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Mordred crossed his arms peevishly. His aunt was giving him more trouble than he had expected. “So… you will not be satisfied until you have my bird. I never knew you had an interest in hawking, Aunt Morgan. But it is not a bother to me. I can just as easily purchase another hawk. Maybe even of a better breed. Shall we go to the mews, or are you much engaged, my Queen?”

He said all of this exceptionally coldly. He saw no point in continuing to challenge her on the matter. It would be best for him to fake a degree of apathy, so that she would not pursue his falcon so heartily.

“But first… mayhaps I should seek out Heath, before he is flayed by Sir Lancelot. That is, if you are still interested in his servitude?”

-----

After Mennah administered her healing, time passed…

-----

Sirs Ywain and Gareth entered the infirmary, more solemn than they usually were. The cousins walked into the cell, hoping to hear the voice of a wakened lady. But they did not—it was only silence and a depressed champion. He was just as they had seen him last—kneeling by his wife’s bedside, with his dark head laid miserably in his arms. And when he lifted his head upon the entrance of his knightly brothers, the lower half of his face was gray with stubble and his eyes were droopy and troubled.

“We haven’t found the little coward,” Gareth spoke first, his normally loud voice cracking in an attempt to be hushed. “He’s run for his life, he has. But you can be sure we looked all over, Sir Lancelot. Mordred claims that he doesn’t know at all where his squire has escaped to.”

Lance languidly rolled his head and sighed a little. He hadn’t asked his friends to seek out the perpetrator of his wife’s injury, but they had volunteered as soon as they heard word of it…. along with any other knights who found the squire’s alleged attacks to be utterly inexcusable.

Lancelot himself had not once stepped out of the infirmary cell. He had high spirits when he saw Mennah attending Alanna with her healing remedies. Soon after, though, even when Alanna’s outward injury was healed by a smearing of Mennah’s paste, he was again troubled. Why did Alanna not wake? He did not hound Mennah on the matter. He knew, without needing to ask, that Mennah had done all that she could. Unfortunately, her magic could do all but wake Alanna from her unconsciousness.

Slowly, Lancelot raised himself and stood straighter for his brothers. “I thank you, Sir Ywain, Sir Gareth. I am weakened by this blow to my lady…” he lowered his eyes to gaze longingly at his sleeping Alanna, moving his hand to hold hers. He had earlier realized that her wedding ring was missing. It was a realization that generated further outrage, but it also gave him a guess as to why the squire would have attacked Alanna in the first place: it must have been because he desired the Ring of Dispel. Not only was it a valuable piece of gold, but it also possessed covetous magic. But its loss stung Lancelot because it was a long-held symbol of his love for Alanna of Greensbury.

The two bachelor knights stayed and tried to comfort their married brother in arms. They did a little, with the help of some food and wine they brought, but Lancelot’s eyes kept returning to glance at Alanna, as if he were hopefully anticipating that she would wake at any moment. Gareth and Ywain saw this, and they knew that their company would do little more for him.

Once Ywain and Gareth had left, Lancelot left his chair and climbed into bed beside Alanna. He held her cherishingly, cradling her dear head, hoping that a gentle touch to it might cure her debilitation. How long would it be like this, he wondered? His love, how long could she last without eating? She could not be force-fed, for she would surely choke. He didn’t know how much time had passed—was it a day? Two? Three? It felt more like a month.

Would it be the slow death of her?

The thought triggered a sense urgency from him—a flow of pleas he voiced aloud. “Please wake, Alanna. Please…” Amazingly, he kept the tears out of his voice. He wanted to sound strong, as if that would be more convincing to the mind within her, as if she was choosing not to wake. Then he gave up his vocal pleas and futilely kissed her hair and forehead. He lowered his head to plant his ear at the very center of her chest, listening to her heartbeat. And even if it was impolite without her conscious permission, he wrapped his arms around her and lowered his hands to her posterior. It made him feel a little bit better.

