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Lancelot was elated when he first saw Rozeshire in the distance, and he was greeted by a gentle waft of the telltale smell of roses. Yes, it did rather signal the end of his honeymoon with Alanna. He did share in Alanna’s sentiments, wishing that their time together—so purely together and alone, when they would not see another passing soul for days—could be prolonged. But he was not despairing. He knew that there would be new joys with meeting their friends again, and announcing the news of their marriage—news that, amazingly and a bit disappointingly, the infamous Marrik had been the first to hear.

And how the sight of such a lovely estate as Rozeshire filled him with the desire to one day take lordship over his own property! It was a dream, and he was not certain it would be realized. He had no money, and the land that he could possibly inherit was located across the sea, in a kingdom he had never even seen before. But how he yearned to have a home of his own—even if it was but a humble manor and not even a castle—a home where he and Alanna could securely raise a family. Otherwise, what would they do? Live like gypsies, carrying their kin along with them? Kin that would never know what it was to sleep in an actual bed and use a chamberpot and have a meal prepared other than roasting on sticks? Nay; he wanted his children to have all the homely comforts that he had when he was small.

Perhaps they had been selfish by consummating before they had the means to care for children. But Lancelot had since defended their married life by assuring himself that a child could still be raised successfully—at least in his infancy—when all he needed was the shelter of his parents’ arms, the protection of his father’s sword, and the nourishment of his mother’s milk. And as far as he knew, Alanna was not pregnant yet, and even if she was, it would be months before they would see a baby.

Ah, but all of his anxieties were lost when his eyes drifted to Alanna—so virtuous and lovely, the sun turning his face so wonderfully earthy, while further brightening her flaxen locks. How far they had come! He still remembered when he first saw her, both in her male and female guises—and when he first confessed his love to her—the rash boy that he was! And now, in the flash of two years (sometimes it seemed like a long spanse of time, but at that moment it seemed but an instant)—they were married, and truly lovers, and he was thinking of acquiring a household, and contemplating the real possibility of children. Knighthood was becoming more imminent, and arrayed before him was the next frontier: court life.

But his focus was suddenly halted from drifting loftily through time and space as Alanna spoke to him. This was the present moment! He gave her his ears, eyes and eventually his lips. But before that, he returned her smile and chuckled lovingly as she fluttered her lashes and leaned out of her saddle. He goaded Clarric to sidestep closer to Alanna’s steed. They had become quite skilled at kissing each other from their saddles—although, in this instance, Clarric suddenly jerked his weight as Lancelot leaned in close to Alanna, which caused him to bump his nose against hers and miss her lips. But he only laughed at the small mishap and kissed her rightly thereafter.

“I will always be yours, Lady Alanna,” Lancelot grinned, touching his finger to her lips after he kissed them. “Aye, we will have much more company in the daytime, that is to be sure. But you will always have my special attention, and in the night… just imagine—tonight we will be able to sleep in a true bed! Or will we sleep? I don’t know…” His grin widened a bit impishly. “But I tell you one thing, Alanna,” he said, his grin softening into a look of more solemnity. “Our time alone and together… these weeks… they will never be lost. Nay, we will always have them to hold on to and look back upon. And with the strength of our love as it is, just imagine what bright things await our future! This is only the beginning! Are those things that every husband promises his new wife? Perhaps… but I mean them, Alanna, more than I have ever meant anything else.” He bowed his head and kissed her ring, and then gave her one more tender kiss to her lips before allotting her the distance needed to ride on to Rozeshire.

The gatekeeper looked down in surprise as two more visitors arrived outside of Rozeshire’s gate. Weren’t there three others just minutes before? And last week, Lady Mennah’s Scottish cousins had arrived. Of course, it was all because of the wedding, which was only days away. The gatekeeper should hardly be surprised! But he couldn’t help but gawk a little at the state of the approaching lady’s dress. And was that a sword he saw tucked into her belt?

“Good day, sir! My lady and I have arrived for Lady Mennah and Sir Armand’s wedding. We are not too late, are we?” Lancelot greeted, his tone turning hopefully inquisitive. He had to say, during the delightful pleasures of his honeymoon, he had lost track of how many days had gone by, although he could be certain that it was not more than a month.

The gatekeeper asserted that they had arrived in time, and then they told him their names, and he quickly found them on the list of invited persons. As the portcullis was raised, Lancelot felt his excitement gather. He could not wait to see his good friends again, and take part in all the joy that was sure to ensue.

After they rode inside and settled their horses into the stables—a pleasure in itself, since they had not come upon a stable for a while! Clarric took great delight in the rich feed he was given, and the soothing brushing from one of the stable hands. Lancelot took Alanna’s hand and walked with her into the stone courtyard, gazing up in awe at the tall exterior of the castle.

“My word! We are in Rozeshire—Lady Mennah’s beloved home! I had never met a lady who was more fond of her birthplace, if one is to judge such affections upon the length at which she spoke about it,” Lancelot said cheerfully, looking all about his surroundings. His hand drifted to a pouch he carried on his person, which contained the relic chalice. He pulled it out and looked at Alanna with bright eyes, cradling the object with the utmost care. “We must find Sir Armand!”

Mennah’s temper cooled somewhat at Armand’s bidding for peace. She did not want to upset him, but she could not let such remarks fly against her friend. She however was finally forced to be appeased when Mordred finally apologized to Maraud, but a distinct distrust shown in her eyes. She felt very conflicting emotions in him (and though she’d not picked up his lust from his rage and her own) emotions she didn’t like. The only thing that kept him from being sent through a window, was the fact she did feel brotherly affection for Armand from him. She was nearly tempted to do so anyways after he demanded she apologize for sending her conjured wind at him!

“My apologies Sir, I misjudged your strength. I did not think my little gust would shake you so. My mistake.” Mennah said with an edge that indicated she wasn’t in the least bit sorry. Ralcia, sensing another impending confrontation, interjected.

“Dear cousin, I believe it time we headed for the kitchens to complete the menu. Your cousin Alec should be back soon with his kill for tonight’s meal. We’ll have a room made up for you Sir.” Ralcia said addressing Mennah then Mordred. Mennah let out a silent sigh to keep down her temper and then turned to Armand, her eyes warming to their normal light green as she gave him a loving embrace before replying to his earlier words.

“I’ll try not to fight with him love, but please remind your friend not to address my friends as such again.” Mennah said to him eyes a bit pleading. She then placed a tender kiss upon his lips before departing with Helena, Ralcia and Alice.

He had quickly put the bow away. Roryn was pretty sure he could best a whelp like Mordred any day. After all, Roryn had once been called a "prodegy" of knighthood in his youth, and that training hadn't left him yet. He was disgusted at that thought that once upon a time he actually wanted to be like these so-called "Chivalrous Knights". It mattered not, though. Roryn got what he wanted, an apology from Mordred, which was satisfying enough for the moment. Of course, it was still unclear if Mennah was satisfied.

He didn't pay anymore mind to Mordred when his daughter was now in his arms, "There's my girl..." he said playfully to his baby girl, "...Making new friends, are we?" he asked her, talking about Liam. He did follow Maraud when beckoned, it would be nice to get away from knights and nobles for awhile.

"Arrogant little whelp." he said of Mordred, "Does the king knight everybody these days? I could swear that knights were much greater in my day then they are now." he muttered. Even Sir Rowan was a good and honorable man in the early days. Roryn hoped that not all of Arthur's knights were like Mordred, there was something about him that just made Roryn distrust him. It had nothing to do with what happened earlier, either. Something about that young man just wasn't right, Roryn could feel it in his gut.

In fact, he was even pretty sure that Maraud would have sensed something in her fey intuition, "There's something I distrust about that knight... I can't put my finger on it but my gut tells me not to trust him... what do you make of him, dear?"

