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"You have a better chance of bedding a stump." She told him flatly, not seeing his gaze but knowing he still harbored feelings for Gueneviere. "I'm not so certain of Ninlane, the 'blonde goddess'." She stretched his words and evan a flurished hand gesture to enphasise her amusment at his words. She was slightly abashed, having been drug up all those stairs, still a little breathy from the fast pace and carrying of her skirts.

She'd been ripped from her room like a fish from the sea to come all the way to the battlements to stare at other women, how like Sir Mordred. She could feel the fresh air on her skin, seeming harsh after not allowing herself to expose herself to it for so long. She refused to sit up here and gawk at Aurthur and his royal revalry, especially if all that teasing had only let Mordred continue to think of Gueneviere again. Ever her own son had a passion for her, fortunately not the same sort of quaking lust that her nephew possesed.

"I assure you my dearest nephew," she began in a drawling tone. "If you lean too much further, you may fall off." She put her hand lightly on his back, as though pretending to push him. Chuckling to herslef as she looked at with cold green eyes flecked with gold, seeming to catch the sun she so detested and magnify it to burn him.

Lancelot had been quite absorbed in the attentions of his new bride when Elaine made her untimely entrance. He almost didn’t hear Elaine’s greeting while his ears were so lovingly full of Alanna’s delightful laugh. He had even joined her in her laughter, and so when she turned her head so suddenly, he got a mouth full of her hair. He found her hair to be very luscious, though, and he hardly minded it brushing against his lips—but her shocked squeak was a clear signal that something urgent had caught her attention. He caught on to her franticness as he glanced over her shoulder, realizing that there was a stranger in their midst—and not just any stranger, but a young damsel!

But before he could do any scrambling of his own, Alanna had fled to cover, leaving him as cold and shocked as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on his lap. As if empathizing with this icy sensation, Alanna pressed the blanket to his front. He shifted a tad and straightened his back to allow Alanna better cover behind him. As Alanna spoke to the girl over his shoulder, he remained stunned and silent, looking apologetically at the maiden who had happened upon them. How embarrassing—but at least she had not caught them in the heat of love. But Alanna had been in his lap and they were both practically naked—it was bad enough to offend a virgin’s eyes.

At least Alanna told her that they were married, and they had not expected to be chanced upon. Lancelot had to wonder, and perhaps the same question was on Alanna’s lips—where on earth had this damsel come from? It seemed like she materialized from nowhere—and he had never in his life happened upon a damsel her age that was unaccompanied—especially in such a remote woodland!

He heard the galloping horse hooves, and could feel it pulsing through him from the ground. The damsel appeared to grow more apprehensive at the advent of the approaching horse. Lancelot waited, tensely poised with Alanna snug against his back. He stared with wide eyes as the horse and rider walked through the brush, into the clearing. He marveled first at the speed of their approach… and then he felt like his heart could have stopped when he recognized the horse and rider. It was as if Satan himself had appeared before them!

It was of no consequence what Marrik said to the girl—Lancelot’s system was already flushed with adrenaline in prospect of a fight. He could feel a kin fierceness in Alanna, which she voiced in a challenge of admirable boldness that he would never expect to hear from any lady. Then she retrieved her sheath and drew her sword, which he could see hovering in his peripheral vision.

Elaine was horrified. Not because Marrik had chased after her, but because she had clearly heard the blond woman address the knight by name: Lancelot… her husband. And to add even more bewilderment, the young couple appeared to recognize Marrik—but they looked upon him with a loathing that Elaine had never before witnessed; as if Marrik was the Devil incarnate! The woman even drew a sword—and challenged Marrik to fight! Such a thing was unheard of… surely this was a nightmare!

Lancelot glanced at the damsel, who was pale as a ghost and horribly frightened—and staring directly at him. He assumed her ardent stare to be a silent plea for protection. He yanked off the blanket that clothed him, and gave it to Alanna to cover herself. Then he leapt to his feet and grabbed his sword, tossing away the scabbard. He was in his underwear, but there was no time to clothe himself. And he doubted Marrik would be chivalrous and allow him time to don his armor! But he did take the time to snatch a tunic that lay upon the ground, and delivered it to Alanna.

With Arondight trained on Marrik, Lancelot neared to where Elaine stood. She trembled horribly and shrank away at his approach. “Lady, I mean you no harm. I will protect you from this fiend,” he assured her, detecting her will to avoid him. She was so upset that her breaths were short and strained—she fainted just before Lancelot could touch her shoulder. With eyes still turned distrusting upon Marrik, Lancelot caught the limp Elaine in one arm and carried her to where Alanna was, depositing her on the blankets. “Watch over her, Alanna,” he instructed quickly.

He turned again to Marrik and faced him in full. He was surprised that the vicious swordsman had not attacked yet. “Well! It has been years, Marrik! But our duel was never finished. And I will never forget what you did…” His eyes blazed as memories of grief and pain returned to him. The massacred village… the momentous duel in which Marrik tormented both him and Alanna with his cursed changeling cloak… and that savage kick that had made Lancelot suffer in pain for hours.

“If I am unable to have children, it may quite possibly be your fault! You know what I mean…” Lancelot fumed, gritting his teeth. He was slowly pacing in front of Marrik, brooding like a lion, and holding his sword as confidently as if he was fully dressed and armed. It occurred to him briefly that Marrik's eyes were no longer red, and no longer hypnotizing... but he did not question the change.

Elaine had woken from her swoon in time to hear Lancelot’s odd charge. “What does he mean?” she asked Alanna worriedly. How could Marrik have denied Sir Lancelot of his fertility? Oh! She clasped a hand to her mouth in shock. What if Marrik’s dark secret was that he had villainously castrated Sir Lancelot? That must have been why he had told her not to worry about the prophesy—it couldn’t possibly come true because of what he had done! And that’s why he didn’t want to tell Elaine—because she would be upset that he had denied her a holy son! And that would certainly be why both Lancelot and his wife so despised Marrik! But why would Marrik have done such a thing? Did he covet the blond woman with the sword—Alanna? Suddenly a whole dramatic past for Marrik and Lancelot and Alanna began to fulfill itself in her mind.

“Coward! Why did you run away?” Lancelot demanded sharply. “Take up your sword, Marrik—I want to end this!”

Elaine whimpered and grabbed Alanna’s arm in dread. “Please, don’t fight!” she cried aloud.

"Oh, God! Of all the people in Christenton to chance upon!" Marrik said, nearly cursing himself, but managing not to. Seriously, what were the odds? And it just had to them of all people. Marrik knew they would still hate him. Of course. Who wouldn't.

Alanna was the first to speak. A challenge, of course. But Marrik was not here to fight, not even the ghosts of his past.

