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As she and Lancelot left the room, Selena could hear mutterings of disapproval as well as something about a convent. What was a convent? Did it have anything to do with the separation of souls? Had she done something wrong? Selena continued to ponder this as Lancelot chattered away, until he stopped suddenly, another woman standing before him. She looked so familiar. The olive green skin, and the ocean blue eyes……
Selena couldn’t breathe; her eyes wide with shock. Taking a single step back, she frowned. “Milady, how… how do you know my mother’s name?” Anais had never mentioned any siblings, preferring to change the subject whenever neighbors or any of Selena’s own siblings asked about their mother’s family. The village had quickly caught on that Anais had no family, and treated her as one of their own.
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“You are Anais’s daughter…” Vivienne spoke, in realization, short-breathed and clutching her hand to her chest as if the news would make her heart falter. Lancelot hesitated, although his instinct told him to rush to the Lady’s aid. In a matter of seconds, though, she didn’t need it.

“My niece!” the Lady of the Lake proclaimed, throwing up her arms, her wide sleeves billowing. She rushed to Selena and took her in her arms, pressing the shorter woman close to her bosom. “Oh, I never thought I would meet any of Anais’ children. What is your name, dear?” she asked smiling, as she pushed Selena away from her so the girl could breathe. Then, she gave a gasp when she saw the cruel slashes on Selena’s face, noticing them for the first time.

“What! What is a niece of mine doing with these horrendous scars? And in such tatters? And so thin… and barefoot!” Vivienne exclaimed, horrified, as she looked at Selena from head to foot. Then she turned to Lancelot, expecting him to tell what had happened to the damsel he was accompanying.

But Lancelot was still surprised to learn of the blood relation between Selena and Vivienne. “You never told me you had a third sister, mother-- er, Lady Vivienne.”

He frowned at his slip. He had not called her his ‘mother’ since he left the Lake. He thought he never would again, but he was so excited that he reverted to the old habit. To his relief, Vivienne did not seem to make note of it…

“Yes, Lancelot, I have… had… a sister named Anais,” she replied, her hands still holding to Selena’s arms. “She… she parted with the family long ago. I had no reason to speak of her… until now, when her neglected daughter has appeared before me!” She became indignant again as she looked down at Selena. “What has happened to you, my niece?”
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Selena could only shake her head, sighing softly. “Aunt Vivienne, if I may call you this, I am the only one left of my family. My mother, three sisters, and two brothers all perished in the plague, as did their respective families.”

She was not quite sure how to continue. There were so many questions she had. Was there any other family she should know of? She caught that Lancelot had called her mother’s sister “mother.” Did that mean that they were related in some way?

Brilane’s mouth gaped in amazement. “You mean, you really could not speak before?” she asked, but her words of disbelief were lost amidst Finnian’s jubilant exclaims. The joy in his voice was answer enough, but she couldn’t quite believe it. The man had been a mute… not only was his scar healed, but his voice fully restored as well. That meant… the chalice was blessed after all!

Before the implications of this could truly astound her, she was first lost in the moment. Finnian’s happiness was infectious. A merry flush and a gap-toothed smile spread over her face. She felt herself swung along with his dancing as he gripped her hands. “Oh, ho ho!” she gasped and giggled, at first self-consciously, shedding the anxiety and misery of the recent battle. Then her giggles rose into hearty laughter, and she kicked up her heels and joined Finnian in his little celebratory jig.

She quite easily lost herself. This young Irishman had the loveliest voice she had ever heard… blithe as a bird’s chirp, as pleasing as the finest of instruments, as intoxicating as the strongest drink. What a travesty that he had once lost it, but a blessing that it had been restored to him. At that moment, it seemed like truly something to celebrate. The battle had been won, the chalice returned and Finnian’s voice restored… all seemed well again in the world!

When he asked her about the cup, she had to slow down to find her own speaking voice. She caught her breath as she came to a halt, her laughter slowly winding down. She still held on to his hands. She did not notice that her cloak had flown open while dancing, and her bosom was heaving from all the excitement.

“A magic cup… blessed!” she breathed. “But I wonder, mayhaps the cup has the power to turn water to wine as well, hee hee!” she leaned in towards him, dizzy from dancing. But she might as well have been dizzy from drink. After clasping his forearms for a moment, she steadied herself, and pulled away.

“Oh my…” she said, the initial look of surprise returning to her again. She blinked her eyes at Finnian, remembering that he was a stranger. She drew her lips over her free-spirited gap-toothed grin, replaced by a shyer smile. “Call me Brilane, sir…” she murmured, brushing a wisp of brown hair away from her mouth.

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Aurora released Merlin’s beard, now entranced by the magical light that he moved around on his finger. She babbled in awe, the light from the spell glistening in her wide green eyes.

Maraud, still, had her attention on Mennah. She also thought of the dangers of having an Un-Gifted child, but she didn’t want to sadden Mennah with those things when she had only just learned that she was pregnant. Maraud really did have faith in the knights and enchanters of Camelot. But, still, she harbored the same fear as Mennah… who knew what evil could slip past them and steal a helpless babe?

“Of course, dear Mennah. I would delight in walking with you to your room. I only just arrived, and I would love to speak more with you,” Maraud replied to Mennah’s invitation. She perceived that Mennah was more eager to relay this news to her husband, and so Maraud did not plan on keeping her for long. And perhaps she would even say hello to Sir Armand as well. She felt like she had gotten along quite well with him when they brought their children together for play dates in Rozeshire.