Armand chuckled at the fire in his love's tone, shooting a look to Mordred as though to convey a sense of 'is she not precious?'. He loved Mennah's ability to stand in the face of adversity, it made him proud that he had managed to find such a spirit to claim as his wife. Of course, even seeing how beautiful Mennah was while enraged caused him to be proud of his fortune in obtaining her. How many women had he chased who were quiet, meek, so feminine that they (in hindsight) seemed to having nothing beyond their fanciful dress and what lay beneath it? But with Mennah, his thorned rose, Armand doubted he could ever become bored. Even as she was bickering so politely with his dearest friend, Armand found himself absent-mindedly curling a bit of her auburn hair round one of his fingers, momentarily lost in the sheen of it. The light flush that rose to her cheeks as she worked herself up and out of a rage were like a pair of fair blushing apples, a double temptation that Armand was happy to have dangled before himself.

And with his beloved tucked under his arm, and so beautiful in her diplomatic insults, Armand was almost entirely distracted as the matter resolved itself. Roryn was placated, Maraud was thrilled with her lover, and Mordred had even apologized for his honest mistake. Armand nodded his thanks to his friend, waved farewell to Maraud (his eyes lingered on Liam, his lips tugging into a light smile as the boy wiggled his fingers shyly at him) and then served Mennah a disappointed look as she was being drawn away. His arms fixed tightly about her form as he allowed himself a quick moment to enjoy the contours of her frame pressed against his own. He returned her sweet kiss and trailed his fingers along her jaw, huffing gloomily as he looked at the women seeking to pull her away.

"I'll...ah...speak to him, my sweet," Armand replied with a wry smile to her request, stroking her cheek affectionately. He hesitated, but decided his original goal in speaking with her must wait until they had some sort of privacy. "I..." Armand cleared his throat, "I shall speak with you later, then, my dearest."

And Armand at last released his bride to be, though his eyes followed her swaying, retreating form as a thirsted man would a retreating well. Once he was again alone with Mordred, Armand chuckled and shook his head, still looking at the corridor Mennah had left through. Then he turned and clapped Mordred on the shoulder, his most characteristic and boisterous grin appearing on his face. He motioned for Mordred to accompany him along through the halls, intent on finding a piece of parchment and a quill so that he could more effectively communicate with his friend. But once again, he was halted by a steward.

"My Lord, there are more guests here seeking your presence..."


------


Alanna's happiness and giddiness had only seemed to increase with Lancelot's words, and now they were at last within Mennah's home and awaiting Armand's arrival. Oh, but how delighted would the pair be when Armand's voice was granted to him! Surely, no couple could be as content in life as Alanna and Lancelot were at that time, but surely they would be pleased none the less.

Grasping Lancelot's hand in a manner that conveyed her buzzing joy, Alanna peered around with interest and awe at the home Mennah had always spoken so fondly of. She could imagine Mennah as a small girl child, with her pointed ears and the hem of her dress dirty from play, running about through the beautiful rose petals that seemed to fill the air and chasing servant's children in a fair game. And thoughts of children running about in a courtyard of course caused her to think, just as it had caused Lancelot, of the possible future for them and the family they had yet to start. She was perfectly content living in the woods and roaming free with Lancelot as his wife...but the more she thought of it, the more pleasing it became...the thought of children with fair hair and dark eyes running and laughing and playing in the safety of their father's castle. She could practically hear the healthy laugh of a happy baby...

"Ah, Lancelot, but Lady Mennah surely does have the most beautiful home I have yet seen...save perhaps my own fair Greensbury, of course," Alanna grinned as she squeezed her husband's hand and admired the vivid colors of a small plant that grew nearby. She stroked the brilliant purple leaves curiously, but was brought back to the exciting moment by the arrival of heavy footsteps. There, in the open doorway, stood Armand. With him was another man, seeming to be of about the same age, but Alanna paid him little more than a passing glance in greeting as she was swept up in an enthusiastic greeting from her former foe.

"Sir Armand! You are looking well, sir!" Alanna laughed as Armand gladly clasped her hand, which was still locked with Lancelot's. She hurriedly brushed a bit of wildly flowing hair out of her face and over her shoulder, glancing again at the darkly shadowed man who accompanied Armand, then looking eagerly to her husband. She had decided that Lancelot, having been the one who had truly championed the sorceress and who had borne the chalice there, should certainly be the one to tell Armand of the gift they had brought him.

“Marrik, Marrik!” Elaine called when she heard his voice not far behind. The horseman who sat next to her kicked his horse’s flank to urge him to his fastest gallop, determined to outrun Skorm. The second horseman, an archer, took out his bow and shot a few arrows in Marrik’s direction, which Elaine could only determine by the startling whistle as they flew past.

“Oh, Lord, oh Lord!” she prayed desperately with strained breath. She almost fell off the sweating steed’s back when the animal made a sudden turn, and veered to the side. She grabbed on for dear life, as the horse continued to race forward, and suddenly into darkness.

The horseman had driven them into the mouth of a cave. It was in fact, a magic cave, for as soon as the first horseman rushed inside it, the boulders at the cave’s mouth rolled together, sealing the orifice with only a slivery crevice as evidence that it was once opened. The earth shook and dust filled the air with the closing of the cave.

The second horseman, however, had been too late. His steed reared up against the blockage, neighing furiously. The man cursed heartily at his misfortune. Then he turned uneasily, looking behind him to see if the lady’s escort was still on his heals. The man really wasn’t being paid enough for the abduction of the Princess of Corbenic. If her escort threatened him with the pain of death, he would certainly tell him where she had been taken.

Elaine’s scream echoed eerily through the dark cavern. She could hardly see what was before her—especially with her vantage point being directed upon the ground. But the horseman seemed to be able to navigate, or else he knew that the cave would continue on for miles in one straight line. Elaine whimpered and shivered—her back was freezing, but her belly was warm and covered in sweat from the horse. The man who rode beside said nothing to her--nor did she have any desire to say anything to him. As they rode deeper and deeper into the cave, in a horrifying extension of blackness, silent save for the mad galloping and panting of the horse, a wide tunnel that she knew not where it could possibly lead to—the only way that Elaine could console her frightfully racing heart was by her earnest prayers to her holy ancestors.

Mordred was still tender from Mennah’s blatant insult. The lady was cruel—she should know never to ridicule the strength of a knight. His cheeks were hot with ire and resentment and shame. The girl had hurt his pride! He would be sure to deny her the honor of marrying his friend. He was now sure that no matter how desirable she was, she was sure to become the nastiest shrew once she was married. She would order Armand around and blow gusts of wind at him and hurt his pride with her womanly powers—Mordred was sure of it.

Fortunately she was lead away by three other (much more docile) beauties, but not before working her charms on her husband-to-be with an enticing kiss and embrace, which Mordred watched irritably. The lady feigned innocence and sweetness—but clearly she was a trap, and Armand was falling for the bait.

Mordred had never been more eager to catch Armand alone. But before he could utter one word in Mennah’s absence, the busy bridegroom’s attention was sought yet again. Mordred stifled a sigh as he ran his hand through his short curls, which had been tossed every which way by Mennah’s vengeful wind. He accompanied Armand to greet his guests, disguising his sourness with congenial regard for his friend.

----

“And let us not forget my own beauteous Lake villa!” Lancelot was sure to add with happy pride when Alanna mentioned Greensbury in addition to the beauty of Rozeshire. “We are all blessed to hail from such fair regions.” He joined her in looking at the curious purple plant before he brought his attention full-forward when Armand came into the courtyard.

“Ah—our dear friend!” Lancelot greeted fondly. He had not seen the knight for many months, and so he rejoiced heartily in Armand's bold demonstration of affection. He had always been inspired by Armand as the very embodiment of the ideals of knighthood. And he was pleased with himself to find that he was not so shorter than Armand now that he had grown into manhood, nor was his hand much smaller when clasped by the strapping knight chiseled fingers.

Lancelot didn’t even notice Mordred, who was standing unobtrusively behind Armand. But Mordred was not very insulted; nay, his attention was quite grabbed by this unfamiliar lady. He was beginning to like Rozeshire quite a bit if every corner he turned, he ran into an exotic beauty. Of course, there were even more beauteous females per square foot in Camelot, and especially in fairy realms, but sadly, those populations were awfully homogeneous. Here in Rozeshire, Mordred was encountering ladies that he had never seen the likes of before—and this newest lady was certainly the most confounding and unique creature he had seen so far. In fact, in all of his life, he had never seen a lady quite like her.