"Alanna, wasn't it?" he asked her, showing no signs of getting off the horse or getting out his greatsword, "I am not here to add to my many sins. I am- was escorting Lady Elaine to her home in Corbenic. Please, hate me if you will, but I have no more desire to fight. Not with you, nor your... wait, husband?" It wasn't that much of surprise. She and Lancelot had obviously been lovers back then.

Before he could say more, Lancelot drew his sword. It was the very sword Marrik once dueled against. Lancelot painfully reminded Marrik of that day Marrik often tried so hard to forget. He even reminded Marrik of the very village that haunted his sleep. He couldn't move. If Lancelot attacked, he would have killed Marrik instantly.

"Don't worry about begetting children..." his eyes drifted toward Elaine, "I... have a funny feeling you are able to." he said, still refusing to go for his weapon.

Then, of course, Lancelot challenged him, "Lancelot, I-" what was he going to say? What could he possibly say to make any of this better. His gaze always seemed to return to Elaine, who seemed more frightened of a battle than of Marrik. Had they not told her everything? At least that is something that hasn't gone wrong. He would be able to tell her everything himself. That is, if she even trusted him again.

"Yes, I ran. No, there is no excuse for my sins. But does not God's word forbid you from judging others for their sins? Did not Christ himself say that he that is without sin may cast the first stone?" Now it was just pathetic. He wasn't trying to ask forgiveness, just to avoid fighting. Elaine didn't want them to fight. Amd dammt they wouldn't.

"Please, Lancelot... Lady Elaine does not wish for us fight! Is it not against your code to fight in front of a lady?" he tried, still hoping to at least slake Lancelot, "Even if you still wish to fight, I do not, and will not. Kill me, if you believe it is your place to punish me, but I will not fight in front of Elaine. I cannot."

By now, he'd dismounted Skorm and threw his weapon to the ground, "Elaine I..." he started, stopped, then continued, "If I am spared... I will tell you my secrets. You deserve to know... after all, you told me one of your secrets..." with this, he would bow his head, awaiting whatever fate God wished for him.

“Zey’re going to do it, Bors,” Lionel told his brother with knowing eyes. “Zey’re going to break zheir vows—I know it! Maybe zey ‘ave done it already!”

Lionel had been continually reminding Bors of the risk of leaving Lancelot and Alanna free to roam alone. “If Alanna iz with child ze next time we see her, it iz your fault, mon frère! I still do not understand why you chose to come with me, instead of keeping an eye on our wanton couzin!”

After a few moments, he calmed, and quickly revised his sentiment: “No, I speak too harshly. Lanzelot is a good couzin… just all too much like Uncle Ban—God rest ‘iz soul—so romantique.”

He had never met his Uncle Ban—given that the king had died before he was born. It was his mother who had told him what Ban was like. His own father had died before he was born as well, although he had left the young Queen Evaine pregnant with Lionel—and Bors, but a two-year-old. He drifted away from thinking of the young lovers he knew so well, and into a darker matter—the tragedy of his family.

“Someday, Bors,” he promised through clenched teeth. “Someday we will ‘ave revenge on zat pig Claudas. We’ll see mother again, and take Lanzelot to see Aunt Helaine. Zat will be ze day, Bors—zat will be ze day!”

He continued with that longing in his heart, for the first part of their return to the Abbey of Beale. But as he neared closer to the abbey, a new longing arose in him—to see Lady Juliana again. Hopefully she had not forgotten about him, and hopefully the monks had not convinced her to join a convent…

He rode in with an eagerness to the monastery, greeted by the monks. “Come, Bors,” he goaded hurriedly after they placed their horses in the stables. Lionel paused in the cloister to wash his face and hands in the fountain. Then he gestured for his brother to continue on with him, to the guest dormitory, where he had remembered Juliana and Mary staying. Before knocking, he reached into his surcoat and pulled out the handkerchief he was to return to Juliana. His face fell when he noticed how bloodstained it was. He clutched it in his fist, and with his other hand, attempted to neaten his dark hair. It was the only time he ever cared about his appearance. He cleared his throat, and then finally knocked on the door.

Alanna had swiftly grabbed Lancelot's tossed tunic, after having desperately caught the blanket and holding it to herself, and pulled it on over her head. Lancelot was of course much larger than Alanna, and so his tunic went about half way down her thighs and drooped a bit more than suggestively down her front. And though she loathed the thought of an enemy seeing so much of her flesh, and would have loved to allow Lancelot the pride of claiming that he had a wife who would rather die than be seen promiscuously dressed, she was simply not of the character to cower behind a bush or a blanket while Lancelot faced their dreaded enemy.

Lancelot caught the strange girl that had appeared, who had looked absolutely terrified (causing Alanna to think that perhaps she had been a prisoner of Marrik's), and brought the unconscious lady over for Alanna to look after. Alanna nodded tersely at his demand, rising to her bare feet and holding her blade at the ready should Marrik suddenly storm over. "I shall, love. Be careful!" To Elaine, she turned just a fraction so as to face the girl and spoke sternly, "Stay behind me."

She had expected Marrik to lunge forward with a monstrous snarl and attack with the same brutality that he had before. But instead, he began to act very strangely...he looked at her, acknowledged her, even remembered her name...when before, he had sneered and rejected her as an even considerable opponent. Lancelot brought up Marrik's final harsh action against them, and Alanna's eyes darkened at the thought. It wasn't something she dwelled on, for it had happened so long ago...but what if they couldn't have children, and all because of this dark being? This terrible thought, along with the remembrance of the charred village...the slaughtered families, innocent lives lost...stoked up Alanna's anger towards Mab's son all the more.

But the man remained almost...peaceful! At last, he even threw down his sword, and called to the girl Alanna now stood protecting as though he longed to speak to her. As though he cared for her. Alanna glanced questioningly at Elaine, who clutched her arm and begged for peace between them, and felt deeply confused. Frowning deeply, Alanna shifted her grip on Justice and pointed it stubbornly towards Marrik. "God's word does forbid us to judge another, but He also demands justice! This man is a fiend, Lady, as sure as his steed is as black as death!"

But the most shocking thing of all was that Marrik even offered his life, rather than to fight in front of the trembling girl. Alanna shifted and took a single hesitant step forward, but did not move too far from Elaine. Just in case.

"What are you playing at, Marrik?" She demanded, her eyes flicking protectively over to Lancelot. She wished to call him back to her side, and out of reach of the demon man, but she knew better than to do so. "Raise you head and speak! Before, you had no logic in killing, no excuse and no desire to do anything but! Now you claim you will not fight, and again you have no logic! Why should my Lord have faith in this sudden turn? And who is this lady to whom you speak?"

This last was directed at both Marrik and Elaine, and Alanna glanced between the two in agitated confusion.

The first sign of change in Marrik—besides his eyes—was that he remembered Alanna’s name. Then, soon after, his words seemed to claim of reform: he acknowledged his many sins, and said straight-forwardly that he would not kill and add to those sins. Then he even spoke of a chivalrous duty he was seeing to—escorting a lady to her home. He did not want to fight, he said. He even voiced a mild surprise to find that his once-opponents were now married.