She knew better than to bring up Armand’s illegitimate son at that moment. Although she did wonder if Armand had seen Liam lately. And what had become of Clarisin, and Mabuz…

Aurora gave a rebellious squawk as Maraud drew her away from Merlin’s light. “Shhh!” Maraud hushed out of the corner of her mouth as she stood up and shifted Aurora in her arms. “After you, Lady Mennah,” Maraud smiled, ready to accompany her to her chambers.

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Vivienne stared unblinking at Selena, her eyes growing moist… even more moist than they usually were, being a watery fey as she was. “My sister is dead? Your siblings dead, too? Your father? Oh, my dear niece… I cannot think of anything more tragic…” Vivienne sniffed, appalled that she had not sensed the death of her sister when it had happened. She supposed that it was a result of them being so estranged, and her sister so far away, no longer practicing the same sort of magic, if any at all…

Then, quite quickly, Vivienne sucked up her tears before they could fall. She turned sharply to Lancelot, a look that made him flinch as if a sword had been drawn on him. “Lancelot,” she hissed. “Why have you not properly introduced me to my niece? You were walking with her—surely you at least know her name. Would you care to tell it to me? Do not make the lady speak, she has been through too much.”

Lancelot frowned a moment at Vivienne, not appreciating the sharpness of her tone. But he complied, for Selena’s sake. “The lady’s name is Selena. Selena de La Mar, she calls herself. I met her on an outing outside of Camelot. We are just returning from… from a trial held by Arthur. Lady Selena is now… divorced from her husband… ex-husband that is…”

“Good,” Vivienne approved, while Lancelot had been hesitant in speaking of divorce, feeling it shameful. “A lady so young does not need to be wedded. And her bruises… were they from..?”

“Yes,” Lancelot affirmed quietly with a heavy swallow, his eyes grim and implying what Vivienne needed to know. The Lady of the Lake spoke under her breath, murmuring something about putting a curse on the bastard…

“You’re well to be rid of him, Selena,” Vivienne said, looking down at her new-found niece. “You’re going to start life anew, with me, your Aunt Vivi. Sir Lancelot will be your cousin… and protector. No man will ever lay an undesired hand on you again. I will be sure of that, as will Lancelot.”

“I am not your kinsman by blood, of course, Lady Selena” Lancelot disclaimed. “Lady Vivienne was my foster mother. My real parents were the King and Queen of Benoic…”

“I suckled him as an infant. He is your cousin,” Vivienne insisted, whispering this to Selena while Lancelot went on about his pedigree.

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Sir Ywain only gained a little speed, as he began to hop instead of limp. He continued to follow the wet tracks of the troll. Although, to his dismay, they gradually began to dry up, evaporating into the night air or soaking into the cobblestones.

Sweat dripped off of Ywain’s forehead as he exerted all the strength of his uninjured leg to hop at a quick pace. He also had trouble keeping his balance. There was a point when the moon’s light was darkened by a cloud, and he couldn’t see the light’s shimmer on the wet prints. He stumbled, falling hard on to the stones. He was in the poor section of town, the road was dirty and the smell of waste filled his nose. He laid there, despairing the capture of his fair love…

Then, when he could not be more despairing, he felt a small rough tongue lick at his sweaty brow. He turned his head and peered into the mystic gaze of a cat. “Kitty,” he groaned, turning his head away from the friendly feline. He wasn't in the mood to scratch under the cat's chin. “Oh, kitty, leave me be. All is lost. Go catch a mouse.”

Unexpectantly... the kitty dug his claws into Ywain’s arm. That brought the knight back to his senses. He groaned again, this time in anger at the cat, and exertion from lifting himself up off the ground. He had never been so much as scratched by a cat, and felt sore betrayed to have one assault him with its claws.

The cat gave a quick dart as Ywain rose to his foot. Ywain glared at the mangy tomcat… until he noticed that the animal had halted a few yards in front of him. The cat looked once at him, the retinas behind his slit eyes flashing eerily. Then he lowered his head and began to lap at some small wet spot on the ground…

“Oh! The troll!” Ywain rushed forward, to see that the cat had shown him to the next track. Ywain hopped to the next, and the next, making progress again… And prancing along beside him was the cat. “You want to help me, don’t you?” Ywain realized, quickly forgiving the beast for paining him with his claws.

“Of course, thank you again Master Merlin.” Mennah said rising from her chair and out of the study into the hall with Maraud and Aurora. Perhaps the joy of it was just now hitting her, but Mennah couldn’t stop smiling as the walked through the halls towards the chamber she shared with her husband. She was with child, and going to bring a beautiful and healthy, she prayed, (for there was nothing she could do otherwise) child into this world. Would she have a daughter or a son? Maraud seemed to think a daughter, but there was really no way of knowing, as any attempts to look into the babe’s future would be useless due to the nullification effect Un-Gifted had on magic. It wouldn’t stop Ralcia from trying though. Wouldn’t she be in for a pleasant surprise?

“Did you feel this way too when you knew you were pregnant with Aurora?” Mennah asked with a warm smile, putting the troubling thoughts of the future away in the back of her mind.