Like virtually all men, he was confused by her attire. Her tunic, chauses and sheath—all of it was absurd to see on a woman. And it was clear that she had never worn a veil, or any head covering at all, for her face had the coloring afforded by long hours in the sun. Even the peasant women wore hats to preserve some of the pallor of their faces!

Mordred interpreted her to be a libertine, or some type of hermitess. Clearly she did not care for convention. Her hair was wild and unbound (and yet, not so long as many noble ladies had, meaning that it had been cut). She wore the signs of a wayfarer—worn, well-traveled clothing. But Mordred would not be so interested in her if she were not attractive. And indeed, she was. Not a goddess like the blond Niniane or the fiery Mennah—no, this was a very human woman. He found himself first drawn to her legs—shapely, clearly a woman’s, but still he did not know a lady could even achieve such lean muscle! All the other pairs of female legs he had seen were made soft and dimpled with idleness—not the lady’s fairest asset. But this woman… her limbs appeared to be just as well-formed as her breasts. And her face was not ostentatiously beautiful, but full of the natural pleasantness he could imagine a man doting upon.

But most striking was no doubt her hair. His gaze intensified as she brushed an untamed blond tress over her shoulder. That was the second time she glanced at him. A distinct longing came over him. Not particularly for this unusual lady—but for Guinevere. The color of her hair was near identical to Guinevere’s.

He had gathered all of these observations while the lady’s companion knight was entertaining Armand with a recount of a quest he had undertaken.

“And after we passed the thirty giant knights unscathed, we entered the Chapel Perilous. There, we had to dodge sharpened lances that flew out from nowhere! My cousin Lionel was struck, but still lives with but a scar upon his chest, and poor Alanna was fairly pinned to the wall! Truly, those lances were murderous, but we escaped them by the skin of our teeth. And then, I encountered a sorceress, who gave me my father’s shield, but not without casting a spell on me first, to do whatever she asked. It was Alanna who broke the spell—and in such a clever way, too. She resorted to screaming her throat hoarse! I heard her and came bounding down the stairs, using my father’s shield to fend off yet more lances!”

Mordred’s attention was now drawn to the unfamiliar knight, who’s blazon he didn’t recognize. He wondered what king the bold hero served—bold, of course, if his tale was true. Mordred didn’t believe every tale of peril that he heard—especially if it was told from the lips of the knight himself. Surely he would be tempted to exaggerate.
Mordred hardly believed that this knight was faced against thirty knights at once, each of giant stature. And what was this insinuation that his lady—Alanna, Mordred learned, was her name—had come along with him on his adventure, aiding with her sword and her cleverness? It was unheard of; as abnormal as her dress.

He decided quite instantly that he didn’t like the errant knight. No matter if he had managed to tell a story of himself performing great deeds with an air of humility, or if he had a genuine smile and likable brightness to his eyes. Mordred felt his aversion grow each time he noticed the knight make eyes at his lady—just about every time he mentioned her, and even when he did not. And how had this young knight come to be such bosom friends with Armand, if Mordred had never met him before?

Soon Lancelot had completed his description of the quest, and was ready to present his gift to Armand. “And this is what we gained, Sir Armand—the sacramental chalice of Saint Congar. We sought it for you, my dear friend. It is a wondrous relic, for it can cure your most spiteful injury. It is claimed to give the mute the ability to speak!” Lancelot was breathless with pride and anticipation as he lifted the chalice to show Armand, the silver metal reflected as bright slivers in his brown eyes.

“Like a miracle of Christ Himself,” Lancelot went on. “Armand, how we have longed for this moment to present you with this gift! Oh, how thrilled we will be to hear your wondrous voice again. You’ve had to live long enough with a silent tongue. Now we all will rejoice again in your laugh, and be inspired by your bold vows of gallantry! And just in time to publicly pronounce your love and devotion to Lady Mennah. Ah, I can wait no longer, and I’m sure neither can you! Oh, has anyone have any wine? Perhaps we should look in the buttery--”

“I have wine, Sir Knight,” Mordred finally spoke, stepping forward with a flask that he carried on his person. He looked Lancelot in the eye as he handed him his flask.

“Oh!” Lancelot accepted the flask, surprised by the seemingly sudden entrance of a stranger. “Thank you, Sir…”

“Mordred. Sir Mordred of Orkney, a knight of the High Queen’s. An old friend of Sir Armand’s.”

“Ah, well met, Sir Mordred. I am Lancelot,” he introduced himself quickly. Then he added, as an afterthought, “Lancelot du Lac. And this is… Lady Alanna, of Greensbury.” He looked to Alanna, and gave her a look that might suggest that he planned to reveal their marriage at a better time, when Mennah was present.

“Lady,” Mordred said with a suave curtness, the smallest of smiles on his lips. And then he stepped closer, lifted Alanna’s free hand and delivered a knightly kiss to her middle knuckle. Lancelot watched with a flickering smile, and then was quick to bring the attention back to Armand. He poured some of Mordred’s wine into the chalice, and then offered it to his mute friend. He was trembling with such excitement, that he was amazed that he didn’t loose hold of the cup and spill the wine all at their feet.

“A drink to speech, Sir Armand!”

"Considering your hand was just burnt by a flaming cat," Morgan began distractedly, taking in the measures of power she felt and even a little of the scenery. "I'd say that you are the last to be concerned with thinking before acting."

Her words had come accross a little harsher than she would've used if in her foccused mind. It didn't seem to phase her now, for she could hear voices ahead. She turned to the man; obviously partially fey and smiled. "Would'st thou be so kind as to intruduce us? My nephew has gone ahead and I see, failed to do so." Her tone was polite and almost cordial, for she did not recognize the man and wouldn't suffer the lashing for speaking plainly to someone of importance.

As Mennah walked with Ralcia into the kitchen, she was able to sooth her temper enough to realize what she’d done. She was still unhappy with Sir Mordred, and she was sure no one blamed her for her words but him, but what she’d said was beyond insulting…it was wounding. The more she thought about it the more guilty she felt. Mordred had been upset, she’d felt that, and he was only trying to help his friend. For all she knew, he’d mistaken Clarisin’s situation with her name and occasion. That thought was like a bucket of cold water to her rage. He still didn’t have the right for speaking the way he did to Maraud, and she’d not apologize for setting him straight on that, but she did need to apologize for her cruel remark. If nothing else he was a friend of Armand’s and she trusted his judge of character. She decided she’d do so at dinner where he’d already be most accommodated. She set to work on that night’s dinner Menu with the cook, when a flushed looking servant named Melinda came bustling in.

“My Lady! We’ve more guest awaiting in the hall. They claim to be friends of both you and Lord Armand. One is a handsome dark haired man, and he travels with a young Lady who fashions herself in males clothes.” Melinda said without the least bit of ire. The people of Rozeshire were all but numb to that oddity by their own Lady. Mennah didn’t need to hear another word. She dashed down the corridors until she came to the main hall were Armand, Mordred, and two very familiar friends stood. She paused at the opening of the hall for a moment before a brilliant smile broke out on her face, and her eyes regained their warm light green again.

“Alanna, Lancelot!” She cried out with cheer as she dashed up to Alanna and caught her in a friendly embrace. “It’s wonderful to see you both again, when did you arrive?” She asked smiling at them. It was about that moment when Pyro came bounding into the hall and Meowed happily to find Mennah, bringing Morgan and Ywain with him.

They ignored him. He expected as much. They were fools to think they could outrun Skorm. Skorm could gallop a thousand leagues in a single day, or so his mother had boasted when she had presented the black stallion to Marrik. Thus far, Skorm's speed had never let Marrik down, and it wasn't about to start. Skorm stayed right on the heels of the bandits and their horses who were slow compared to Skorm. In fact, Marrik had gotten long side the lead horse, or close to it anyway. He was currently wishing he had a bow. He wasn't a spectacular archer, but the near point-blank range the bandit was within would make it easy for just about who knew how to use a bow.