Lancelot was not as aggressive as he first was, but he would not immediately believe the words of a man who had been one of his most hated enemies. Marrik had been known to use deception before—this could very well be an extension of his wicked ploys.

Lance raised a cynical brow at Marrik’s assurance that he was still capable of having children. He followed Marrik’s glance to Elaine. He was always looking at her—was she part of his plan? He had been known to associate with ignoble females—namely Queen Mab, his mother.

And then Marrik resorted to the Bible to inspire sympathy. Lancelot, as religious as he was, was still unconvinced, and he added his sentiment after Alanna voiced her own disagreement. “A noble parable, Marrik, and I am surprised you know of it. But this is not a matter of adultery—this is about human lives! Innocents! What you did, Marrik, is damnable by the words of God, and damnable by the order of knighthood!”

Lancelot heard Elaine’s plea clearly, and he looked sternly at her, still suspecting of her connection to Marrik. He turned back to Marrik as he made more entreaties for peace. He refused to fight altogether, granted Lancelot the right to kill him, and threw down his weapon. Then he spoke more to the lady Elaine, and finally bowed his head in a gesture of surrendering to his fate.

‘Lord, I could kill him!’ Lancelot thought to himself, while his sword was still raised and Marrik’s was on the ground. But, as Marrik had worded, was it his place to punish him? Was it chivalrous to take a life in front of a lady (two ladies in fact), while she was whimpering so pitifully? Indeed, could Christ’s parable be extended to the execution of mass murderers? Would Lancelot be making a hypocrite, or even a murderer of himself if he were to strike Marrik dead?

“I will not fight a man who will not fight back!” Lancelot decided abruptly. He lowered his sword, although he did not sheath it. “But I will demand the same questions as my wife.” While not turning his back on Marrik, he walked to the side, joining Alanna where she stood, indecently exposed in his tunic. But who was he to judge? He was only dressed in his half-tied braies and chauses. He placed one hand on Alanna’s back supportively, and kept the other firmly grasping Arondight’s hilt.

He turned to Elaine, whom he trusted more to tell the truth. “Lady—what is your relationship to Marrik, the son of Mab? He speaks of a secret you told him. Is he subjecting you to blackmail, lady? Swear upon your word that you tell the truth!”

Elaine looked up at Lancelot, her face flushed with the compounding stress of the situation. Each time Marrik had looked at her, her heart had palpitated a little faster. Now her heartbeat was so loud, she could hear it in her ears. And his words—his noble promise not to wield his sword in her presence! Not only was her heart pumping wildly from the inside, but it felt as though it were squeezed from the outside as well! If she hadn’t taken a deep breath at that moment, she would have surely fainted again.

Marrik was promising to tell her his sin, which had only been alluded to as a most despicable evil by Lancelot and Alanna. She no longer believed it was an act of violence against Sir Lancelot himself, but perhaps something against someone else. Whatever Lancelot had meant about his questionable fertility was at a loss to her.

“Upon my word, good Sir,” Elaine avowed shakily to Lancelot. She could hardly stand to look at him. He was indeed handsome, but the intensity of his questioning, and the matter about their lineages and what was predicted for the future… it was too much! Hadn’t the other night she was wishing she would never meet Sir Lancelot? And here she was, face to face with him! And he was not even fully dressed! And he had a wife he had his arm around, also scantily clad and holding a sword!

“I am acquainted with Lord Marrik,” she continued, gathering strength. “I met him in his castle. We are on friendly terms. He has been completely honorable and civil to me. And he speaks the truth—he has been escorting me to my castle in Corbenic. You see, I am Elaine, daughter of King Pelles. As for my secret, well, I—I told him of my own free will… and he doesn’t hold it against me. If he did, he would have told you of it, Sir Lancelot—given that... it has to do with you.”

Elaine gave a tearful gasp and covered her face in agony. “Sir Lancelot, you must never come to Corbenic!”

“Beg your pardon, lady, but what do you mean? Why should I never venture to your kingdom?” Lancelot asked, confounded. His hand tightened a tad on Alanna’s waist.

Elaine lowered her hands from her stricken face. She took her deepest breath yet and let out with it in one courageous burst: “Sir Lancelot, there is a prophesy that you are to father the holiest knight of all the land!” She met Alanna’s eyes for a moment, and then looked away shamefully. “But the mother is to be a princess from Corbenic, who is of the holiest of lineages to which High King Arthur himself belongs. Ah, Sir Lancelot—come not to Corbenic, look not at me; I am that princess!”

Elaine turned away, not even bothering to account for Lancelot’s or Alanna’s reactions. Then, before anything more could be done, she took flight into the forest like a startled doe, her long braids flying behind her.

Mabuz was not paying attention to Armand’s furious reaction. He was much more interested in the appreciative way that Clarisin was looking at him. It appeared that he had earned a great deal more regard for being the only person to stand up for the young mother. It did not even occur to him that Mennah might be hurt by his endorsement of the woman who encroached upon her husband-to-be.

Maraud watched as Roryn stood from his seat, and suggested that they leave to afford the three young adults some privacy, even though Clarisin claimed to not want such a meeting. Maraud decided to follow after her paramour, taking Aurora with her. As soon as Aurora realized that she was leaving her new friend, she protested loudly. “Liam!” she shouted miserably, reaching her tiny hands out to her fellow toddler.

“Maraud, I will watch Aurora for you,” Mabuz insisted, catching up to Maraud. The fey mother didn’t seem to mind—given that Aurora was bound to act up if she was kept apart from her new friend—and so she handed her toddler to Mabuz, who gratefully held the beloved child in his arms and returned to where he sat beside Clarisin. Aurora was soon smiling again, waving daintily at young Liam.

Maraud slowed as she passed by Armand. She halted altogether and touched his arm. “Lord Armand, he is a special child. Perhaps you should… spend some time with him.” She pointed with her eyes to Liam, and then continued on to follow Roryn.

When they left the room, Maraud intertwined her arm with Roryn’s and edged close to him. She was taking advantage of the fact that they were alone. It was not often that they were—what with Aurora and Mabuz always being around them.

“I’m sure knights are not the only men who have to fend off drama, Rory,” she said mildly. “But I have to say, I am glad you diverted from that path. It is much less likely that any lady will come around claiming you as the father of her bastard child. It is something about men in armor…” Maraud smiled slyly. She didn’t even have to worry about Roryn impregnating other women. And if he did start, she was sure she would detect it in an instant.

“Dear, let’s take a stroll through the rose garden. After all, it is what Rozeshire is famous for,” Maraud said charmingly, squeezing his arm, an amorous light in her eyes.

It didn't seem Lancelot was going to kill him. He stayed where he was, though, altogether forgetting where he had even threw his sword.