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Helena could only stare stunned for a moment, contemplating whether that had really just happened or not. Had that bloody troll just poked her…with some dirty stick?! Was this some kind of bizarre troll ritual of tenderizing meat while it was still alive, or just some kind of game of poke-the-entré? Either way Helena’s temper flared. Huffing slightly with indignity, Helena motioned to the puddle of water, which had formed into a nice whip shape, and made a slapping motion resulting in the water whip smacking the troll across his face. Anger was always the best way to get over fear in her mind, and she was plenty angry now. Who did this troll think he was? Kidnapped from her bed, and a very handsome bedmate, carried around the slums of Camelot in nothing but a blanket like a sack of flour, tossed onto the hard floor of some dark chamber under a bridge, and poked like some dead animal with a stick! It was more than any woman should be subjegated to in one night.

“One step closer mon an I’ll hex you to the other end of Hadrian’s Wall! See how long you last there with my countrymon!” Helena growled, her thick brogue made stronger with her fury. If ever a glare could intimidate, she was sure her’s did now.

Selena lifted up a dainty hand, hoping to cover a soft giggle. Back in her village, it did not matter who one's blood family was. Blood was merely a technicality. The entire village was considered family, every woman was mother, and every elder man was father.

\Smoothing her tattered dress, she suddenly realized how sore her feet were. Wincing slightly, she shuffled from foot to foot, asking softly, “Aunt…. Aunt Vivi, I have so many questions, so many curiosities to ponder. A third sister? Are there others? Do I have any uncles?”

“When I was pregnant with Aurora…” Maraud began thoughtfully, in answer to Mennah’s question. Aurora hushed her baby babble, as if to hear what her mother was going to say about her. Mother and daughter met eyes for a moment, and then Maraud turned back to Mennah.

“Well, my dear, I did not only feel one way or the other. My emotions were all a scramble. One day I would be happy that I was with child, and the next… I was not.” She lightly shrugged her shoulders and smiled briefly at Aurora, glazing over the regretful moments of her pregnancy.

“ But I didn’t have to worry about having an Un-Gifted child, as you do, dear Mennah. I could use my magic, and I could peer into her future. I knew quick enough that I was to have a daughter. She is not a magical prodigy, although I am still wondering if she can be taught minor enchantments. But I can only see that when she comes of age… as I no longer wish to probe her future. For once in my life, I would rather be surprised!”

She laughed, a light airy laugh that could only come from a fey’s lips. One hand brushed over Aurora’s brunette curls, and felt over the tips of the toddler’s ears, to feel the slight fey-like point.

“How has your bold husband been faring, Mennah? You would not mind if I said hello, would you?” Maraud asked Mennah as they neared the chamber that belonged to the newlyweds.

++++++++

Vivienne eagerly turned her ear to Selena, listening to the softly uttered question. Her niece had not spoken much thus far, and so she strained for every word she could elicit from her.

“Oh, my dear! You have much to learn about your… our… kinsfolk,” Vivienne said, her eyes alighting with the opportunity to speak of her broad familiar relations. “And I do not believe I have introduced myself properly. Most people know me as… the Lady of the Lake. I am a full-blood fey and I rule the Lake. Perhaps you have heard of it?” She lifted her perfect black brows inquiringly, wondering just what Selena knew.

“Lady, I have already told her about it,” Lancelot interjected, trying to be helpful. Vivienne cast him an unappreciative glance, since she wished to hear Selena speak and not him.

“Yes, well, the Lake is a splendid place. I think you would love it, my dear,” she went on. “As for the rest of your aunts and uncles… oh, it would take me a day to recount your family history to you! Our line has been existent for thousands of years. Many have faded into memory, as they have passed on to Avalon. I had many more sisters, but sadly, there is only one still alive that I speak with. Nimue. As for uncles… nay, I no longer associate with my brothers. Oh, but you do have several cousins, besides Lancelot. Hmm… however, one is evil, and the other is disowned. There may be a few more, but they live great distances away from here…”

Vivienne trailed off, thinking of all the relatives she had had angry fall-outs with. “Oh, but don’t worry, my niece. For now …” She frowned, as her eyes dwelled on Selena’s shuffling feet and the distracting scars on her face.

“You must be transported to my chamber for rest and respite. Lancelot will carry you, for your feet are sore damaged, I can see. Lancelot?” Vivienne gestured for him to follow her order.

“Very well. I would not refuse to aid Lady Selena,” Lancelot agreed. He stepped near to Selena and offered his arms yet again. Vivienne looked on with approval and then turned and already began her stately march to her room.

As he leaned to pick her up, Lancelot ducked his head close to her ear. “Selena, are you sure you wish to become involved with Vivienne? She can be a benevolent patroness, but if you cross her, she can be…” But as he spoke, he suddenly changed his mind about what he was saying.

“Never mind. I am sure you will be well in Vivienne’s care,” he said. “Do you mind me carrying you again?”

The troll barked back at Helena, out of surprise and pain and anger. Unharmed by the water, but somewhat confused, it's arm raised and the beast wacked the roof with it's club, causing a massive racket. It repeated the action, hitting the wall. The long quills on its back, decorated in bits of human-made jewelry, flared up with a clatter as it barked again, making it seem even larger and more imposing.