What Marrik hadn't expected was the cave. Skorm was startled into stopping just as it closed, "Dammit! No matter. I will save Elaine, and if these scum think they can stop me, they'll soon learn who they're dealing with." He said, so angrily it almost sounded like the old Marrik. Luckily for him, one of the poor fools was also left behind.

"You...!" he said, feeling the flare of his Devil's Eyes returning. How was that possible? He had no time to think, Elaine was in trouble. He quickly drew his sword, "Where did they take her!" he demanded, easily disarming the unlucky bandit and pinning him against what used to be the cave entrance at sword point.

"T-to.." the bandit stuttered, the edge of Marrik's greatsword pushed against his throat.

"No matter!" said Marrik, moving his sword and grabbing the bandit by the collar of his tunic, "Because you're taking me there! Unless death is something you were planning to give yourself today!" he said, roughly throwing the bandit to his horse before quickly mounting Skorm, "Now lead!" he ordered, still feeling the flare of the Devil's Eyes. Where had they come from? His mother's death should have eliminated them. Still no time to think. Elaine was all that mattered.

Maraud walked alongside Roryn, still somewhat perturbed from Mordred’s brazen insult. She was holding Liam, distractedly stroking the soft curls on the side of his head as if to calm him—but really doing so to calm herself. She looked at Roryn, and gathered yet more strength and relief from seeing Aurora content in her father’s arms, even though the poor child was still soiled.

Maraud made notice of Roryn’s muttering about the despicable nature of knights those days. “I doubt that if Mordred were not part of Arthur’s family, he would still have been knighted. If one is to criticize Arthur, though he is a goodly king—it is that he favors his nephews far too blindly. Especially those Orkneys… of course, it is understandable politically that he would want the support of the sons of his former enemy, the deceased King Lot… and truly, when his eldest Gawain declared his support for Arthur, Lot was infuriated and suffered greatly for the loss of his best son.”

Maraud knew all this from visions and word of mouth—especially from her chats with Queen Morgan. “There have always been wicked knights, dear. But I do have to say, it seems that there is an even greater proliferation of black-hearted knights these days, who so besmirch the Code. Evil is on the rise, I fear,” she whispered, keeping her voice low so as not to startle the children.

When they reached the nursery, Maraud exchanged Liam for Aurora, laying her daughter on a bit of cloth to clean and change her.

“You’re right in not trusting that Mordred, Roryn,” Maraud agreed. “Even if I had not the intuition that I do, I would still think him a scoundrel. You heard what he called me. An absolute scoundrel!”

She finished with Aurora, took Liam from Roryn and placed the two toddlers together in a basinet. She took off their little shoes so they could play with each other’s toes. After playfully poking his foot, Aurora chortled and wrapped her arms around Liam affectionately.

As the toddlers were occupied, Maraud leaned close to Roryn, hugging him about the neck and shoulders. “You did marvelous well in defending me, my love. And the moment you came forth and challenged Mordred—I had not even known that you were close by! Hmm… but you have never been far when I have needed you, my dear…” She then closed the gap between them and expounded on the kiss of gratitude she had given him earlier.

After a bit, she gently parted her lips from his and rested her head on his chest. Her mood became pensive as she thought deeply of her daughter. “What kind of woman do you think Aurora will grow up to be, Roryn? Do you think we are providing enough education for her? Might we want to think of a… a societal role for her, perhaps? Will she be an artisan, as I am, or a huntress, in her father’s example? Or what if… what if she wants to be a knight, like Mennah or Alanna? What would you think of that?”

Finally, the cave had come to an end, and Elaine could see light again! She closed her eyes with the sudden brightness as they rode into daylight. She was still frightened of the abductor who carried her on his horse, but she worked up enough courage to make a meek request: “I beg you, sir, would you let me sit upright?” She was very weary of being strewn across the saddle, her legs hanging off of one side and her bound arms off the other.

To her surprise, her captor saw reason in her request and he halted for a moment and pulled her up to sit as one is supposed to sit in a saddle. She finally had a good look at him—an ugly, filthy man with a harsh face and a grotesquely crooked nose. “Sir, where are you taking me?” she asked, her voice shaking.

“Castle Briefbras. No more questions from you!” he croaked harshly. Then he jolted his horse forward and continued to drive his horse at a hard gait.

Elaine was hushed by his reply. Castle Briefbras! It was close to Corbenic—and it was where a despicable sorceress was reported to reside! Many knights had tried to storm the castle and defeat the sorceress, but from what she heard, the fortress was virtually impregnable. And many damsels were known to be lost behind its walls… was that to be her fate, the prisoner of Castle Briefbras for the rest of her mortal existence?

The horseman traveled through the deepest woods, and they passed not another person the whole time. If Elaine had seen a knight, she would have surely screamed for help. But her situation was looking more and more hopeless. She doubted she would ever see Marrik again. More despairing tears began to run down her round cheeks.

They reached the castle by the end of the day. Elaine could hardly believe they reached it with such speed. Surely, there must have been some magic in that cave tunnel that reduced their journey. Elaine was pulled off the horse and marched up the steep mound upon which the castle sat broodingly. There was one thing she had to be grateful for—she had not been harmed by her abductors, beside that knee to her jaw, which was still tender to the touch. She was also considerably hungry, but she hadn’t expected her captor to feed her.

She was taken into the forbidding castle, and saw the last of her captor, after he was paid for his duty of kidnapping her. Her new retainer met her in the hall: a beauteous lady, wearing a fashionable hennin headdress. She carried a spiral staff in her hand—Elaine had no doubt that she was the wicked sorceress she had heard about, and was the true arranger of her capture. The lady made no sudden gesture of malice. She fed Elaine, and then briefly interviewed her—polite conversation that Elaine would expect from any noblewoman.

But the next thing she did was revealing of her evilness. She told Elaine that she was to be her prisoner, and she led her up one of the castle’s many tall towers. Elaine gasped when they entered the chamber—there, curled up around a bath tub, was a scaly dragon! It was small for a dragon, yes, allowing it to have fit into the chamber. But it was still a formidable beast, and Elaine balked at the door when she saw it.

“Now, come now, Elaine,” the sorceress goaded, grasping Elaine’s arm tightly. “The dragon won’t hurt you—not unless you attempt to escape. Now, take off your clothes.”

Elaine’s eyes widened as she stared at the sorceress. “No, Madam, I would prefer to keep my clothes.”

But she was soon persuaded otherwise when the dragon lifted its reptilian head and blew thin streams of smoke out of his nostrils. Elaine swallowed, her eyes fixed fearfully with the great yellow ones of her dragon sentinal. Then she uncomfortably removed her gown and chemise, until she was standing between the sorceress and the dragon, stark naked, although modestly attempting to cover herself with her hands.

“Get into the tub. Don’t mind the dragon. Just step over his tail,” the sorceress instructed, seeming to take delight over Elaine’s humiliation. Elaine did so, sinking into the tub’s water up to her neck. She watched nervously as the dragon turned his head to the bottom of the tub and blew a steady stream of fire under her. She stood up in the tub as the water began to heat, and the dragon hissed at her as he was splashed with the water she displaced. “Let me out, please!” she pleaded to the sorceress.

“Sit down, Elaine,” the sorceress shook her head. “You will be sitting in this tub for all hours of the day. Only when you need to use the chamberpot, will the dragon permit you to step out of the tub for one minute, five times a day. Otherwise, you will eat your food in the tub, and sleep in the tub. And spend all your waking hours in the tub.”

Elaine had had enough. She had accepted her fate with little rebellion before this. But now that she was told what was to be the nature of her imprisonment, she was charged with vehement protest. She defied the sorceress and stood up in the tub. “No! You cannot keep me like this! You vile witch! Let me go!”

She attempted to step out of the tub, but her leg was immediately snapped at by the dragon. It was enough of a vicious demonstration to convince Elaine to sit back down in the tub. She sat, stunned, staring as the sorceress smugly left and closed the door behind her. The dragon continued its fire-breathing, heating the water to a temperature that was barely tolerable to Elaine. She moaned sorrowfully as the hours passed, her skin turning bright pink and tender as the water slowly burned her.