------

Lionel’s attention to Juliana was a great remedy to his discomfort. “No, no, you have caused me no pain, Julie-” he assured her emphatically when she asked if she had hurt him by embracing him. His words were clipped with surprise as Juliana urged him to the ground and stripped his tunic off with improper haste. He would not admit it, but it was reminiscent of a dream he had once had…

He valiantly ignored the pain as she cleaned his raw shoulder and rubbed it with the herbs. It made it all the easier to benumb himself as he looked up at Juliana and saw the concern so clear in her eyes. She asked if his wound hurt him greatly.

“No, not greatly,” he answered with huskiness added to his French accent. His nostrils flared as he turned his head to look at the state of his wound, and the state of his naked chest with its new hairs he was so proud of. And then there was Juliana, looking so beauteous that he was on the brink of making some sort of love confession to her. But he withheld his amorous sentiments by biting his lip. But he couldn’t keep his arm from lifting, and his hand touching the back of her hair.

All of the sudden the pain in his shoulder caught up to him, and he winced at the sudden stab. He dropped his hand, sucked in a deep breath, and asked Juliana hoarsely—“Lady, was Harold one of ze men zat attacked? Did you see him?”

"Perhaps we should be off then." Morgan nodded, adjusting her hoodlike-scarf around her shoulders. "I have spent far too much time in this stable, more's the pitty."

She brushed brisquely past him, walking rather than turning to another form and leaving in genuine Morganous fashion. She turned at the entrance to look glance at him and raise her lips into a grin.

"As for your servant boy..." She recollected. "Lancelot might have his way with him. It should be more amusing to watch than all the servitude he could afford to give." She hummed a little, a melodious but not altogether musical final jab as his expense. Once they left the stable, there would be no more talk of what had, in fact, transpired here.


____________________________

Down the hall, there could be heard a sort of rythm; clack, step, step, clack. Twas the three legs of Merlin, come at last to see the state of the Lady Alanna. He, as he usually did when he'd foreseen a disaster and was not permitted to interfere, felt a sense of guilt fall like a shadow overhead. Which may have added to the slight infirmity of his physical being on that particular day.

He rapped lightly on the door of the infirmary, hoping someone other than Lancelot would answer. Of all the people who had effected his guilt after foresight, Lancelot seemed the most bemused. As though, even if he'd had a prophetess foster mother, the innocance of the future still belonged to him. Perhaps it was just in his nature to see things thusly.

Dylan could only stare in awe at the massive city that sprawled out before him. He had of course been to Chester and seen the remains of the ancient Roman city there but this was so much more! He could smell thousands of smells, tanners, blacksmiths, stables, cooking fires, everything and anything he could have imagined. And the Castle, what a sight! The fortress in Conwy was nothing but a pile of barren rock upon which a wooden fort stood, and though powerful for Wales it paled in comparison to this mighty citadel. Mighty stonewalls and battlements reared up before him, reaching for the sky in a way he had only thought the Roman’s capable of building.

He did not know it but his jaw had dropped open and he was simply gaping at the view. He didn’t know what he had expected but he knew now that he would be a total stranger here and this sudden thought brought him back to reality quite quickly. He urged his horse onwards, riding easily along the road where people shuffled out of the way of the armoured horsemen, ducking their heads and mutter “m’lord” as they passed. Dylan nodded to the few here and there that caught his eye but his gaze continually was drawn to the great keep that stood above the city.

He only managed the odd sentence to Edric who looked as amazed as he did. “Can you believe the size of this place?” His question came out as they rode under the first major gate into the city proper. “So many people… I didn’t think there could be so many in one place.”

He had started to notice the stink now however; everyone and everything here seemed to stink. The streets of filth, the people of poor hygiene. He himself usually kept meticulously clean, something his adopted mother had insisted and despite his misgivings he had done so and managed to avoid any major sickness for the majority of his life. The people here however sweated away under their woolen cloths and the humid climate.

His eye was suddenly caught by a group of men looking at him, big men like himself with blonde hair and beards, and jovial yet dangerous blue eyes. It occurred to him that they were the first men in his travels he had seen who looked like him and they tuck out amongst the shorter, darker haired Britons. They were speaking in a language that seemed so familiar yet so foreign he couldn’t help but stare. One of them noticed his gaze and raised a mug of ale, grinned, and shouted a greeting in the same strange language. He waved a reply and was past them into the city, it was only several streets later he realized he had understood the man. “Welcome brother.”