Such intimidations would normally have left prey cowering or trying to flee foolishly. The troll adanced a step, jabbing with the blunt stick again, but more violently this time. The attack would be hard enough to injure - certainly cause a considerable amount of pain - if it connected. Though backed with the considerable strength of a beast from the moores, the jab was more designed to subdue then kill. That would be done with the trolls hands, a rock, or the wall of the cave.



Edric furrowed his brow, looking hard at Alanna of Greensbury for a long moment. It was not a handsome expression, the early lines on his face exagerated and in fact made decidedly worse the appearance of keloid scars which lined and scored his face and head. All this was visible despite the glean of sweat on his face now that his helm was removed, though his unkempt hair was matted to Edric's skull.

"Thank you for the meal," he at last said, nodding his head accordingly. "I'm starving, and my man says I should eat. You will give them my good thoughts."

Sir Edric took the bundle and looked inside. Simple but decent fair, and for a man on campaign, even at the head of a warband, he wasn't picky. He tactfully put some to the side so, if his tentguest wanted to eat, she was free to. He did not, however, say a word and ate with seemingly no rush. There also seemed a concious effort to avoid her eyes, with his gaze only on the food before him - on his uninjured thigh, so he didn't have to reach painfully. Only when he had finish what was offered, excepting what he'd left for her, did he look up at her again with shrewd eyes.

"An honourable woman? Dame du Lac, you are a deciever and this is not something you can deny in any way," Edric said, the words strong and falling on the air like a heavy stone. "How can I trust your words? You've withheld your identity, though I will admit, after some thought, there is some logic in that if you were traveling alone. The Champion of the Princess, though? A woman? And a woman clothed for war, traveling with only another woman? You say the Priests would be displeased with what I do - God knows what they would say agaisnt you," wondered the wounded knight. His words, at least, were without malice or fire. He didn't have the energy for such, but his eyes were steady and his wits were still there.

"The only thing that supports your story is the Chalice," continued Edric calmly. "I've hear that my man Finnian has supped from it. He was wounded in the throat and lost his voice - yet now it is back. Amazing. Miraculous. Some of my men are Christians, and they think this proves our cause and that we are blessed. Some of my men are Pagan, and are suspicious and uncomfortable. I will deal with these things as I do, but you should know that the Chalice is the only thing that speaks for your story.

"And so you must answer me this, wife of Lancelot du Lac. Have you spent any time ill, recently?" asked Edric with a slightly raised eyebrow.

Alanna listened to Edric's accusations without offense, her tanned face remaining calm and collected. She had heard and expected worse, even before it was revealed that she was a woman wielding a sword, and she was believed simply to be a determined young peasant man who traveled alone sticking his nose into others' business. And it was true that she had deceived those before her, though in an ironically passive sense. She had never claimed to Edric that she was a man, or even a knight, before. And once the details of their bargain had been fulfilled, she had revealed all to him. But she had grown accustomed to such views of herself, even from her husband, and so she did not argue. Edric still had it in his power to betray and have her killed, after all. It would not do to be rude.

At his question, however, a soft smile once more touched Alanna's face. She shifted her seated position, taking a handful of the left over food and nodding. "Aye, Sir Edric, I have been sick of late. But it is nothing which I cannot withstand as a woman."

After a moment, and a mouthful of grapes having been swallowed, Alanna ventured politely, "I am please that your man has been healed. The Chalice of Saint Congar served to heal another of my friends, a knight known as Sir Armand the Bold, of the High Queen's order. He, too, was once wounded and deprived of his voice. It was shortly before he wedded that he was healed. And the monks, Sir, know of my identity. When I first entered this monastery, and my husband, who was at the time my betrothed, was asked to retrieve the Chalice, I went unshielded as to my gender, wearing my husband's old clothes to make riding and fighting an easier task. Battling those of a foul disposition is exceedingly difficult in a gown, Sir Edric."

Alanna paused to bite into the bread and cheese, swallowed, and continued. "I do not fight for personal gain, nor for any purpose that any man of good standing would not himself fight for. I cannot stand by while others suffer, it is not within me to do so even for the sake of my whole family's honor. I feel it would be far more despicable for me to behave as a 'proper' woman and allow evil deeds to be done than for me to confound or deceive those around me with unconventional behavior, Sir. The monks agree with me. But I do apologize for deceiving you this morning. I only ventured forth from Camelot dressed as I was, though you may question it, so that I might travel as swiftly as possible to complete the task which, I am afraid, my husband forgot."

She sighed a bit, and took a swallow of wine. "You see, Sir Edric, my husband was not too long ago appointed as the new Champion of the High Queen Guinevere. I am afraid it has made him a bit...forgetful, as to much else. I doubt he has yet noticed my absence."

Taking a few more grapes in her hand, Alanna concluded with an almost apologetic, "I tell you all this only because I did swear, Sir Edric, to be completely forthright with you. What you choose to believe from my words is entirely your own decision."

It really was all a bit unbelievable, now that she said it all in a single conversation.

Selena nodded, wrapping her dainty arms around Lancelot's neck, as he lifted her up, carrying her as if she were royalty to her aunt's room. As they approached the door, Lancelot reached forward to push it open, setting her down gently. The room was so light and open. A light susurrus of wind flowed through the open window sill, stirring around a light scent of lotus blossoms. Taking a small step into the room, her feet brushed against a soft bit of cloth. Selena looked down and saw what looked to be a small bit of a very intricately woven rug, part of which was hidden beneath a luxurious dark wooden bed. A large woolen comforter lay strewn neatly across the bed, dark green and blue embroidery decorating the hem and center.