"My battle with the two of you has taught me much. I do not fight unless I, or someone else, is in danger of being harmed." he said, now looking to the others.

"My mother's death took away my cursed eyes. My sword is locked away where it will never again be used in battle."

He said nothing else after that, for now Elaine spoke. It pained him to see her reveal her secret the way she had. She clearly didn't seem to wish to. He remembered last night, she said she hoped never to meet Lancelot.

His former thoughts vanished when she took flight, "Elaine!" Marrik said, jolting to his feet and running after her, leaving his horse and sword behind, "Please, Elaine! Do not flee from me! I want to tell you about me... because..." he began slowing down, "...you... deserve to know..."

He stopped now. Who was he to stop her? It wouldn't surprise him if Lancelot gave chase, believing Marrik to be lunging for Elaine. He had to face it. He was a killer, a monster, an offspring of evil itself. How could something like that deserve love and friendship?

"Maybe it would have been better if Lancelot had just taken my head... it's what I deserve." he said to himself with a sigh, "I was a fool to think I could keep so many secrets from her and expect her to trust me..."

The world had ceased spinning, and the cold sun had frozen in the sky. At least, this was how Alanna felt. Her stomach felt like a pit of ice and her breath remained still as death in her lungs. For a moment, she could feel nothing but the ache in her chest.

A prophecy...Lancelot was to be the father of a holy knight...with another woman?

At last, Alanna inhaled weakly, and in the same breath her legs crumpled beneath her. She had attempted to grasp Lancelot's arm to steady herself, and succeeded only in lamely grasping the hand that had been clutching her waist. She could not look at him, or even at Elaine, or even truly could she even focus upon the air directly before her. The pain was too sharp, too vivid, too mind-numbing for her to even do so much as breath regularly. But her grip on Lancelot's hand remained weakly rigid, as though it were the only thing that kept her heart beating. The leaves beneath her bare legs crinkled as she leaned forward, feeling as though she herself would take to fainting.

"It's not true..." Alanna finally whispered, her voice feeling ragged in her throat. Slowly, she raised a trembling hand to clutch at her heart, the cool metal of Lancelot's ring like a determined reminder of his devotion to her, and her alone. She blinked once, and was mostly unaware of the large tears that tumbled down her cheeks. Lancelot would never have a dalliance with another woman. It was unthinkable! His love for her was unyielding, passionate, and had been through the fiery forge of a demanding life. And they were married, now! They were as complete a couple as the Lord had ever designed to exist, and far more loving to one another than surely even Adam and Eve had been clear to their final days. Lancelot was an honorable man, and Alanna simply loved him too much for him to go around fathering children with other women. "It's not true!"

Though there was more conviction the second time she said it, Alanna was still kneeling pitifully on the ground. She turned, the tears still spilling from her eyes like large wet pearls tumbling from pleading brown depths. Both of her hands grasped his one, and as she gazed imploringly up at her husband Alanna looked oddly like a destitute waif begging a pious lord. The tightness in her voice suggested that she was very near to sobbing. "Please! Oh, please, Lancelot, my beloved husband! It isn't possible! Tell me it isn't possible!"

Elaine kept running when she heard Marrik call her—not so much to avoid Marrik, but to get as far as she could from Lancelot. She could not possibly face him after what she had revealed, especially since she revealed it in front of his wife. Her heart ached horribly as she ignored Marrik’s pleas for her to halt. She heard his footsteps beginning to slow. She heard his last conviction. It was something he had said once before that morning—she deserved to know. It was certain that he was thinking of her now, instead of himself. He was risking the esteem she might regard him, because she had a right to the truth... as his friend.

It was enough to will her to stop and listen, her heart thumping. Holding her hands to her burning cheeks, she took a moment to eye her surroundings. She was far enough from the clearing that she could not hear nor see Sir Lancelot. But she could see Marrik some yards behind her. She could see his lips moving—it was apparent he was saying something to himself, voicing his mournful sentiment.

“Marrik,” she uttered his name in a strained voice, retracing her hurried steps to reconcile with him. She was hesitant, but it appeared that Lancelot had not given chase. She stepped close to Marrik and placed both hands on his arms. “I’m sorry I left you without letting you know my reason. I suppose you have guessed why, though… I was afraid. Afraid of what you might have done that now brings you so much shame. Surely it is something grave, Marrik. Sir Lancelot and his wife called you villain and fiend. But I cannot conceive of you behaving so wickedly! For as long as I have known you, you have been a good man. What happened? Please, Marrik—if we are to remain friends, you must tell me what Sir Lancelot and his lady know!”

The standing tears in her eyes made her irises even more brilliantly blue. When she could not even stand to look at Lancelot, she could not look away from Marrik. It was almost as if he still retained his red Devil’s eyes, and held Elaine in an unblinking trance… but of course, she looked so intently at him out of her own accord.

Lancelot responded with a stupefied expression, as if he had not yet comprehended what Elaine had said. But his face soon turned strained with comprehension, and then burdened. Surely the young maiden was not out of her head—flighty, yes—but not batty. For if she was falsifying a prophesy like that, surely she would have told him because she wanted his child—or wanted him. But to tell it to him and then run away like he was contagious with plague—she could not possibly be inventing it, nor using it to her personal advantage. It was a warning, more than anything else.

But who did invent it? Who told Lady Elaine that she was destined to give birth to his son? And how did they even know about him? Was it really written in the stars, and perceived by a true necromancer—perhaps someone akin to the oracles he knew very well—the fey, who claimed to know a great deal about the future? He had reason to believe that they did know a great deal about the future, although they had never told him any of their prophesies. He had simply believed them, ever since he was a child. Of course, there had been no harm in believing them…

But there was harm in this. Before Lancelot could even begin to contemplate the foul effects, he felt Alanna slip to her knees beside him, grasping his hand. The desperation in her grip was startling. He turned his eyes away from the sight of Marrik chasing after Elaine. Alanna was his full attention at that moment, because she was suffering. He had never seen her look so pained—even when she was wrestling with life-threatening injuries! Never did she look so weak and helpless, clutching her heart and weeping such large tears. Indeed, Elaine’s prophesy—if it were true or not—was already reaping its evil. One moment of seeing Alanna like this made Lancelot wish that Elaine had never told them at all. Or at least, she shouldn’t have told it in Alanna’s presence. Lancelot could handle it—but that was because he knew his own will, and he knew that he was not attracted to the young Elaine of Corbenic, nor was there any way at all that he could imagine ever coupling with her of his own free will. But Alanna… Alanna, perhaps, had more at stake. She did not have control over Lancelot’s will… Lancelot was sure that he would be just as distraught if another man came and told him that he was destined to father Alanna’s child. It would probably be reason enough for Lancelot to throw down his gauntlet at the stranger’s feet.