“Ohh… Is this to be my lifelong torment—to boil in this infernal tub? Oh God, if only you would strike me dead and end my misery!” Elaine mourned. It seemed that the only way she could keep from going insane was to think of Marrik, and hope that he would find her somehow, even though her rational mind told her it was impossible. Or even not to hope that he would rescue her, but to just think of the short time she had spent with him… or even to just to think of his face, brought her the most comfort during her torturous imprisonment.

"Mennah!" Alanna cried in greeting, returning her friend's embrace warmly. When they had first met, Alanna had found Mennah somewhat irritating. Her entitlement to such oddities from the typical female life, running about in trousers and launching off fiery arrows, all while Alanna herself had forsaken family, friends and gender itself seeking the same freedoms. But through their ventures together, Alanna had grown fonder and fonder of Mennah, and even Armand. "Ah, my dear friend, it is so wonderful to see you! You look well!"

"Nay, Lady Alanna. She looks radiant."

Alanna grinned over at Armand, who had spoken with the widest grin she had ever seen and was holding a now empty chalice. Armand had one hand each on Lancelot and Mordred's shoulders, and the look of his face was brighter than all the pride within King Arthur's court. With his head held high and his teeth gleaming fiercely in the light, Armand laughed and held his hand out to his beloved.

"Sir Mordred, my brother, I must proudly introduce you to my beloved, my beautiful wife to be...Lady Mennah of Rozeshire." Armand thrilled at the depth of his own voice, long forgotten in days of silence. He laughed again, the deep, rich sound bouncing off around the walls and filling the air, and threw his arms around Lancelot, Alanna and Mennah in a single fierce hug. "Sir Lancelot, my good friend! I am indebted to you!"

Alanna laughed as well, her eyes brimming with tears of joy. She had been gifted with nothing but good and good news as of late; her honeymoon with the most precious being on the Lord's green earth, whose divine nature had somehow been simplified into 'husband,' her reunion with her friends, and now Armand's voice returned. Even she, who had developed such a talent for masking her emotions and down playing her womanly feelings, began to happily weep. But if only for a moment, she felt her eyes flicker back over to Mordred, and her thoughts drift to the oddly cold feeling she had received as he set his eyes on her, and the sensation that ice had been pressed to her skin when he kissed it.

Marrik was getting angrier. He was half-fey, and thus could sense magic in the cave. His... for lack of a better word... companion (or captive, depending on how you look at it) explained everything to Marrik. Well, luckily for Marrik, he knew exactly where this Castle Briefbras was: near Corbenic. Still, he forced his companion to take him there, so he couldn't go raise an alarm of any kind.

The bandit had chosen to comply, because he would be killed otherwise. That cave, tunnel actually, had been a shortcut of sorts to Briefbras. He and Marrik would have to go via a slower route, which would take 3 days and 3 nights. Marrik wouldn't have it.

"No!" he shouted, feeling his Devil's Eyes becoming stronger, "That's not good enough! Abandon your horse, we both ride Skorm!" he ordered, and galloped Skorm at full speed when he hd secured the passenger.

With Skorm's incredible speed, the 3 days and 3 nights were reduced to single day and night, mostly because Marrik refused to stop save to give Skorm a chance to catch his breath and have a drink of water. (By this time frame, Marrik's arrival would be the morning after Elaine's)

The trip itself was uneventful. Marrik and his companion, whose name was Taven, scarcely spoke. Taven, as he explained in their rare conversations, was simply an archer for hire, but said this job wasn't worth the pay he was promised. Marrik offered Taven a piece of his father's wealth in the castle if Taven assisted in Elaine's rescue, and so a business alliance was made.

It was now the morning of day 2, and Castle Briefbras was in view, "Looks like we're here. You do know this is probably suicide, right? I'm told the sorceress keeps a dragon in there." he said, knowing Marrik would be unswayed.

"It matters not!" Marrik barked, "Elaine is in there, and I'll cut down anyone who gets in my way." he said, still sounding like his old self. He still felt the power of his Devil's Eyes, so any illusion put up would be seen through by Marrik's eyes.

"Figures... you two must be quite an item for you to risk your neck like this..." he mused, but Marrik ignored him and cloaked himself.

"Tell them you were left behind in the attack and have come for your pay." he told Taven as they dismounted Skorm.

"But what about you?" Taven asked, turning to look at Marrik who was fishing something out of Skorm's saddle bag, "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Making myself unseen." he said, holding up a potion vial. Marrik still had many of his mother's potions, and brought a handful along on his trip to Corbenic in case he needed magic for any reason. Mother's potions were extremely powerful, and why not? She was Queen Mab after all. This one would, in a nutshell, turn Marrik into a ghost. Essentially, his body would become like that of a spirit: invisible, and be able to pass through solid objects. The drawback of this potion was the short duration of the transformation. It would also restrict Marrik from interacting with people, as his voice would go unheard and his hands would pass right through them. Still, it would be enough to get Marrik inside and, with luck, find Elaine in time for the potion to wear off. He could then fight his way bck out with ease.

"What is that? Some kinda potion?" asked Taven, eyeing the vial.

"Don't worry about it. Just get in, and wait for them to raise an alarm." said Marrik, watching Taven shrug and continue on, "I'm coming Elaine." he said, then drank the potion.

Mennah smiled at Alanna as she remarked upon her well being, and then she heard Armand’s remark and turned to smile at him for the complement, and miraculously, everyone else heard it as well. Her eyes widened as she realized his voice had returned, and her face lit up with joy! He was healed, and would no longer have to suffer being mute. She was quickly pulled into a fierce hug by Armand with Lancelot and Alana, and she returned it happily.

“Dearest, It’s wonderful!” Mennah said happily, overjoyed to see him so happy.

Helena stood in the background with Ralcia letting their cousin have her moment with her friends. Ralcia in particular was happy to see Armand healed. She then heard the soft meowing near her ankle and looked down.

“Oh Pyro, I didn’t see you there. Excellent timing though, I’m sure cook would love your help in the kitchens, it appears we have more guests today.” Helena said looking back up only to find Morgan and Ywain coming. She then spotted Ywain’s hand, and made heist walking to his side.

“Oh dear, you’ve done quite a number on that hand of yours. Hold on a moment and I’ll have it healed good as new.” Helena said not giving the young knight much choice as she took hold of his wrist, and poured some of her enchanted healing water on his hand. She then placed hers upon his, and the water glowed, healing his hand. She then slipped the bottle of healing water back into the pouch inside her dress.

“Where did you come by such a nasty wound Sir knight, I do not believe we’ve met. Are you here for the wedding?” Helena asked, a bit curious.

Mabuz froze when he realized that Lancelot was in the courtyard. At first he didn’t recognize him—since he had grown so, and his hair was longer—he truly had become a man. And Alanna, too—she had become a woman. Then he heard Armand’s voice, like a phantom from the past, and his heart began to pound in his chest. Morgan’s voice was far-away in his ear as she introduced herself. He glanced at her, muttered an apology, and then slipped away from the courtyard, unseen by Lancelot. He just couldn’t stand to meet him at that time, not when Armand’s voice had just been miraculously recovered—not when everyone was so celebratory. He knew he would ruin everyone’s mood if he made his presence known. He walked nervously through the halls, in search of Clarisin, Maraud or Roryn.

Ywain had been watching the healing of Sir Armand from a short distance away, standing with Morgan, his mother. He knew of and respected Sir Armand since they were both knights of Arthur’s, but he did not know him as well as Mordred did. Still, his heart lightened with the happiness he witnessed in Armand and his closest circle.

His attention was diverted, though, when he was approached by a lady—in fact, a truly gorgeous Scottish half-fey. He blinked nervously at her sudden appearance. He had no idea how she spotted the injury on his hand, and he was stunned speechless as she healed him with her touch and a vial of elixir. It was not so much that he was stunned by her magic; for he had a magical mother, and was well aware of the healing arts—but he was invariably stunned by her luminous hazel eyes and her wondrous pallor. And, of course, the fact that she was a lady. Ywain was excruciatingly shy in the presence of any lady save his own mother.