He wanted to turn about and return but he was quite thoroughly lost now in the maze of streets and he looked about for Edric, blowing a sigh of relief as he saw the other man gesturing towards a tavern with an attached stables. As they dismounted Dylan took Edric by the elbow for a moment.

“You had best pretend I’m your man around here. I don’t read nor write, they will certainly notice that I am no nobleman.”

The largest place Edric had ever been was Worcester, and it paled in comparison to the splendor of Camelot. The amount of people made Edric uncomfortable, country man that he was. His horse, protested as well, more unused to the scents of the southern locale then anything else. He noticed Dylan was similarly taken, mouth uncharacteristically agape.

Luckily Edric had enough of his wits about him to spot a place for them to stay, just inside the first ring of stone walls. It would suit their wealth. He waved Dylan over and dismounted. He introduced himself to the innhand as Sir Edric of Pershore, which was accurate, and the young man visibly straightened his posture. Edric informed him that they would need accomadation for two, as well as their horses and that their shoes might need a looking at and that their gear and parcels should be taken to their lodgings. He was surprised, however, when Dylan suggested he take charge, at least so far as anyone else new. It made sense.

"Yes, I think your right," agreed Edric. "Let's go have a look at this place."

They went inside. It wasn't affluent, but it was certainly acceptable. Perhaps a little over their budget, but with luck that wouldn't be a problem. It seemed like the kind of place travelers frequented, though, and there were a few other men in the public room as they stepped in. There were looks, sizings up but no great reactions, even from the few men in armour. There were few women, and even fewer who looked respectable.

Edric went through the introductions and their needs a second time to a man behind a desk who could have been the owner. He was a skinny fellow, who looked like he'd be gone and out the window if there were too strong a breeze. All elbows and knees. They recieved two keys, the rules of the house and some directions to some useful shops and services in the area. The man was not unpleasant, though his breath left something to be desired, even for Edric who was used to the scent of manure on every wind. Then he and Dylan each got a pint of the house ale and found themselves a table. They were there. They made it. This was when things became true and their adventure truly began, but only if done right.

"I've been thinking," began Edric before Dylan had finished his first sip. Edric didn't want to get distracted by his companion. "We've got to do this right. You said you want to get an endorsed leave to combat the Saxon's. I think that's possible, but not for two men. What can we do against them short of being a nuisance? We need more swords."

Edric paused to sip from his mug, Dylan raising the eyebrow above his white eye. It was a disconerting look, as the pale orb seemed to bulge at Edric, urging him on.

"Do you remember those men a day or two past? The bandits?" asked Edric, and Dylan nodded. "You said it yourself, these masterless men need a leader. I didn't see it at first, but we could make that work for us. We convince the King to give us power enough to grant pardons; basically a charter to recruit. We snatch up these men, roving about and causing trouble 'mongst his own lands and put them to good use against the Saxon's. How could he say no to a service like that?"

Edric looked supremely pleased with his thinking, taking a mighty draught from his mug. "What do you think?"

Dylan was amused that Edric seemed so pleased with himself, despite more or less stealing Dylan’s idea. He did nod however as he set about drinking half his beer before Edric even took a sip. Around them the bar seethed with people, countless numbers coming and going as they finished their drinks and meals and went back to work.

“I suppose it makes a certain amount of sense.” He took a hefty swig from his mug and set it down. He smacked his lips together in appreciation and burped loudly, patting his stomach. “Fine stuff. Its been a while since I have a good brew.” Another drink and his mug was empty, he waved the bar wench for another. “It’s a decent enough plan but I don’t reckon you have any brilliant little scheme to get the king to actually grant us an audience.”

He leaned back in his chair, thaking the bar wench for his second mug, eyes wandering about the bar. He caught several people looking at him with looks ranging from curiosity to terror. It was starting to give him the creeps. “Why do you suppose they stare?” He muttered more to himself then to Edric. He shook his head as if to clear it, turning his attention back to the matters at hand.

“We could always make our way up and request an audience. You are a lord, though a good ways north, he may simply welcome you as a potential ally?”