Although… Alanna did not receive unwanted attention from men like Lancelot received it from women, and he knew that that added to Alanna’s distress. He believed that other men would flock to her if she only wore a gown more regularly. Somehow, he seemed to be one of the few knights who would tolerate loving a lady who carried arms. While regarding himself… well, he could not help it that he appealed to ladies. Not even because of his intrinsic qualities, he speculated, but simply because he had the bearing of a knight. And ladies loved knights like no other occupation.

Ah, but he could not stand it! Alanna, on her knees, shedding fat tears and pleading for his assurance! He dropped to his knees and drew her to him with his one free arm, while he kept his other hand still and strong for her to clutch with both of hers.

“It is not true. It is impossible. It won’t happen!” he vowed with the certainty she pleaded for. “I know not where that damsel acquired such a tale, but I can assure you, Alanna, my most precious love… If I am ever to have a child, a holy champion or not, the only woman who will give birth to him will be you.”

He fixed her with his eyes, feeling not a trace of doubt in his soul. There was no room for doubt… they were newly married, newly lovers, their love and fidelity strengthened by all manner of trials. And if one of them was hurt, or upset by doubt, it was the duty of the other to be strong—to be faithful and comforting—even blindly idealistic. Of course, Lancelot could wallow in the fears that the prophesy raised—but he would not, not while it was his turn to be the stronger half for Alanna's sake.

He held her for a few minutes, kissing her hands until they stopped trembling, and brushing away her tears until they stopped falling. When she was placated enough, and Marrik and Elaine had not yet returned, Lancelot brought her to her feet, still cradling her close.

“Alanna. I will make it so that there is not even the most remote possibility that the prophesy will fulfill itself—if it is even a true prophesy at all. Lady Elaine doesn’t want it; I certainly don’t want it—it will not happen. I will not step foot in Corbenic, nor will I ever see that girl again. I will be sure of it—starting now, Alanna. I will neglect my knightly duty in seeing to that damsel’s safety. Marrik may be telling the truth; perhaps he has reformed his life, and that is what I would wish. Still, I would not completely trust him to take good care of that lady. But I will leave her with him. We will leave right now, Alanna, before they can come back, and hope that we will never cross paths with them again.”

He held Alanna at arm’s length and pulled off the tunic she wore. He hurriedly dressed her, hardly affording himself the time he would have enjoyed in admiring and touching her bare skin. Then, once he had her in the tunic and chauses that she normally wore, he speedily dressed himself into his gambeson and mended surcoat. Soon the blankets were back on their horses’ saddles, and they were ready to leave, and still Marrik and Elaine had not returned. Lancelot grabbed Clarric from where he was standing and making intimidating faces at Skorm, and mounted. He pulled up Alanna to sit in front of him, instead of letting her ride her own steed. He felt that she was still somewhat disheartened, and he wanted to be as close as he could to her. He let her take Clarric’s reins as he held the reins of Alanna’s docile steed, which would trot along beside them.

Lancelot gave one last look at Marrik’s steed and sword, which he wouldn’t mind leaving behind. But he saw also the clearing as a whole—and he was certain to remember it as the special place where he had first made his sacred union with Alanna. He scooched even closer to Alanna in fond rememberance. He didn’t even need to spur Clarric to go forward—they were off and on their way, heading still in the southern direction towards Rozeshire.

He snapped out of his thoughts when he suddenly felt hands on his arms, "Elaine... you came... back?" he asked, still not understanding the way of humans, especially this very special one.

She apologized for leaving him this morning. Not that he blamed her, anyway, "You were likely wize to flee from me..." he said with a sigh, "We should sit down. The story is a long one." he said, sitting right there on the ground.

"I suppose it begins with my origins. You see, my father was Sir Iweret the Dark Knight. My mother was... Queen Mab herself. My whole life, mother trained me to be the greatest swordsmen in Logres. She raised me to be her dark champion, to rival the Lady of the Lake's champion, Lancelot. My purpose was to eventually kill him. But not without some help." he said, starting his story at the beginning.

"At a young age, mother charmed my eyes. They were once a hellish red, putting a cursed trance on those who dare look into them. They were the ultimate tools to add to my unmatched swordsmanship. But I could not be a champion without a sword..." he said, then paused a moment.

He gave her a moment to take it in before continuing, "My mother had a charmed sword made just for me in her realm. It was called Regalia. I remember that devil sword well. I could call it to my hand from just about anywhere. Even the wounds it inflicted were so evil, they cursed healers who attempted to treat them. I took countless lives with that sword." he said, swallowing.

From there, he recounted what he knew of Iweret and his attack on the Lake, and how he had Vivienne trapped in a mirror, "Lancelot killed him, I believe, but the mirror holding her was kept in my father's castle. Lancelot, Alanna, and a few others must have left the Lake to rescue her. That was where I came in."

He recounted witnessing the team being attacked by two dragons, at least that was how it appeared. Apparantly, the second dragon, a red one, killed the green dragon and took the ladies. He admitted he didn't witness what happened after that. He then old of his decision to take the mirror to his mother as a surprise gift.

"My first plan was feign loyalty to Lancelot, so he would lead me to the mirror. But..." he was clearly guilty about this next part, "...I grew impatient. I didn't what Lancelot was doing in that castle, but he was trying my patience. I became so angry I..." he almost trailed off, but managed to describe the farming village he had massacred, "It still gives me nightmares... in fact that was my nightmare last night."

From here, he spoke of how he had went ahead to his father's castle. His encounter with Dame Brisen, and of course, his duel with the stoic Roryn, "He was indeed a skilled swordsman, much more than Lancelot, that was for sure. Still, my eyes and sword were superior, and I mortally wounded him. I know not if he lived or died, the fey woman used her magic to transport them away."

He paused, giving Elaine a chance to take it in, then continued. He recounted taking the mirror to his mother, and how Lancelot and his party came to Mab's realm for one last battle. "Finally, after all that waiting, I finally fought Lancelot. And what I battle it was." he detailed the fight, with Lancelot and Alanna both. He recounted his mother's death and his escape, "...but I had no idea what do then... mother was gone and I was alone."

Finally, he recounted his refuge at his father's castle. Iweret's ghost, warning him of hell, and his decision to atone for his sins. He finished by telling how he locked Regalia away forever and remodled Iweret's castle into what Elaine saw as Marrik's castle.

"That is my whole story..." he said with a heavy sigh, just knowing she'd leave him for good.

"Papa?"

Armand lifted his eyes, the muscles in his cheek twitching a bit at the innocent call. He did not enjoy being called by the patriarchal name, not when he was still so uncertain that it applied to him. But that was what Clarisin had instructed her son to call him by, and no matter how he tried he simply couldn't teach the boy to call him 'Armand' or 'Sir,' or something else un-fatherly. And now, partially at the bidding of Clarisin, partially at the bidding of Maraud, partially out of his own begrudging curiosity, and largely in part to Mennah's sweet blessing, Armand found himself spending time in private with the handsome little boy that was supposedly his son.