Raising her head, she saw a person staring straight back at her. There was a deep, old scar covering her left eyebrow down to her right cheek. Long brown and green curls swirled around her face, her ocean colored eyes full of shock and other, deeper emotions. As Selena reached up to wave slightly to the girl, the girl waved back. Her eyes widened, as did the girl’s, causing Selena to take a step backwards, tripping over a slight bump in the rug, and landing on her back. She yelped, still looking at the girl in the shiny object in front of her. “Aunt…Aunt Vivienne? Who is that?” Selena pointed to the girl in front of her, the girl with a tattered dress that looked identical to her own, scars and bruises decorating her body. Running back to her aunt, she hid her face in the latter’s long flowing sleeves, shuddering, before looking behind her, surprised to see the girl in the mirror also huddling against a woman, her eyes wide with fright.

The litter of the battlefield and the stench of death had already begun as Dylan strode across the field with a great stack of wood in his arms. Around him other pagans worked with him, wood was being cut in the nearby forest and hauled to the top of a small knoll only a stones throw from the monastery. It was being stacked into ten great piles. Great care was being taken in the construction of each pyre with Uthred overseeing each ones rise. He moved logs here, shuffled kindling there and in the middle he was preparing what he called the “torch”. This would be the piece they would light and shove into the faggots beneath the pile to light each pyre.

Dylan dumped his armload next to Ragnar who was helping lay the pieces out on one of the pyres and raised an eyebrow but the smaller Norseman shook his head. “That should do my lord. Now we just need to bring the fallen.” He pointed to the slew of bodies.

The Welshman turned Norseman nodded and summoned the remainder of his men to join him as they entered the field of the slaughtered and searched for their own kind. The first one he found was a short Saxon pagan who they knew as Guthred. The Saxons face bore a look of mild surprise to go with the massive wound to his throat that would have killed him almost instantly. He scooped up the body and carried it to a pyre, passing it up to Ragnar who carried it to the middle and set it down next to the torch. Ragnar arranged the fallen pagan with sword in hand, arms crossed over the chest with hands holding the hilt. He closed the eyes with an open palm then turned for the next fallen.

This continued until all one hundred, twenty eight of the slain pagans were laid out neatly upon the pyre with weapons in hand. Men of Dylan’s company lay next to those of the vanquished Saxon earl but in death there are no enemies. Each one still wore their hammer of Thor amulet plainly visible and though the armour had been removed there was dignity in death. When at last the final set of blank eyes had been closed the blood drenched survivors stood back and formed a loose crescent circle about their leader.

While the finishing touches had been added to the pyre Dylan had raided the baggage train and hauled forth two massive kegs of mead. Drinking horns were soon found and every member of the depleted force filled their vessel. Solemnly Dylan took the torch and held the end out to Uthred who struck carefully lit it. It blazed to life at once, just the final rays of daylight began to cast strange dancing shadows. He moved to each fire and thrust the torch in until they began to crackle then he returned to massed followers and they watched silently as the flames grew, consuming the dead in towering columns of smoke.

Once sure they would burn he raised his arms high, towering above his followers and seeming even more giant now then ever before as he led them in a chant, the fading sun and dancing flames making the scene appear almost surreal as the blood soaked men echoed their leaders words.



Then as one the pagans downed their drinking horns and punched both arms into the air, hands curled into solid fists.



Then they fell silent, each one taking more of the mead and drinking silently from their horns as they stared as the dancing flames, remembering and glorying in their victory.

Finnian

"Brilane! What a fine name! Sure, and I've never heard it before, so," exclaimed Finnian. As he continued speaking, even in the local tongue, his peculiar sing-song way of speach became more obvious; with extra words in there that seemed superfluous and necessary at the same time. He was unabashedly cheerful, smiling broadly and eyes bright. There was little that cuold dampen his spirits.

"Water to wine, I wouldn't know - nor would care to guess!" he went on, fingers tingling to where they'd grasped hands for a moment. "But I do know about normal wine! And there's mead we have from the Saxons, aye! Not as good as the medu of home, alas, but fine and well and golden, sure!"

Finnian impulsively reached for Brilane's hand. His grip was gentle, but his hands were calloused and hard like any man who weilded and practiced with weapons constantly. He walked were, leading her along at a decently brisk place towards the baggage train. There were a few jeers and hoots as the other men saw 'young Finnian' leading a woman through them and their after-battle duties. He grinned and gave them dismissive waves. When they made it to the right wagon, which had most of their foodstuffs, he turned to her, still holding her hand and smiling.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "I haven't given my name! Finnian Mac an Bhreithiún is what I'm called. Where are you from, miss Brilane? You came with that other stranger, yeah?"

Edric

Sir Edric listened patiently to the words of Dame du Lac. She seemed genuine enough, even if it was slightly hard to believe that she truly had such extraordinarily benevolent intentions. Of course, the Peerage was supposed to exalt in such fine virtues as chivalry and charity, but in Edric's experience the reality was often quite different. How many knights had he known that worked their people dry, or overtaxed, or failed to look after them in hard times? They schemed and sometimes openly warred against eachother, and worse. Could she really be as she says? And if so, what cave had she crawled out of to stay so naive into adulthood?