Edric smiled humorlessly when Dylan commented about being watched, which their table closely was. He leaned forward to respond, speaking quietly to the bigger man.

"Of course they stare, Dylan," he said. "Have you not seen yourself? Or me? Not the prettiest young lads we are, with our faces so fine. Your one eye is as white and dead as snow, and I've been made a chew toy. These are looks of fear. For our purposes, I suppose, they could be useful."

Drinking significantly slower then his companion, Edric nodded when Dylan suggested the request of an audiance.

"I suppose you're right, in the most of it. I am knighted, but I'm under Baron Worcester, who then again owes his allegiance up to the King. The whole process, I suppose, is the same as the court in Worcester, just... much larger. A lot of it is on the whim of the King himself, or his attendants. How good a mood they are on the day we ask. We'll try the direct route, first, and if that fails I've heard the King spends a couple of hours in a week to hear petitioners. That would not be ideal, as it would show we are of little standing, but it would get us in front of the man I suppose."

Edric nodded to himself, eyes off and away in his thoughts.

"I brought along a tunic in my families colours," continued Edric. "It would be ideal if you wore something in green or red as well, but not necessary. We can request our audience tomorrow, though when we may be seen I couldn't say. Other then that, we have tonight." Edric raised his mug in salute. "Though don't enjoy it too much, I'll need you looking well in the morning. I shouldn't be without an attendant of some sort, and you're all we've got."

Sir Lancelot heard the hobbled steps approaching the cell, but he did not figure that it was Master Merlin. He only vaguely assumed that it was an anonymous patient who walked with a cane. Then there was the rapping at the door. Lance didn’t think much, only that the limping patient was confused about where his cell was. In preparation of answering, Lancelot lifted his hands from where they clasped his wife, and then…

She moved! As if trying to keep him from leaving her side, she had suddenly wrapped her arms around his shoulders. And then, when he was still unsure if she was conscious or simply moving in her sleep, she pressed her nose to his hair and kissed his brow. It was just as she would have done any time she would have woken next to him.

Only, she had been unconscious for days and her young husband had been despairing by her side. As soon as she had first stirred, he froze. He made one initial gasp, and then hushed so that he could hear the precious waking sounds she was making. The sound of her sniffing puzzled and stunned and overjoyed him—for it sounded like she was happy to smell his unwashed hair. Her oblivion was made all the more clear when she spoke after observing the room. He didn’t expect her to recognize where they were, but wouldn’t she remember anything about what had happened to her?

Words had not yet come to him when she took his face in her hands and met eyes with him. Then, having heard her speak so readily, he shook himself and put his hands around her shoulders. “My love! Oh, bosom love—how can you wake and ask what has happened to me? God’s wounds, you have been struck on your beauteous crown, and you haven’t opened your eyes for days! If I look unwell myself, it is because I have been worrying myself sick over whether you would ever wake up again!”

His voice was a rush of passion—an overwhelming show of love, relief, surprise, confusion, and the remnants of all his tremulous tearfulness. He felt a new wakefulness in himself that came with knowing that his wife was finally alive and alert, and that he could be active himself once more. When she had been out, he felt his own cast of lethargy come over him. He had felt sick and stifled… but now he felt double relief for her and himself.

“Alanna,” he moaned, latching onto her and embracing her tightly. “Don’t you ever go alone in the stables, dearest. What with all the heinous squires and misplaced anvils lurking around—I will never have your poor head harmed again!” He planted a wet, tearful kiss on the top of her noggin.

Then he remembered that someone had been knocking on the door just as Alanna had woken. “I’ll be just a moment, love! There was someone—I wonder if he’s still there…” Lance had trouble leaving the bed so quick after Alanna’s waking, but he assured himself that he wouldn’t be leaving the room. After shuffling out of the bed, he bent over her and gave her a kiss that would make any lady of lesser constitution melt into a puddle.

He had to bound across the cell to make up for the time spent greeting Alanna. He swung the door open and stuck his head outside. “Was someone knocking? Ah, Master Merlin! Did you cast a spell to wake dear Alanna?”

"No, one can only assume that it was her firy will that awakened her." He told him solumnly. "Might I come in and see the Lady for myself? I prey that I am not disturbing you, sir Lancelot?"