"Yes, Liam?" Armand answered as he stepped over to where the dark-haired child was playing on the floor. Armand was neither overly fond nor overly educated on the care of children (which caused him surprise that Clarisin, who otherwise very rarely even set the boy down, had insisted that Armand take him away privately) and so he did his best to provide the babe with acceptable toys. Liam had in his possession a small cloth horse, and so Armand had hurriedly instructed a few servants to construct similar cloth or wooden horses. Now, Liam was the very proud own over a pig, a cow, a horse and a sheep.

"You pway wif da cow?" Liam held up the rotund toy heifer, offering it to Armand with excitement gleaming in his eyes. Armand looked uncertainly down at it, fighting off the urge to groan. He was a powerful knight, named for his boldness in battle, and had ended men's lives with a single mighty blow from his sword. And now he was being asked to play with a cow!

"No, Liam...thank you," Armand refused with the politeness expected of a Lord, but of course this was lost on the little boy. Liam's eyes grew rounder and shinier, his expectant smile curving down at the edges. Armand grimaced, knowing what was coming soon after.

"Pway wif da cow!" Liam repeated, his small voice wavering with tears. Armand hesitated once more, remembering how unpleasant it could be when the boy began to wail, and knowing how much more unpleasant it was when Clarisin returned to find tears on her son's sweet face. He had never received such a scolding in his life!

"Very well, very well," Armand grunted. He dropped to his knees, sat cross-legged and feeling very foolish, accepted the soft fat cow. With a dejected huff, he waited for instruction. Liam looked as pleased as ever (even if Armand was not nearly as entertaining to play with as his dear little friend, Aurora) and took in either hand a horse and a sheep. He seemed to greatly enjoy digging his pudgy fingers into the sheep's life-like (likely real) wool.

"Hewwo, cow!" Liam spoke in a deep falsetto as he waved the floppy wooden horse in front of the cow's head. Armand rubbed his temples, grimacingly look at the door to be certain there was no one watching, and sighed deeply.

"Hello...horse." Armand replied for the cow. Liam bounced once in excitement and launched into a polite conversation between the animals. And so it went on for some time, with Liam happily drawing Armand into his odd little games. Every now and then, Armand would catch himself with a smile tugging at his lips.

For though he almost wished he could dislike this child...that he could claim no feelings of a paternal nature at all, just for his lady's sake...he found himself, more and more, enjoying the boy's presence. Armand had never been delighted with children, it was true, but as all knights and lords, he wished one day for an heir. He had never imagined himself doing much hands-on parenting, of course, for such things were generally done by servants and wet nurses and the like, as had been done with him. But Liam was indeed a delightful child, quiet but cheerful, and as handsome a babe as he had ever seen. And Armand found himself feeling something resembling...doting to the boy.

But feeling anything positive towards the child that might have been his also made Armand feel incredibly guilty. He had been hoping that he would see some sign, some great character flaw, that would clearly show that he was not Liam's father. But all he could find himself doing was imagining what Liam would be like when he was old enough to take on hunts, and to introduce to the other knight's at Arthur's court, and to introduce to the loveliest ladies in the realm. He began to feel like a father who enjoyed his work.

But oh, how could he feel such a way! Liam, even if he was Armand's, was not Mennah's! Surely she would feel horribly betrayed if he suddenly claimed Liam and boasted of what a fine son he had sired. What of any children they would have in the future? What of the fact that Liam was supposedly the sign of Armand's disloyalty? It was indeed a problem, and one that caused him to lose a great deal of sleep at night.

Mordred grinned not all that authentically as Morgan made play to push him off the battlements. He turned to her and was somewhat taken aback by the bright green of her eyes. He was sure that she had captured the hearts of many foolish men with those eyes… he prided himself that he was immune. Or at least, that was the self-assurance that pervaded the most of his consciousness.

“You had better be careful yourself, dear aunt. You are so thin—I would hate to see a heavy gust come upon you and blow you to your demise,” he kidded solemnly. She had hinted enough that she was didn’t particularly enjoy their present location. He cast one last look at Guinevere and Arthur. Then he wrapped his arm about Morgan’s shoulder and took her back into the castle, just like a good nephew. But once inside, he left her, mumbling some excuse about seeing that the returning knights were assisted in the care of their dirty armor and weary horses.

He occupied himself until the time the feast began. He arrived in the Great Hall and sat at the long table of knights and ladies. Gaheris was to his left, and Ywain to his right, talking his ear off. It was all about military matters, which Mordred was educated in, but he quickly found his nerves wear thin with the enthusiasm of his younger cousin. Mordred only nodded his head and grunted as he enjoyed his ale and made eyes at the pretty ladies who sat on the other side of the table.

“Is Sir Armand not here tonight?” he asked suddenly, interrupting Ywain. “Where is that lusty fellow?”

“In Rozeshire, brother. Did I not tell you?” Gaheris said out of the corner of his mouth, smiling at a lady who gave him her attention.

Mordred took a deep, unhappy swig, and then swiftly set down his tankard and arose from the bench, leaving Ywain mid-sentence. He sauntered over to where Morgan sat, atop the royal dais, a few seats down from Arthur, who was currently in conversation with the Lady of the Lake.

“Enjoying your meal, dear aunt?” he asked in forced courtesy, his hands folded behind his back. He then leaned closer to her and said privately in her ear: “I’m leaving for Rozeshire tomorrow. Perhaps you need to have away from Camelot for a bit? Come with me. You know I do not like to travel without company.”

He didn’t have much of a motive for inviting his aunt with him, as opposed to taking one of his fellow knights instead. But she had proven interesting company earlier that day, if not a little disturbing. And he wouldn’t admit it, but he found himself homesick for his heinous mother—and Morgan was the only woman who came close to the sultry darkness of Morgause.

Elaine sat down next to Marrik and listened. Her ears were full of his voice for minutes on end. She listened with a stoicism that was unlike how she reacted to Lancelot. She did not even flinch when he detailed the sins of his past.

Now, she knew him. He was the son of Queen Mab, a name that conjured vague memories of childhood superstitions. He had known Lancelot for a long while—he had even been trained to slay him. She looked closer at his eyes when he spoke of them once being charmed. She could not even imagine them being red and hellish!

Her face fell when he spoke of using his sword to take ‘countless’ lives. She watched his Adam’s apple dip uneasily as he swallowed. But she raised her eyes again to his face, and was surprised that she could look upon him with sympathy. So that was his sin—he was a murderer. But not a murderer of one person—but of many.

He went on about the Lake. There was much to do with the Lake. Elaine listened with fascination. Mirrors, dragons, enchantments… what a varied life Marrik had lived!

But his narrative soon turned dark again. He finally told her of the village. She sucked in her breath and closed her eyes, a single tear slipping out from behind her lids. How could he do that? A whole village? Even women and children? How could anyone…?

