arm supporting her, of course, but it was more a matter principle) and so Lionel's apology was made all the more humorous. She did not guffaw, but her eyes danced and her very being trembled as she clapped one hand to her mouth and watched Lancelot struggle across the invisible bridge with Lionel in his arms. It was almost too much, but she felt sure Lionel would be red, swearing and sulky the whole day if she let loose the tremendous laugh that was building in her stomach. Luckily, she had the very sobering image of her beloved traipsing along above an endless drop with nothing visible beneath him. This alone was enough to stifle her laughter. That, coupled with the thought that she herself would have to take the creaky, shifting walk in just a moment...

With several deep breaths between them, Bors and Alanna straightened their respective spines and strode forward. Bors looked far more confident in his steps, but then...Alanna had never yet seen him even remotely hesitant. He looked as though the Lord Himself and summoned him across to the other side. Alanna attempted to follow his way, keeping her eyes fixed on the back of Bors' fair head and thinking of how wonderful it would be when Lancelot accomplished this quest, and they were able to proceed to gift Armand with his new voice, and then on to Camelot where Lancelot would surely be knighted, and oh how pleased he would be when he had accomplished so much!

Bors, throughout the entire unnervingly swingish stroll, was thinking deeply about the need to finish the quest and return to the kind monks their great treasure. He saw every step as a dutiful gift to God, a thanks for the sacrifice of His son and for each breath of air that he had been gifted with each day. And, of course, a thanks for the existence of the invisible bridge that kept him from certain death.

Eventually, both Bors and Alanna made it across in one piece. Though their methods had been different, they were both breathing a bit more deeply than they had at the start. And Alanna finally emit a single giggle at the sight of Lionel being carried by his cousin. She attempted to cover it by bending her head and resting her fingers over her lips, and somehow managed to resist asking after his health. It would have surely made him furious.

"Shall we continue onward, then?" Bors asked cheerfully, straightening and beaming around at his companions. "We are surely not far off now!"

Mabuz watched the interaction between Liam and Aurora with amusement. If only Maraud had been there, to see Aurora make her first friend! Both babies had an interest in each other, although Liam appeared to be a bit shy. Aurora continued to giggle and babble, clasping her hands over her mouth excitedly.

“He is around Aurora’s age, then,” Mabuz replied after Clarisin spoke about Liam. “Aurora is not two years old yet. She also grows astoundingly quickly. Why, it seemed that not too long ago she was but a sobbing newborn.”

Aurora watched Clarisin kiss Liam, and then leaned in to her own parent and wrapped her arms around his neck. She kept her head turned, still watching the strangers with bright eyes. She smiled and made a noise of delight when Liam waved and said hello.

Then Clarisin introduced herself. Mabuz blinked in surprise—the lady had so many names! He, really, only had one name. “You are not intruding at all, Lady Clarisin. My name is Mabuz… of the Lake.” He turned to gesture towards Roryn. “And this gentleman is Roryn… of the Lakeside Woods, and his daughter, Aurora. Roryn has been mentoring me for several years, and allotting me lodging in his home. We have come to Rozeshire to visit Lady Mennah. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Clarisin of Getonsbury, as well as your son, Liam.”

Mabuz smiled politely at her, wondering where Liam’s father was. Most likely she was married, but surprisingly, she looked under-dressed to be a noble lady. Before he could ponder much longer on these details about her, Mabuz remembered that she was needing to seek out Sir Armand, for whatever purpose. But he had promised to lead her to the knight, even if he would prefer not to see him again.

“Well, now that we are introduced, I shall show you to Sir Armand…” Mabuz stepped forth, parting ways with Roryn with a nod. But before he could get very far, Aurora had begun to cry in protest. He turned and looked at the girl and realized that she was not bereaving his departure—but it was the toddler Liam that she didn’t want to leave. Mabuz turned to Clarisin with an indecisive look on his face.

“Shall we continue, milady? It appears that Little Aurora has quickly attached herself to your Liam. Or, Sir Roryn, perhaps you will accompany us and carry Aurora along as well?”