Something told the old wizard that, from the appearance of the Dame du Lac, he'd picked an unfortunate time to intervine. However, he knew that the lady's condition was a serious one, and whatever help and pain relief he could afford, might be greatly appreciated.

Mordred was very furtive as he opened the door of the mews and let Morgan in before him. “Well, there she is,” he whispered in his aunt’s ear. “My peregrine.”

His falcon stayed calm when the two entered, only doing so much as to curl its talon where it was tied to its perch. It was dim in the small building, for the only windows were small, barred and only meant for ventilation. It was a stunning falcon—meant for no station less than a prince.

Before handing Morgan his bird and her jesses, Mordred took off his helm and faced his aunt in the dark solitude. “These scratches are paining me, aunt. Do you think you could heal them first for me?” He brought one finger up to tenderly touch the fingernail scratches he had been hiding under his helm.

----

“Oh, I thought you might have healed her, Master Merlin. She only waked up just as you knocked,” Lancelot told the old magician. A smile was growing on his face, as the shock was leaving him, and instead he was thinking of the joy of having Alanna out of that gloomy coma.

He was so pleased by this prospect, he did not even mind that Merlin was asking to be a part of this recent awakening celebration. Lancelot himself didn’t mind—he looked briefly at the magician’s foot and his cane—but he also thought that it was best to ask Alanna. She might mind that there was an old man who came to see her in her bed.

“I don’t know, Master Merlin. I shall have to ask my Lady myself. One moment, milord,” Lancelot nodded his head to the King’s chief advisor. He gently closed the door and then returned to Alanna’s side, his smile growing giddy as he looked down at her and adoringly lifted her chin with his thumb and forefinger. “My dear, you have just recovered and already you have a visitor. It is your call—do you wish to visit with Master Merlin? I can just as easily tell him that you need your rest. Although I’ve always believed that it’s bad luck to refuse a conference with a man like Merlin.”

The last several days had been filled with a multitude of mixed emotions for Ian. It was quite surprising considering Ian had been slipping in and out of consciousness since he’d been brought to the room. His first emotion was an uncharacteristic annoyance toward Lady Mennah, as he suspected her ‘herbal tea’ which she insisted she drink whenever he woke up, was the cause for his constant sleep. Granted, he’d felt stronger, and the pain ebbed a bit after each dose, but he didn’t like the idea of being drugged. The only bright note to it was the possibility of building an immunity to the stuff with how much Mennah had been shoving down his throat.
His second emotion was fear, fear for Lady Alanna, who still had yet to arise every time he stirred. It was unnerving how even Lady Mennah’s magic hands could not bring her to awaken. So much so that he had forgotten his desire to know Mordred and Heath’s fate each time he woke for a short period of time.
The third feeing he had however, was quite foreign to him. He was consumed by a warm and airy feeling ever time he dreamed, and it was always the same dream. He stood in a meadow filled with the wild and colorful flowers only late spring could produce, but of course he was never alone. There, carefully choosing which flowers she would arrange in her bouquet, was the loveliest young girl he’d ever seen. She had been wearing a lilac dress so fine, it put the flowers of like pigment to shame. It went so well with her golden blond hair and exquisite brown eyes that it was all he could do was stare, dumbstruck, all the time feeling a vague sense that she was familiar.

He would quickly wake then soon, and to his horror remember that it was not a dream at all, but an all too real memory. One he should have buried deep long ago. He didn’t know exactly what he was feeling, but a low born squire like himself had no business dreaming about her, unfortunately he found himself slave to the memory of the first time he’d lain eyes on the princess of Camelot, and unwittingly become a most willing pawn to her every whim.

Lancelot’s black brows furrowed sympathetically as he looked down at Alanna. He was still smiling, but he did hate to see her in any sort of discomfort as she held her head wincingly. And his poor bride—she seemed very confused about everything, and he could only hope that her intellect was not permanently damaged because of the anvil’s impact. But he assured himself that even if she lost all the sharpness of her wit, he would be just as devoted to her.