Finally she understood why he was so haunted, so tormented with nightmares. He had done it years ago, but it still took a toll on his mind and heart. That was why he screamed in his sleep… She sat very still as she accepted his sorrowful words.

The next things he told her came as lesser shocks, as she still recovered from hearing of his greatest sin. She calmly acknowledged his connection to her nurse, Dame Brisen, and how he mortally wounded one man, who was whisked away by a fey woman. He could have very well been another of Marrik’s casualties…

She listened raptly as he spoke of his battle with both Lancelot and Alanna. She now knew in full why they still called him a villain. She was also amazed that he had fought with a woman—and that the woman had the bravery to wield a sword against him. She must have had merit in it if she had lived in face of Marrik’s Regalia.

Then, he ended with why he had reformed himself. She felt a twinge of empathy for him when he spoke of being alone and bewildered after his mother died. And then being visited by his father’s ghost… it sounded unbelievable, but she didn’t doubt him.

“Oh, Marrik,” was all she could think to say at first. It was such a vast story, and she had known him for such a short time compared to all that he had been through! She pressed her hand to her mouth and stared off at a nearby tree bough, where a pleasant little bird twittered. A unique ache filled her bosom.

But she was not afraid of him as she was when she could only guess at his dark past. She knew the truth, and it set her free from fear. She lowered her hand and touched Marrik’s sleeve, looking into his eyes. Then she ventured to lower her fingers and touch his hand. It was his sword hand, the one that had reaped lives like the angel of Death himself. But the feel of his skin did not startle or repulse her. It only proved further that he was human (part-fey perhaps, but still human), and that he had worth, even if he had done vile things in the past.

“Only the Lord can say if you are redeemed or not, Marrik,” Elaine said with sudden insight. “It is not for me to judge… All I can judge is how I myself have known you, and how you have treated me. And you have done nothing to harm me in any way. And now that you have revealed to me the torments of your soul, I consider myself even closer to you in friendship.”

Alanna slowly brushed her fingers through her hair, her eyes half closed and her lips curved into a peaceful smile. The night was warm and gentle, with only the melody of crickets and night birds ringing out through the area. Alanna was once again wearing Lancelot's tunic, and nothing else save his ring, but this time, her strange wardrobe was not due to an untimely interruption.

The last couple of weeks had been sweet ones indeed. Surely no man and no woman had ever shared such a delightful honeymoon. Alanna had seen virtues within her beloved since their first night as man and wife that she had never even imagined being so fortunate as to receive. Such devotion and tenderness, such strength in his gentleness...Lancelot had proven himself the perfect husband in so short a time. He had even managed to restore Alanna's high, contented spirits after she had been so distraught.

And indeed, Alanna had been distraught. But now, resting on the bed they shared and surrounded by evidence of their love, Alanna felt as though she had never shed a tear in her life, much less felt the breaking of her heart only a few short weeks ago. With a deep, contented sigh, Alanna slowed her fingers until they had nearly stopped, her eyes drifting the rest of the way closed. Her thoughts drifted away from Lancelot's cunning and bravery and kindness, and instead she began to recall the warmth of his hands and the scent of his skin. She exhaled once more, her smile widening. With her thoughts occupied entirely by her husband, Alanna slowly stretched out her legs until her toes were near enough to the fire to warm themselves, rubbing her hands against her bare knees in blissful thought.

She wondered about the future. Not in the speculative manner that so many seemed to fancy when involving her sweet Lancelot, but in the light, hopeful manner that she had only ever been able to manage. She wondered what they would do to celebrate the end of their honeymoon, now that they were so close to Rozeshire and attending Mennah and Armand's wedding. They had perhaps a week, maybe a week and a half, left to themselves. It would be sweet and precious, just as every night and every day and every moment had been thus far. And she wondered of Camelot. She generally tried to avoid thinking of Arthur's kingdom, for she had a quiet fear of what might come of her there. After all, Alanna had never yet met a woman quite like herself. Mennah was the closest thing, and the spritely halfing was still an entirely different book. Would Camelot be repulsed by her outspoken (in comparison to other ladies) nature? But nay, she did not wish to think of it, for what would come would come. What Alanna wondered most of was family.

They had discussed it very briefly in the past, when the process for the product had still been forbidden of them, but now that they were wedded Alanna began to think very lightly about the matter of children. She wished to have children, of course, very much so. More specifically, she wished to have Lancelot's children. None others would do! Alanna thrilled at the prospect of a lovely collection of brown-eyed babies with beautiful, olive shaded skin. And teeth, very white teeth like a mouthful of pearls, as Lancelot had. Surely her sons would inherit the strong jaw and the glow about their eyes that Lancelot achieved when he became excited. Ah, and his hands! If there was a merciful Lord, all of Alanna's sons would have the same perfectly formed, strong, gentle hands. The hands of a remarkable knight. And if she was very fortunate, her daughters would resemble him with his soothing dark eyes and rich, thick dark hair.

Yes, Alanna very much enjoyed envisioning just how much her children would resemble her husband. And even more so, she delighted in the thought of how Lancelot would enjoy playing with children that they had created together. She could already see his large, rough hands closing gently around a tiny white one...and his smile, with all of the wonderful lines it created on his face, that would be so bright as he gazed upon his sons or daughters. She could see it already, and wished very dearly to see it with her own eyes rather than simply in her heart.

But she did not dwell for too long on such thoughts, for they were still honeymooners! And aside from the fact that she was content to be his blushing bride, Alanna did not want to bother Lancelot with talk of a family when it still seemed so far away. For now, she simply pondered on it. Before, she had dreamed of Lancelot. Now that he was her reality, she dreamed of his children. And she could be just as patient for the latter as she had been for the former.

"Ah, Lancelot, my darling...you have granted me unearthly happiness..." Alanna breathed delightedly as she reopened her eyes and gazed into the fire. Lancelot was not there to hear her praise, of course, but it would have felt wrong to keep it to herself. Let the wind, the trees, the soil, and all of the woodland creatures know of the blessed being God had bestowed upon her!

But thinking of Lancelot and praising him for an uncaptive audience to hear was simply not enough. Alanna rose to her feet, now quite warm, and strolled through the cozy campsite to more quickly pass the time. Lancelot had gone off to capture game, or collect fire wood, or to relieve himself...Alanna could not quite remember, blissfully dazed as she had been when he'd departed. All she knew was that she was eternally excited for him to return. So to pass the time, she retrieved both his and her own shorter blades from their saddles, brought them over by the fire for better light, and began to sharpen them. Her brow knit in concentration, but the gleam of happiness still shone about her personage as she worked the blades into more than new quality.

Marrik could only blink. She did not despise him? She did not curse him and wish his death as Lancelot and Alanna had? Humans were definitely confusing, but none more than Elaine. She had considered herself even closer to him in their friendship. Of course, Marrik guessed that even Elaine would never consider him any further.