After she healed him, she asked him questions, seeming to be curious about him. They were lost to him for a moment. His face was positively burning as he struggled to make some verbal response while his brains felt like jelly.

“I… thank you, Lady… I… I… er… well, erhm, you see… my hand… I, uh… it was…” he stammered pathetically, his face growing all the redder. It occurred to him that she asked him firstly how he had been burned. He was suddenly ashamed of the answer—that he was burned by a cat—for it suddenly seemed too ridiculous to ever mention to any lady, especially once as beauteous as the half-fey who was now speaking to him.

Mordred took notice of his floundering cousin (and the beauteous half-fey), and slipped away while Armand was celebrating with the other three. “Cousin, might you need a drink of the holy chalice to loosen your tongue? Lord, have out with it! You’re wasting the lady’s time.” He slapped Ywain on the back, a cruel smile on his lips. He was well aware of Ywain’s social awkwardness, for he had tried to cure his cousin of it by introducing him to ladies of Arthur’s court. Every time—even if the lady was hare-lipped and homely, Ywain would react like this—like an utter and laughable buffoon.

“I’m sorry! Argh! Eh—please, Lady, I—er… oh, bother! B-Beg your pardon, lady!” Ywain finally gave up, storming away with his hand on his face. He went to the stables, where he clung to his steed for comfort. “Ah, Cloven-Hoof, whatever is the matter with me?” He rested his forehead on Cloven-Hoof’s neck, and breathed in the soothingly familiar smell of his horse.

“You have lived in the Lake—The Lake? As in, the hidden fairy realm of the Lady of the Lake?” Mordred was becoming ever the more awed by this Lancelot du Lac. He still didn’t like him, but since he saw the miracle that Lancelot had bestowed upon Sir Armand (in truth, a gift like no other, and Mordred was genuinely exultant, although bitter that he had not found the chalice himself)—he had attached himself to Lancelot’s side and picked the squire’s brain—while feigning all the friendliness he could.

He was sure to claim a seat next to Lancelot at supper that evening, and it was here that he learned where Lancelot hailed from. “My God, man—tell me what it is like! What did you eat? Where did you sleep? How did you breathe? What were the ladies like? Answer my last question first, sir. I do love ladies of all sorts, even those that are green and part-fish.”

Lancelot laughed; indeed, Mordred had a talent for humor. “Nay, not all of the ladies of the Lake are green and scaly, Sir Mordred. Ah, but Sir, enough about myself! I want to hear more about Camelot.”

Mordred waved his hand to dismiss it. Then he drank of his goblet, which loosened his tongue. “There is only one woman worth mentioning from Camelot... Queen Guinevere.” His voice turned husky as he uttered her name. He then quite inadvertently licked his lips, tasting of the sour wine that lingered upon them. His eyes were far-away and pining.

Lancelot said nothing, but he did smile and looked at Alanna briefly, who sat to his right. Mordred caught the furtive glance and a bit of malice flashed in his eyes. Why would Lancelot look to his lady when Queen Guinevere was mentioned? Did he know that his lady had the very same golden sheen to her hair as Guinevere? Mordred turned to his wine again and drank deeply of it, his resentment for Lancelot growing.

Lancelot, now that his conversation with Mordred was at a lull, leaned in close to Alanna and mumured softly in her ear: “Should I tell them, my love?” He felt there was no better time, so he rose from his seat and pulled Alanna up with him, clasping her hand, and stroking the ring upon her finger. He cleared his throat. “If I may have everyone’s attention, Alanna and I wish to announce our… well, that we are newly wedded! How we wish that you all could have been present at the ceremony, but it seemed appropriate that it was a small gathering of both our families, in Alanna's birthplace of Greensbury. But aren’t we ever glad of it! Exulted, truly…” He gazed meaningfully at Alanna, his eyes soft and dewy. “Our wedding had been a long time in coming. Dear Lady Mennah and Sir Armand, how we wish you just as much happiness and contentment when you are wedded!” He smiled benevolently at his friends.

Mordred’s throat smarted as he fairly inhaled his drink. What was this? Lancelot had been married before he was even knighted? Who ever heard of a squire getting married? And to a lady who wore chausses? Well, one did have to keep in mind that Lancelot was raised in an unconventional setting—but marriage was virtually unheard of in fairy realms! Mordred had to wonder—did this naïve fool even know what marriage entailed? Did the lady even know? Why didn’t she honor her husband by dressing like a real lady, not like a squire?

Despite these vehement objections permeating Mordred’s internal thoughts, he faked a smile (which really looked more like a smirk), and raised his goblet. “A toast—to Lancelot and his blushing bride!” His eyes fixed on Alanna, a wily ark twisting his dark brows as he envisioned how he might make a cuckold of this young Lancelot.

“Thank you, Sir Mordred,” Lancelot turned to him, a bit surprised that his marriage was being toasted by a knight he hardly knew. Nonetheless, he smiled obligingly and lifted his goblet to him and took a sip of the wine. Then he turned to Alanna again and bent his head to give her a small, quick celebratory kiss.

Armand had remained surrounded by his friends since his miraculous healing. He had spoken at great length with Lancelot of the adventures the younger man had been through since they had last spoken, and of the matters Armand himself had been enduring since accepting his role as new Lord over Getonsberg. And he had been enjoying time with Mordred when he could boast and laugh and cajole with his friend, Mordred. But more than anything, he had been thrilling at how frequently and how clearly he could speak to Mennah, and let all others know what it was he said to her. That he loved her, that he thought her beautiful and kind and sweet and wise, that he was proud to have earned a place as her husband. Now, at the supper where his dearest friends were gathered, Armand sat with one large arm resting lightly around his beloved, as he leaned in close to her to feel her warmth settled snuggly against his side. He laughed and spoke happily with everyone at the table, his thumb lightly stroking Mennah's shoulder where it lay as though to constantly remind her of his affection.

But despite the happiness of the moment, he still had cause to worry...for he still had a great matter to speak to his betrothed about. But he had decided, with Mordred's arrival and unique insight to such situations, to speak to his old friend on the matter first. He needed some advice.

Alanna was somewhat surprised when Lancelot suddenly leaned over and suggested they reveal the nature of their relationship, but she smiled brightly and squeezed his hand in the affirmative. And why should they not reveal it to their friends? Secretly, Alanna mused on whether or not he wished to make certain their marriage was made public before they were assigned to separate guest rooms, but she was too excited to tease him about it just then. They rose to their feet, drawing the attention of the others, and as Alanna beamed and tightened her shoulders with happiness, Lancelot announced to all present that they had been wed so privately.

"Aye," Alanna added, her voice tight with joy, "If any couple should be so happy as we, then surely they could want for nothing!"

And then, to her great surprise, Armand's strange knightly friend made the move to make a toast for the newly announced couple. She flashed her most friendly smile to him, raising her cup in thanks and drinking quickly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Armand apparently stunned, but he shook himself and jovially agreed to Mordred's toast. But Alanna only vaguely noted this, for she was presently much distracted by Lancelot's kiss, quick as it was. She sighed contentedly and rested her head briefly against his shoulder in a show of marital bliss, before willing him to retake his seat.

"I must say, I am both shocked...and yet unabashed!" Armand laughed as he shook his head and grinned at the young couple. Also, of course, he was a bit jealous. All the work that he had put into wedding his Mennah, and Alanna and Lancelot appeared from the woods as man and wife? And with neither purse nor title to either of their names! It was not the way things were done, of this Armand was certain...but despite his desire to cling to certain traditions, he could not feel ill towards his friends for having found happiness, conventional or not, and he said such in finishing his statement. "For surely it is not the common manner in which a knight...or one who wishes to become one..." Armand looked meaningfully towards both Lancelot and his bride, for he was as of yet uncertain as to whether or not the lady still clung to her impossible wish of knighthood, though her dress and armed nature suggested that she did not yet abandon the idea. And Lancelot was still but a squire, though his spirit and devotion to the code would suggest otherwise! "...would find themselves matched, at least not in the High King's Courts, to my knowledge. Even I think myself...heh...bold, to be taking to my family a wife at an age younger than many knights who have only even begun to consider courting for one, though I feel no lack of desire to do so all the same." Armand raised Mennah's small hand to his lips, offering her a furtive smile. "And you, Sir Lancelot, are yet younger than myself! You feel no ill in committing yourself at this time, Sir?"