“Speak with me after? Of course, love,” he affirmed eagerly, catching her wrist in his hands and stroking it. Anytime she told him that there was something she wanted to discuss, he immediately became curious. Especially when Alanna said that it was an important matter, and her shadowed eyes were looking happy but fatigued. She was not a lady known to exaggerate or sensationalize…

“And I will bring you all the sustenance you want, my dear,” he promised, bending down to give her another kiss—although this was but a peck, as he chose not to daze her again. Although he did poke her middle in hopes that she would chuckle again.

With that parting gesture, Sir Lancelot opened the door and bid Merlin inside. “You are invited inside, Master Merlin. I will be back shortly, after I procure some sustenance for my recently recovered wife. Watch over her for me, will you? And be weary of the nurses.”
Turning once more to look dotingly on Alanna, Lancelot finally left the cell in search of the necessities she requested. The first nurse he found knew exactly where to procure a bowl of pottage and a pitcher of water in the infirmary kitchen. Lancelot asked if they had any wine, since he figured that his wife would appreciate some spirits for the pain in her head. To his surprise, the nurse told them that they had only allocated the last of the week’s wine to Sir Fredrin, who was nursing several broken bones.

“Should I go up to the castle for some wine?” Lancelot wondered.

“Nay, there is an inn and tavern that is the closer, Sir Lancelot,” the nurse told him. “And while you fetch your spirits, Sir, I’ll bring these fixings up to your lady’s chamber.”

Lance thanked the nurse, and went outside to see about the inn she suggested. It was not often that Sir Lancelot frequented such venues, as they all seemed suited for the peasants below him. And he was much more at home in the feasting halls of the castle—or better yet, supping alone with his beloved dame.

In fact, he had been so exclusive about the company that he kept at Camelot, that he realized that there was a whole community he was oblivious to as he entered the public hall of the inn. But he saw plenty of drink set out on the tables, and he knew he’d come to the right place. He smiled a little at the sound of some happy guffawing from a table of customers. Maybe he would partake in some of Alanna’s wine—perhaps she had the type of news for him that would be well received with a little celebratory drink.

Before he sought anyone out, he looked around at the men that gathered. Like the other citizens of Camelot, his attention was soon drawn to the two light-haired men drinking together. Both their faces were mangled, and that was attention-getting in itself. But the two of them reminded Sir Lancelot of men he had known before—namely, they had similar looks and armor and station as one Kantus Griffale, and a gruffness of attitude like Roryn the woodsman or Sir Nathan the steward of Greensbury, and maybe they even had something in common with Sir Quinn Balfour. Lancelot also found himself admiring the shorter man’s Roman-type hauberk, especially. And it seemed reason enough for him to approach the man.

“Pardon me for interrupting your drink, Sir, but I am in admiration of your hauberk. I have not seen such with an extra mantle of mail like that… may I ask the name of your armorer?” Lancelot asked good-naturedly, feeling a dog-like friendliness come over him, similar to when he first came to Camelot (not long ago) and made friends with the other knights of the Round. And he always complimented an attractive bit of armor when he saw it.

With great grace and delicacy, Morgan lifter her hands to his cheeks. Her own nails, quite like talons themselves, gentley connected with the skin. She hummed a dull, harmonic lyric and the familiar blue light fell over his face. It illuminated the dark room as a dim, oddly colored oil lamp.

"Well," She asked, taking her hands from his face. "how do you feel, dear Mordred? It seems we've physically iliminated your guilt?" Her expression was demuer, for once, as the room returned to it's sullen grey. She looked her nephew up and down, hoping to have illeaviated some of the pain.




"Well then milady," The old conjorour mused while sitting in the chair at the end of Alanna's bed. "You certainly had our company worried. How are your humors? Is your stomach foul, does your head ache? Things of that nature?" Merlin didn't wish to pose too many questions, but did indeed hope to obtain more information that he might use to more successfully heal the lady. If there were anything further that could be done.

Edric started at being addressed by someone other then the girl who furtively checked in on them as they drank. It was a man, a fighter by the build and the way he moved. He had that look of a cat, or a well bred dog in the way his body shifted. Always at the ready. The man was taller then Edric, if slightly, though he seemed more so because he was standing while Edric was not. He also had darker hair but a lighter complexion, though that could be explained by Edric's life on the farm, working in what sun Britain would give them.