“Dame du Lac,” the wounded knight began slowly. “I believe I met your husband - briefly - in Camelot. Not long enough to measure how sound his memory is, or precisely what might cause a man not to notice his wife dressing as a man and cavorting about the countryside fighting for strange companies. That said, I am willing to give you leave to go about as you will. Do not prove me wrong in doing this. You will remain under guard while in my camp, but are otherwise free to move about as you please - and to sup from our rations.

“I will sleep in the Abbey tonight I think, in case it rains,” said Edric in a more conversational tone. “Damp does no favours to an open wound. You will be doing the same I expect, friendly as you are with them. Hm. You never did bring that other woman along as I asked. I wanted to ask her about Londinium, though I suppose it can wait now.”

It looked as though Edric was about to dismiss her, when he remembered something. “Ah, before you go about your business something you ought to be aware of. The men under me who follow the pagan gods; after a battle, they celebrate their victory and toast to the fallen. It’s a bit of a to-do, singing, eating, drinking and the like. I will be attending this, as a matter of… keeping the peace, between them and the Christians amongst us. I invite you to pray with the Christian men, and suggest you stay away from the other celebrations, to better keep your soul safe from the Devil‘s snares, and stay deep within the embrace of God Almighty. I mention this only out of concern for your well-being.”

Ywain

“Water, water… the troll must live in the water,” Ywain surmised as he trudged along, finding the river that passed through the shoddy part of Camelot. An aquatic dwelling would explain the reeds stuck in the troll’s quills, and his wet footprints. The helpful tomcat mewed, as if in agreement.

Ywain’s worried eyes scanned the water. In the midst of his flurried thoughts, he remembered how Helena had appeared and disappeared through water by enchantment. What if--he happened to wonder—she had already magicked her way out of the troll’s grasp and she didn’t even need his rescue?

But he couldn’t count on an assumption like that. If Helena drowned, or was eaten, ravaged or kept captive by the troll—he would not live with himself for not making the attempt to rescue her. The imaginings of what could be happening to his lover made him move at an increased speed, despite the further damage he was inflicting on his sprained leg.

There is no way I can search the water, he thought. I must trust that the troll breathes air, and would have a dwelling both in the water, and out of it… Did not cousin Gawain once speak of a far-off troll he slew that lived under a… a bridge, was it?

The bridge came into view, and Ywain became even more hurried to reach it. Before he came to the wharf, he heard his proof that he had found the troll’s lair: there was a horrid pounding and barking coming from beneath the bridge, loud enough that Ywain and his kitty companion could hear it.

“My God!” Ywain uttered in a clipped tone. “It’s the troll—and he’s killing Helena!”

He wasted no time and dove impetuously into the river. To his surprise, his feet quickly hit sludge and he could stand up in the dark river water. He gave a yowl when he felt something furry leap upon his head and dig claws into his scalp. Ywain sputtered a moment, hands flying to pull off the cat that seemed intent on following him, through water and peril alike. He considered dunking his head in the water, which the tom would hate. But he was still a feline-fancier after all, so his anger calmed quite fast and he accepted having a furry creature sitting upon his shoulders.

The young knight waded through the shallow water, until he came to the tunnel. The troll’s commotion had ceased, and so Ywain decided not to charge through the tunnel and immediately attract the beast’s attention. He crept quickly. Soon, he realized that the sloshing water in his boots was plainly too loud. So he took them off, left them at the mouth of the cave, and proceeded on barefoot, as swift and quiet as the cat once it leapt off his shoulders and trotted by his side.

Ywain was determined to creep up on the troll and not be seen. Once the tunnel stopped and opened into the cave, he found a large outcropping of rock to hide behind. Consequentially, he could not see the entirety of the troll’s home. He didn’t dare to peek over the rock, and espy Helena yet, as much as he wanted to see her…

His cat friend was more impulsive, it seemed. He left Ywain’s side and moved out from the cover of the rock. Ywain tried grasping out to pull the cat’s tail and stop him, but the cat slipped by too quickly, flicking his gray tail just out of the man’s reach. Slowly, the cat walked into the vision of the troll. Ywain was looking on in horror—what was the brave little kitty trying to do, distract the troll?

*******

Brilane

Unlike a lady of more respectable history, Brilane did not blush or frown at the jeers and hoots. She kept smiling, as she had been doing since the moment Finnian first spoke. She cast mild-mannered looks at the men she passed. She was sympathetic and soft-eyed after she had seen what they had gone through earlier. It seemed inconsequential to her that they would make boisterous noises because she was being led by the hand of one of their fellows. It even brought her back to working the streets of her hometown… the air smoky and foul-smelling at dusk, a man leading her off to a place for some drink, his hands rough from hard labor… or in this case, from handling weapons.

She thought she had wanted to leave that behind, and that was her whole purpose for making the perilous trek to the abbey. She thought to herself: ‘And that’s so, I do want to leave that behind. But this is different—here is a man that I like… the friendliest lad I have ever met! And the sacred chalice brought me to him—and he was healed, surely he is goodly and I could learn from his bright ways…’

When they arrived at the provisions wagon, Brilane intertwined her fingers more tightly with his and moved forward to stand closer to him. ‘A good lad,’ she thought, ‘And fair pleasing on the eyes and ears!’ When she spotted the flagons and wine and mead, she imagined that she would enjoy the regular task of serving him drink to quench his thirst—as she did that fateful moment earlier before.