Alanna, her hand still happily clutching Lancelot's frowned. Shifting in her seat, she broke from her traditional role as a wife just as she did with her dress. She spoke in answering to a question not directed to herself. "You disapprove, Sir Armand? I must wonder what makes ours so disagreeable a match?"

But Armand shook his head, waving one hand as though to bat away the displeasure in Alanna's face. "Nay, lady, you misunderstand. I merely wonder at what your husband thinks shall come of introducing himself as a married man while also an errant...knight."

Alanna's frown deepened, and she leaned forward to better engage in the conversation. "I see no fault in an errant servant of both king and God who has followed in the instruction of both in finding himself a devoted mate, all the while granting evidence to any who may be bothered to witness that he is a just and noble-hearted man! And I am yet even younger than my Lord, do I ere as well in tying myself so young?"

Armand held up one finger, chuckling. "Ah, but lady, there is great difference there. Women often marry far younger than men. I have met widows younger than yourself, and mothers of squires, too. Even our fair queen, Her Majesty Guinevere, was but of the tenderest age when she consented to be a wife. Now she boasts two strong children, each nearly old enough to be either seeking a fortune or seeking a spouse for themselves! Is it not so, Sir Mordred? Aye, and Her Highness, as you know, is nary old enough to be much discernible from your own self, Alanna."

This last bit might have roused a chuckle from those who had been present at the lack two years past, for how many souls had mistaken Alanna for the queen with no encouragement from the poor girl herself? And then, even Armand had been fooled when the similarities had been made purposeful...But despite her amusement at the cryptic joke, Alanna shook her head and more firmly placed her arms around Lancelot's.

"Even still, Sir Armand. If nothing else, I would think that my fortunate marriage," Here she doted upon Lancelot with a brief yet all-encompassing, adoring glance, "Might be seen as more pure, exactly for the reason that it was not founded on age, station or tradition. I consented to be my dear Lord's wife for the simple fact that I have found love for him, and it would taste a lie if I were to not act upon it. For truly, Sir, what do matters of age, titles, purse, or even the views of all others save the Lord Himself have to do with matters of deepest love and devotion? I wish to serve my husband as both he and Dearest God see fit, and I would feel myself a blasphemer to do anything besides."

At this, Armand laughed and bowed his head, sweeping his free hand towards Alanna as though conceding some match. "Well said, lady, and well be with you. Lord, Lancelot, but I pray for your sake you argue little!"

"I honestly can't say." said Roryn, responding to Maraud's question regarding their daughter, "But whatever happens, she'll always have our love and support." he said, glancing out window nd raising an eyebrow.

"So he speaks again?" asked Roryn, "I can hear Armand from here... Lancelot's here, too, and Alanna..." he said to Maraud, knowing she would have liked to be informed of such news, "Hmm..." he noticed Mabuz slipping away from the crowd, "You take the kids to meet Lancelot and Alanna, I'll catch up." he said, leaving the room.

He made his way outside. It was easy enough to spot Mabuz, the only young man with green skin, "You're sulking." he told him, knowingly, "If you don't want to greet your brother just yet... then what say you to a quick hunt? We'll kill a dear or two and be back by supper." he suggested, resting a hand on Mabuz's shoulder, "If anything, it'll clear your head." he said, gesturing for Mabuz to come with him.

Mennah couldn’t wipe the smile off her face at dinner, she was simply too blissfully joyful. Her dear friends were here, Armand could speak again, and all seemed right with the world. Mennah had avoided to wine, mainly because she liked having a clear head, but the men, Armand included, enjoyed their cups in merriment. She simply enjoyed the feeling of Armand’s arm around her as he happily conversed in a way he’d been denied for two years. It filled her heart to joy to know he would no longer have to suffer from the wound he’d received on her behalf those two years ago. She then listened to the conversation between Armand and Alanna, with Alanna seeming to be the victor. She then smiled at her friend, not wishing to see anyone unhappy in her hall.

“Age truly is no obstacle for love my friends, and I wish you both the best of luck in matrimony. Your love is truly a wondrous tale that I hope will inspire many more loves for ages to come.” Mennah said with sincerity to them both.

As conversations continued, Mennah remembered her resolve to apologize to Armand’s friend Mordred, and turned to him as well, holding the friendliest smile she could muster to him, though it still looked slightly weary.

“Sir Mordred I do believe I owe you an apology. When we first met this afternoon, it was not on the most gracious terms, and though I’ll not apologize for setting you straight on your comment to Maraud, my own words to you after were out of anger and were insulting. I do not wish to dishonor you such, so please forgive my earlier words, for surely they could not be true.” Mennah said kindly to him, her smile gaining warmth as she went on.

“It’s an honor to house one of my dearest’s friends in my hall, and I do hope you enjoy your stay in our fair lands until after the wedding.” Mennah finished snuggling into Armand’s side slightly.

Meanwhile as their conversation went on, Helena had strategically placed herself beside Ywain, determined to get him to talk to her. He was a bit of an oddity to her, and oddities fascinated her to borderline obsession. It was like when she read a book in the Glen about a subject she’d never heard of before, and she’d spend days in the study reading all she could find on it. She’d not leave him be until he answered all her fascinated questions. She knew very little of Arthur’s knight, other than what Alec’s biased descriptions entailed, and she was determined to know all she could of this knight and his Camelot. She found his shyness a bit adorable, and a relief from the bold pushiness from the Scottish knights of her native highlands. “Blushing Knights” her mother had said, were unique to England, but not necessarily a bad thing. She believed Ywain fit that description quite nicely.





At the momentary were Ladies Juliana and Mary waited, both sisters currently occupied the study. Though Mary with a bit less interest than Juliana. Juliana was always the more liberal of the two sisters. At home while Juliana was in the study, Mary was either busy at work in the sewing room, or in the gardens. Mary always liked to keep her hands busy on tasks, while Juliana held the same concept with her mind. It was quite tranquil in the study until a monk came bustling in.

“Ladies, it appears your friends have returned.” He said smiling at them both. Juliana quickly shoot out of the room running through to halls of he monastery to reach to gate, and a certain knight who waited there for her. She stopped only once at a mirror, checking to see if she’d properly done her hair that morning, and to her great relief had. She then continued her dash to the gate until Lionel was in sight, and beamed at him. Mary followed behind her, easily keeping pace with her.

“It is good to see you well Sir.” Juliana said happily to Lionel, simply grateful he was alive.

“And you as well Sir.” Mary said to Bors with a tender smile, not wishing to leave the handsome young knight out of their thanks, knowing Juliana likely had eyes only for Sir Lionel.

Lancelot was not entirely surprised by Sir Armand’s reaction—which was, indeed, a positive reaction for the most part—but Armand’s gentle question still made him give pause to consider. He was again concerned by the fact that he might have married too hastily (or consummated, anyway, for his marriage had come at a bit of a surprise, even to himself), because he was not yet a knight. Until he was knighted, he still did not feel like a full-grown man. Was it right of him to marry Alanna when he could still be considered a boy by some? Was it right for him to declare loyalty to a lady before he declared loyalty to a king?

He trusted the opinion of Sir Armand, his elder (by a year, of course, but still his elder), and his superior in title and wealth. Armand seemed to go about everything the conventional and honorable way—that is, he spent a long while courting a respectable lady, who he had not decided to marry until he was endowed with his own estate and affluence and a lofty title of a Lord. And now that they were to be married, it would be a very public affair, with all of their friends invited and plenty of time devoted to planning. While Lancelot… well, his marriage had been something like a happy accident. And he had been ever the mirthful about it… but since his idol and superior, Sir Armand, questioned his age and readiness in being made a married man, Lancelot was made to question himself and his decisions. And as he did so, Alanna stepped in to answer for him.