The man asked about the armour Edric wore about his shoulders, and spoke in an accent peppered with the local bur but different. It was not something the unwordly knight could place.

"I am afraid the armorers name would do you little good," Edric began in a guarded, but conversational tone. "The man saw the last of his days some years ago. As to the mantle... I'm not above admitting that it's an antiquated style. Better suited to a man on foot then a rider, but then you never know when you'll find yourself unhorsed."

Edric stood then, and found that he was, slightly, shorter then the other man. Older, also, if he was any judge, if only by a few years.

"Sir Edric of Pershore," he introduced himself, extending a hand. "And this is Dylan of Conwy, of the Welsh. If you've some time, might you be thirsty?" Edric smiled, a little. More or less wouldn't matter, no expression he made would be handsom, but it was genuine enough. A local man, if he was indeed local, could perhaps give them valuable insight to the city. Really, there could be no way it could be a waste of their time.

Sir Lancelot nodded his head with understanding as Sir Edric told him the fate of his armorer. It had not always occurred to Lance that men—particularly working class—did not last long. Or at least, not as long as the fey armorers he knew under the Lake. Those fey could spend centuries folding little rings together… making seas of glimmering armor and forging the most glorious of swords and helms. But what if their work became antiquated, like this man spoke of, Lancelot wondered? But it was difficult to remember things about the fey when he had been living away from them. It was almost as if they purposefully eluded his memory, as punishment for him leaving their idyllic little underwater villa.

He was brought back to the present when the stranger introduced himself as Sir Edric of Pershore, and the other fellow as Dylan the Welshman. Lancelot shook the hand Sir Edric offered, and was about to introduce himself.

“Sir Lancelot, are you in need of anything?” one of the serving wenches appeared, eager to serve the new champion to the Queen. Lancelot smiled and looked from Edric to the servant, and told the latter of his need of a skin of wine. As she went to fetch it, Lancelot turned back to his new acquaintances.

“I myself am not thirsty, but I have only come for some wine for my wife,” he replied to Edric. Then his ears blushed when I thought about how that sounded strange, like he was married to a woman who drank more than he did. “You see, my wife has only just recovered from an injury, and she is a little thirsty. I would stay, were I not obliged to return straight to her side. She says she has news for me—and I wonder what it could possibly be.”

Besides that, he was not entirely sure if he would have stayed for recreational drinking, although he had no qualms about the company. It was only that he had had ill experience with drinking before. And so, as soon as the servant returned with some wine for him, he paid and was ready to make his leave of the little tavern-inn.

“Well, good evening, Sirs. If you are to linger in Camelot, we may meet again,” Lancelot said with a bow, taking one last good look at the scarred faces of the men, and leaving with the wine he bought.

He would not readily forget men with scars like theirs, he thought as he walked back to the infirmary.

In Alanna’s chamber, the door knocked and in came the nurse with the bowl of pottage and water. She smiled respectfully at Merlin, set the food and water on a bedside table, and then left.

Shortly after, there was another knock at the door—only it was Sir Lancelot, and he had the wine with him.

-----

Lady Vivienne was making the new acquaintance of Lady Helena, after admiring the water she scented with Highlands heather. She did indeed purchase a bottle with fey gold, and then she was addressed a question by Ralcia.

“Your mother? What a pity you’ve had no word from her,” Vivienne pursed her red lips in an elegant frown. “Well, I believe she is fine, the last that I saw of her.” She racked her brain for a recollection of her subjects, but Vivienne had extraordinarily short-term memory for a fey of her power, and she could not think of anything notable.

“I should arrange for you to meet with your mother,” Vivienne decided. “You are still banished from the Lake, of course, but perhaps I can relay the message to your mother, and you two can meet in the cave, or some such place that is close to the Lake. Or… or is it that you are estranged from her, and that is why you have not contacted her?”

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Mordred was healed. “Yes, thank you, Aunt,” he said, feeling his face with his fingers. “And you swear that Alanna will not remember anything?” He looked at Morgan, a little puzzled. She seemed to genuinely care for him at that moment. He could hardly keep up with her moods.