But her thoughts of affection were interrupted when he asked her where she hailed from, and who she had been accompanying…

“Oh! Sir Alan, yes, that’s the man I came with,” Brilane replied, looking back to where she had last seen Alan. “And you have reminded me, Sir Finnian Mac an Bhreithiún,” she said, enjoying the music of his full name rolling off her tongue. “I come from Londonium, and the knight you serve wanted to inquire about my city. He told me to meet him after the battle, along with Sir Alan. Good Finnian, would you be so kind as to show me the way to your lead knight’s tent?”

She placed her free hand on top of his, so that both her hands clasped him, as she asked her favor. She really did want to get to know Finnian better, but she also remembered that she had agreed to speak with Sir Edric. Not only that, but it seemed it would be safer for her to stay in a private tent, before the victorious carousing began in full force.

*********

Lancelot did not stay long in Vivienne’s chamber. The room was overpowered with her scent. It was a scent that he never noticed when he was constantly in her presence as a boy. But now that he saw her sparingly, he was affronted by her most distinctive aroma. It was based on something aquatic, the precious oil ambergris, which came from the sea. It was sweet and exotic like the petals of water flowers. But most bothersome was that it was so heady and sensual. It reminded Sir Lancelot of the pleasures of the Lake…

After depositing Selena, he gave a small bow to the ladies and murmured his words of leave. He left, closing the door behind him. Once outside the Lady’s chamber, he breathed a sigh, clearing his nostrils of the nostalgic scent.

He had an immediate goal once he left: find Alanna, his dearly beloved. He did not bother to go to their room or scour the halls for her; he was sure of one young lady that would know of his wife’s whereabouts: the Princess of Camelot.

“Princess Keridwen, milady. It is I, Sir Lancelot,” he announced, knocking politely on the royal adolescent’s door. His tone was light-hearted, for he expected that the Princess’s champion would be the one to answer, bursting through the door and giving him a rib-squeezing embrace. His face brightened with a look of pleased expectancy when the door opened. However, it was not Alanna that appeared, but one of Keridwen’s nursemaids instead. She looked quite happy to see him, though.

“Oooh, Sir Lancelot. How pleasant for you to call upon the Princess!” the woman welcomed, flattering him with a coy flutter of her lashes. “I will go fetch her highness. Won’t you step inside her antechamber and make yourself comfortable, sir?” She beckoned him into the fine sitting room, where a guard stood. She looked once behind her, a knowing glance. Then she flurried off to seek Keridwen.

********

The Lady of the Lake looked down at the frightened Selena with concern and pity. ‘The poor, poor child,’ she thought to herself. As Selena clung to her sleeve, Vivienne smoothed her hands over her niece’s trembling shoulders. “My dear, it is your reflection you see,” she said after a moment, gently lifting Selena’s face and looking directly at her scars. “But I understand why it frightens you, if you have never seen a mirror before…”

Vivienne turned Selena away from her vanity dresser and lead her to a tub, close to the window and filled with water, faint steam rising from its clear surface. Before asking Selena to plunge into the tub, she sat her down on a nearby stool. Then she stood over her, hands on her shoulders.

“What happened to you, my dear niece?” Vivienne asked, eyes flinching in empathy. “Your scars… what in Avalon happened?”

Then the fair Lady straightened and regretted asking it so bluntly. “Never you mind, Selena. Answer that in your own time, when you feel the need. Right now I will see to you being bathed. Attendants, please enter,” she called, and at her command a neat file of white-robed women entered the chamber. They were all fey, with glittering greenish skin, pointed ears and exquisite beauty. None, though, were so beautiful as their Lady Vivienne.

They bowed to Selena, and then closed in on her, with the intent of removing her tattered black dress.

Ian simply couldn’t stop grinning. Despite how rocky the day had seemed to start, this had turned out to be one of the best he’d ever had. As it turned out, internal frustration did a bloody good job for putting power into his thrusts, and he’d had a deadly focus today in the lists. In retrospect, that made it all the more amusing that Squire Krum (a particularly snotty squire whose parentage held a barony) has choose this day for a rematch to their earlier duel in the lists. Krum was no doubt hoping Ian, newly recovered, would not be up to form. Ian had wiped the field with him, and Bran had no intention of letting the little prat forget it. There had also been an enormously large crowd there as well, and though not usually an attention seeker, Ian garnered the hope his Master Sir Armand (and perhaps even more a certain blond princess) had been watching. What had really been the highlight of his day however, was his friends and fellow squires, as they had (much to his embarrassment) welcomed him back to the lists like he’d just fought a dragon. Quite ironic, as he was on first name basis with a rather sophisticated, but still fearsome if need be, dragon.

“I tell you Ian, if I ever see that sodding prat Heath again, he’ll be getting more than a sword through his ribs for what he did to you!” Bran said fiercely, clasping his friend on the shoulder. Bran, being about the same height as Ian with short brown locks and deep blue eyes was easily the most vocal in their group. Also like Ian, he was of a lean, but toning build.