Mordred’s eyes fairly popped out of his head. The question had been so cleary directed at Lancelot, that even Alanna should know that she was brazenly trespassing upon the rights of her husband—her lord and superior. If Mordred had a wife that spoke out of turn in such a manner—he shook his head in incredulity—surely he would let her know (in one way or another), that such a breach was not permitted. He would have at least corrected her then and there—but amazingly, Lancelot did nothing, and even seemed to turn to his wife as if he was interested in what she had to say.

Then he realized, though, that Lancelot was raised by the most powerful of females—the Lady of the Lake. No doubt he had been cultivated to respect females as his superiors. Mordred could imagine what his role had been under the Lake… a most revolting upbringing as a male concubine. And he was trained in arms, of course, because that was the occupation that was most desirous to the fey ladies. And most likely he had been so attracted to a lady who dressed like a man, carried a sword and spoke out of turn because she so clearly flaunted her equality with men.

After Armand’s second assertion, Lancelot was prepared to speak. But he noticed that Alanna was also determined to do so (from the manner in which she leaned forward), so he shut his mouth and let her have it. Mordred could not believe it, and continued to watch the exchange between Armand and Alanna with twisted pleasure. Lancelot was looking quite the fool, if he let his lady speak for him not once—but twice! Lord, but the lady did look fetching when she was frowning so candidly. He had seen her crying with joy earlier—how he wished to see what her unladylike expression looked like when she was in pleasure.

Then Alanna betrayed her ignorance. Mordred stared at her—his lust subsiding—and merely just confounded. Where did this lady come from that she would not know that in all circumstances, she should be married right now and pregnant with her third child? Was she raised in a fairy realm as well, and told that she should accept to be married at the same age as men?

Again Guinevere was mentioned. Mordred stiffened, but he duly replied to agree with Armand. “Aye, it is so. It is indeed a rarity to find a husband and wife who are nary the same age.” He shook his head, surprised that he even had to assert such a seemingly obvious fact. He was also wondering about Armand’s implication—something about Alanna knowing that she looked to be of Guinevere’s age? Indeed, so it was. Guinevere, even though she was surely advanced in years than this young lady, was blessed with a seeming eternal youth. She still looked twenty, even though she was a decade beyond that. And to add to Mordred’s intrigue, Lancelot seemed to smile just as he had when Guinevere had been mentioned earlier.

And then, Alanna fairly stunned them all with a most impassioned speech, calling upon the noblest ideals of Love and Providence, which clearly won her the argument. Mordred sat still, dazed. Even if the lady did speak out of turn, at least she could speak well!

Lancelot was also dazzled. And as Armand made one last request for him to speak, and Alanna seemed to have finally given him the room to do so—Lancelot merely smiled, his face glowing in delight of his eloquent wife. “Nay, Sir Armand, I have nothing to say! My wife and I are not only one flesh and one spirit, but I might now say one mind as well, and one tongue. Alanna speaks beautifully for me, and I need not add anything else. Anything I would add would surely degrade the inspired passion she has left us with.” He spoke his last sentence with considerable slowness, as he gazed into Alanna’s eyes and brushed his hand upon her hands that held to his arm.

Was that ever the epitome of romantic folliness that Mordred had ever heard! He could have retched upon his dinner plate! “Oh, come now, Lancelot!” he interjected, restraining his outrage, but still sounding pithy. “Surely you must have an opinion that is separate from your wife’s. You cannot expect, if you are to come to Camelot and join one of Arthur’s tables, that you will be permitted to have your lady sit next to you and speak for you in front of your knightly peers! I must tell you, Lancelot, in all honesty—you will become the laughing stock of court, and they will throw out Dagonet and make you the jester.”

Lancelot flushed at Mordred’s rebuke. But he was not fazed enough not to voice his reason: “I understand, Sir Mordred, and I thank you for your warning. And I imagine that if King Arthur will so generously have me at one of his tables, I will be competent enough to speak for myself. But that is involving matters of knightly undertakings, and in quite a different setting. Here, at this table, I think Alanna speaks well enough for me, since we are discussing a matter of love and marriage, in which Alanna and I share our views jointly.”

Mordred obstinately refused to voice his acceptance of Lancelot’s reply. Instead, he made a brash stab, to prove himself right. “Ah, but I know what happens to a knight and lady that marries too hastily—even if they claim to have the fortune of love.”

“What is the outcome of such a union, Sir Mordred?” Lancelot asked stiffly. He was affronted by Mordred’s tone—a tone that seemed to carry a lurking threat.

“I have never witnessed a marriage that did not fall to this. But, it is too indecent to mention at the supper table, in the presence of ladies,” Mordred said, his eyes glinting as he looked at both Mennah and Alanna.

Lancelot stared at Mordred, about to further pursue the doom of marriage that was implied but not expressed. But before he did, his ears perked to the sound of baby babble. He looked to the door and saw Maraud enter the room, carrying two toddlers, one of which was giggling and uttering the sweetest sounds of nonsense. The sight made Lancelot forget about confronting Mordred, and instead he rose from his seat—gently separating from Alanna—and went to Maraud, his face turning pleasant and surprised again.

“Oh, Lady Maraud! I did not know that you were here! Oh, how I have missed you!” He stepped close to Maraud and grasped her arms, since it would be impossible to hug her without disrupting the babies. “Are these… your children?” He looked at both of the beautiful babes, a confounded joy upon his face.

Maraud was truly glad to see him, and gave him a kiss in greeting. “Lancelot, are you ever handsome now that you’re grown! And… the babies… yes, but one of them is mine, and the other is not. Can you guess which?” She grinned, hugging both children tightly to her chest.

Lancelot appraised the children for a moment, and then made his decision with a surety, pointing to Aurora. “Surely, she is your child. My, she already has your smile, Maraud! She looks… smart!” He thought of asking who the father was, but he decided against it, since he suspected that Maraud might not even know. He hardly expected that she would still be with Roryn, considering how they did have a predisposition towards bickering.

“Yes, this is my daughter, Aurora. Here, hold her, Lancelot,” Maraud said, handing her baby over to him. Lancelot accepted the small child with all the delicacy and admiration he could manage. “And I know you must wonder who her father is. Can you not guess that as well? It is Roryn!”

“No! You had a baby together? Where is he? Or…?”

“Ah, Lancelot, you think me much too fickle! Yes, we are still together—living together, in fact—and he is here in Rozeshire, and he told me he would be coming shortly to supper.”

“I can’t believe you daughter, Maraud… she is so beautiful…” Lancelot said, staring down at little Aurora, who stared boldly back at him, seemingly unsure of what to make of the stranger. “But who is this other child, with the dark hair?”

Maraud glanced at Armand, and shifted Liam to her other arm. She also noticed Mordred, and sent him a cold look. Then she turned to Lancelot and spoke glibly. “Ah, Liam is the son of one of Sir Armand’s subjects. Oh, but there is Alanna! I want to speak to her!” She glided over to Alanna and smiled brightly at her, patting her shoulder as she took the unoccupied seat next to her.

“Lady Alanna—it is always a pleasure! And your hair—I am overjoyed to see it so long and shining,” Maraud greeted.

Lancelot followed and returned to his seat, on Alanna’s other side, holding Aurora. He looked down at the girl again and found her grasping the green pendant he always wore about his neck—Alanna’s beloved gift to him. Then, to his shock, the baby put the pendant in her mouth.

“Baby Aurora! Please, do remove that pendant from your mouth…” he attempted to coax her, since he was resistant to forcibly touching the girl in any way. Fortunately, Aurora did concede, pulling it out of her mouth along with a long strand of saliva. Then her attention turned to the shiny bejeweled hilt of his sword, which she immediately touched with her tiny hands and began to pull on. Lancelot gasped at the sight of his naked blade, and took hold of Aurora’s wrists to stop her—an act that made her erupt into tears.