“Well, will you still take the bird from me?” he glanced to the side at his falcon, who was ruffling its wings and staring at them with amber eyes that glowed through the gloom.

"I have nought but the same humors I have always had." Merlin smiled warmly and withdrew a strange sachel from his hip. It appeared to be a bladder of some kind, filled with a fragrantly alcoholic-smelling tonic. He extended the thing to her as an offering. "Here, milady. I think that this may help you some. I couldn't help but overhear your request, and thought I might partially offer some relief. At least," he looked to the door where Lancelot had exited from. "until your husband finds someplace to procure your fare."



"The dame du Lac will indeed be unaware of your actions." Morgan nodded, that slow, serpantine grin crossing her face once more. "She will believe whatever she is told to, and as far as anyone knows, she was attacked by someone else."

The Queen of Gore turned from him and stepped majestically towards the bird that sat tethered to it's pirtch. She examined the lovliness of her amber gaze, and the perfect color of the feathers upon her breast. Truly a sharp-looking bird.

"A marvelous creature, so wise-looking." Morgan seemed to be talking directly to the falcon, until her head tilted back toward Mordred. "I shall indeed have her."

"Harlot! Tramp! I let thee into my home, and this is how thee doth repay me?" There was the sound of a slap, and then a thud. Blood dripped down her face and arms, as Selena huddles in on herself, crying silently. "My love, I beg of thee. Twas merely out to the market. I beg of thee for mercy." He slaps her again, causing her to fall to the ground. "You dared to disobey me! By the laws of this town, I should see you hung! Burned at the stake like the witch that you are!" She cries, huddling in on herself. Raphael then lashes out, grabbing her shoulders, and throws her onto a chair, proceeding to unlace his pants. Bruised and bloody, she huddles in on herself, crying silently, as he pounces, forcing himself upon her. She screams, as he grunts and groans, the sound of skin slapping together emanating through the little cottage. Screaming again, she cries, as he finishes, standing up, and lacing up his pants, before walking away, spitting on her in disgust, before adding, "And to think, I had wed thee out of love." She huddles in on herself, crying softly. Her long black dress was tattered and torn, and her body bruised and battered.

At Morgan’s final assertion, Sir Mordred decided to stop stalling. He stepped to his falcon, slipped on a glove, and lifted her from her perch. She was calm for him, but her feet shifted when she looked keenly into his eyes. Mordred grabbed a wooden cage that hung from the ceiling, and he made a move to place the animal inside. But there was a moment when a burst of energy came over the peregrine, and she flapped her wings and left Mordred’s arm. He ducked his head as she flew about the mews with mounting intensity. Mordred, lifting his eyes as his hair was blown by the gusts of beating wings, looked to Morgan. He smirked and his eyes challenged her, and he was satisfied that his falcon was putting up a fight. Mordred would do nothing—only wait until Morgan could summon the beast with her magic, or she would be attacked by the bird’s talons.

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As soon as Merlin was finished with his visit, Lancelot stepped forth and took his place. But instead of sitting with Alanna on the bed, he kneeled respectfully on the floor, resting his elbows on her bedside as if in prayer. The food and water brought by the nurse sat for her use on the bedside table, and next to that Lancelot poured the wine if she wished it. The light in the room was dim and thoughtful, and just the time when it was nearing necessary to light a candle to see by.

But Lancelot could still see, and kept his eyes looking upward adoringly to his lady. If anything during Alanna’s lapse in health, he had learned how weak he was without his lady. He lost his inspiration without her; his will to live, he would even admit. But he had always been like that; ever since he was spirited away by the Lady of the Lake… he had always had a lady guiding his heart. He wondered—what if he had had no lady to love after Vivienne had shown herself to be a cruel mother? What if he had not met Alanna, or never discovered that Alan was a she? Would Lancelot be strong enough to carry on only for the good of himself? Or would he have found another lady… and what would that lady be like?

As he looked up his current ladylove, he could only imagine that she would be exactly like Alanna. There was no question about it—Alanna was the only lady for him, he decided, now and forever. And with the devotion shining forth through his face, Lancelot took her hands, and said patiently, “My ear is yours, love. What do you wish to discuss?”