"I... I just don't understand the way of humans..." was all he could think to say. He probably would have to spend more time among them. The last two years were spent in the castle, in solitude except on sundays when he and a friar friend would host sermons. He'd learned much about the ways of God and his Christians, but not much about human nature.

"I... suppose we should keep going... we still have half the day left close some distance between us and Corbenic." he said, then realized that his sword and horse were still in the clearing, "Um... we'll need to go back to the clearing to get the horse... and my sword." he stood up, then.

"I know you wanted to get away from Lancelot but... maybe they left already?"

Mennah sat in a small chair by the fire in her solar holding her young cousin Aeron. He was a lovely child with adorable red curls, and piercing blue cobalt eyes, so much like his father’s. Aeron’s however were not brooding, or angry as Alec’s were at the moment. Alec’s rage was like that of a wildfire, and only by the use of binding magic had she been able to hold him back from his lung at Armand with the obvious intent to strangle. Under different circumstances she might have found it comical, but at the moment she only found stern irritation with him. It seemed he was going to do anything (sort of physically harming Armand, which she’d prevented with magic) he could to scorn him. He insisted he and his cousins take over the hunts for their meat, did everything possible to outshine him in the lists, even went so far as to steal his spot next to her at evening meals (which had earned him swift kicks to the shin). The only thing Mennah could be happy about with her new male highland cousins was that they’d taken a liking to young Ian (Armand’s squire). He was a strapping young lad of fourteen now and his skill with a blade had increased greatly under Armand’s tutelage. Alec had even insisted on Ian hunting with them, much to Ian’s delight. She doubted Armand was too thrilled with that little development, but there was little he could do.

Mennah and Aeron were not alone in the little solar, Helena, Alice, and Ralcia were there as well. Alice had seemed to take an immediate liking to Mennah and had shown the most pity of her situation. The woman had seemed to make it her mission to get her through this “dark time” as she’d phrased it. She wasn’t much fond of being pitied, but the stories of the highlands she told to keeping her mind off Clarisin were enjoyable enough not to voice it. At this time of day Armand would be playing with Liam in his room, something he was becoming increasingly fond of. She couldn’t and wouldn’t deny Armand the right to spend time with Liam; he was possibly his son after all, and even though he often denied to her having a relationship of any kind, the possibly in “possibly my son” came increasingly with more hesitation. She could see it in his eyes and feel it in his soul, he was starting to love Liam as a son. And why shouldn’t he!? He could be his son after all, what right did she have to ask him not to. It may hurt to know the age of the child, but Armand would still be the father, even if he wasn’t hers. She could imagine even caring for the child herself, that is if it wasn’t for Clarisin. It was petty and she knew it, but still, she couldn’t make herself be friendly to Clarisin. It was too much to ask to have to be around a woman who claimed to have warmed your fiancé’s bed and now bore him a son, especially when they would be wed in less than two weeks. Her only relief was the fact that She Ralcia and Armand would be riding to Camelot tomorrow, just the three of them and Ian. Camelot was not along ride from Rozeshire, maybe a day, and they would finally be able to be together somewhat alone and freely. They’d spent almost no time together the past few days, ether by Clarisin’s efforts or her Scottish cousins’, and she greatly looked forward to that blessed time. Then not even Clarisin could spoil her mood.

Aeron pulled on her necklace a bit, pulling her out of her thoughts, and cooed up happily at her. The adorable little redhead was a bit younger that Aurora but not by much, and what he lacked in age he made up in stubborn determination and curiosity. He was a fine young lad indeed. Mennah smiled at the thought of little red hair boys of her own, and she was once again lost in her thoughts, though these of a much more pleasant nature.

“I wanna dolly like Liam, mummy!”

That was the commission that Maraud set to fulfill in her idle time. She knew what toy her daughter so coveted—the stuffed fabric horse that little Liam carried around. Even though Maraud had vowed to herself that she wouldn’t make Aurora any more toys—since Aurora seemed to reject them all in favor of something she was not supposed to play with—Maraud hoped that Aurora would play with her toy if she had one like her favorite playmate.

But of course, Maraud was a prideful mother, and wouldn’t suffice just to copy the simple toy. With Aurora asleep on her lap, she spent long hours crafting a fine cloth animal; a horse yes, but something even finer than a horse: a unicorn. She delicately sewed a thin cloth horn for it, attached firmly to its head and blunt enough at the end that it could not possibly hurt the children. The fabric she chose was soft and white, which she then embroidered with fine filigree to represent the creature’s mane and beard.

“There you are, Aurora, dear,” Maraud smiled when she finally presented the finished product to her daughter. Aurora accepted it into her small hands, expressing her satisfaction with a miniature version of her mother’s smile. But she soon frowned when she saw the horn. Maraud gasped when Aurora began to yank on the appendage, trying to pull it off.

“I don’t want dis! It’s not like Liam’s!” Aurora complained.

Maraud swiftly grabbed the toy from her daughter’s hands and shook her finger at her in a gesture of reprimand. “Aurora! I made this for you. It is highly ungrateful of you to try to destroy it. And it is not like Liam’s, because it is a unicorn. It is much more special than Liam’s. Unicorns are very rare creatures, Aurora. Their horn is their most beauteous part! Now, unless you stop pouting, I will not let you have any toy.”

Aurora swiftly lost her pout. She reached out her hands to accept the toy. Her opinion of it began to improve quite steadily as Maraud picked her up and carried her down the halls. By the time they reached the chamber in which Armand was playing with Liam, Aurora was hugging her unicorn tightly to her chest.

Maraud stopped in the doorway, looking in on the sweet exchange between Armand and his alleged son. Even without his voice being audible, it was clear that Armand had managed to bond some with Liam—just as she had briefly suggested to him before. She bent down and quietly set Aurora’s feet on the ground. The little girl eagerly toddled over to her playmate. She looked brightly at Armand and happily tittered, “Big Man going tuh pway!”

Maraud, who had stayed back in the doorway, ventured in and kneeled next to her daughter. She gave Armand a small smile, and then lectured Aurora: “Love, you should always address a man as ‘Sir,’ especially if he is a knight, as Sir Armand is.”

“Sah Ahman?” Aurora drawled, a bit of drool escaping her open mouth. Maraud swiftly caught it on her handkerchief and willed Aurora to close her mouth by nudging the girl's small chin. Aurora remembered the new toy she was holding, and proudly displayed it to their respective animals. “Hewwo, Hahse! Hewwo, Cow! My name is Unicahn!”

"A trip to Roszenshire you say?" Morgan asked, her whispy body bent round her guinnie fowl to speak to him. "Whatever for?" She was up for anything aside from furthur listening to the prattling of military matters and war wounds. "In any case, I'll accompany you there. I have heard that it is lovely in this time of year."

She sat back up again and took a hastey sip of wine and looked to the other nobles, who were still deep in conversation. "When shall I meet you?" She asked, bending to Mordred again.