“Not to say the bloody cheat would have been able to stick you without playing dirty.” Kail was quick to add. At sixteen, Kail was not only the oldest of their group, but also the tallest. Indeed, Kail was a good head taller than many men twice his age, but unfortunately was also quite lean. Quite ironic as his sire, a good hearted blacksmith, was one of the shortest and stockiest men Ian had ever seen. Kail was also perhaps the most thoughtful in their group, as his comments were often carefully thought out before he spoke, and his warm brown eyes always seemed to be contemplating something.

“I always knew the bloke was mental, but ‘e actually attacked the Lady Knight and Ian with Sir Lancelot there, right under ‘is nose!” Richard exclaimed still getting a thrill from telling the story apparently. Richard, at thirteen, was the youngest of their group with a bit of a ruddy complexion that seemed to stand out with his golden brown locks. He was also a bit stouter than the rest of them, showing more promise with an axe than a sword. He was also the most opinionated of their group, and always had a comment for everything. Unfortunately, his talent for running his mouth tended to get him in a spot of trouble now and again.

“Where’d you hear that?” Ian asked. He really shouldn’t have been so surprised that as many details about the event had gotten out as they had. It was after all a thrilling tale that Knights and Ladies to even the lowliest wash maid were interested to hear. It wasn’t everyday after all, that a lone squire ambushes, successfully attacks, and almost kills a Lady Knight and another squire. That was of course not the full story, but he had sworn to the High Queen he’d not breathe a word of the truth until she’d gone over everything. Even thought it had been a royal command, it still galled him to not even be able to tell Lady Alanna the truth. Sir Mordred had after all tried to rape her. He was worried for her wellbeing, but he didn’t believe Mordred fool enough to try again, for if it came to a second attempt, he was out of squires to blame, and no amount of smooth talking would get him out of justice. Ian doubted however, that he was nearly as safe. He would not put it past a man who tried to rape a friend of a friend’s wife, nearly kill her, then blame it on his squire, to try to make him disappear. He was sure Mordred knew Ian knew he was responsible too, how could he not after seeing the look in his eyes every time Ian gazed at him. He wasn’t sure if the knight would actually go through with any plan to get rid of him, but either way, Ian would never let his guard down around Sir Mordred again.

“It all over mate, ever Sir Wyatt was talking about it, and he hates gossip.” Kail said with a wisp of a smile. Bran let out a bark of laughter and chimed in with his own comment.

“Who’d of thought, our little Ian and overnight celebrity! They grow up so fast, don’t they Kail! Next thing you know Richard will be off defeating the Saxon army single handed with his enormous war axe!” Bran exclaimed ruffling both Ian and Richard’s hair.

“Oh shove off Bran you’re barely a fortnight older than I am!” Ian said laughing along with the rest of them, as Richard snorted grumpily. “My bloody war axe can do more damage than that rusty excuse for a sword I’ve got.” Richard defended.

“A bit more than a fortnight I think. You just can’t stand the fact that I’m older, and therefore infinitely wiser.” Bran said with a cheeky grin.

“And you can’t stand the fact that I’m taller, and therefore have better sword leverage.” Ian taunted back.

“Yes, well I’m older and a good deal taller than you both, so let’s all say I win and call it a night.” Kail said, tossing his blond locks slightly as if to show off his height. They were all silent for a moment, before breaking out into laughter as they walked out of the High King’s dining hall.

“Ah Ian, good to see you.” The unmistakable melodic voice of Ralcia broke through their laughter, and all but Ian remanded in an admiring silence.

“Oh Ralcia, did you need me to escort me to your room?” Ian asked the woman who’d become like a sister to him.

“No Ian, that won’t be necessary. I’ve got plenty of things to attend to before I can retire for the evening. It’s wonderful to see you enjoying time with your friends…um Kail, Richard, and…Bran.” Ralcia said looking fondly on them all, though notable more reservedly with Bran. Kail looked uncharacteristically flustered, while Richard’s normally red face was even more so than usual. Bran simply starred mouth slightly ajar. All three nodded dumbly, honored the beautiful fey woman had remembered their names.

“Well then, I’ll be off. Do take care of yourselves boys.” Ralica said smiling before walking off to check in on the love birds and how they were progressing. If all went according to plan, she’d see them married within a fortnight.

“Bloody hell man, how’d you end up living with a Venus like that?!” Bran asked again for what seemed like the hundredth time. Ian cleared his throat a bit, feeling a bit awkward.

“I told you, she’s more like a sister.” Ian said trying to change the subject.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Helena couldn’t help crying out in pain when the trolls club violently connected with her shoulder, knocking her to the ground. It stung badly, but she didn’t think she’d broken anything. This was good, as she had no intention of giving up so easily. Magically taking back control of her water whip, she slashed at his again, this time to hurt his arms and legs in hope of pushing him back and farther away. She was taken off guard however, at the sight of a lovely grey tom, bravely coming into sight. Worried for the safety of the unknown kitty, she doubled her attempts with the water whip in attempts to keep the troll’s attention. There was no telling what this horrible troll would do to a defenseless little kitty!

Princess Keridwen stepped into the first room of her chambers, her hands tucked into her long sleeves and her posture poised and graceful as she was attempting to adopt into her natural habits, as her mother strove to teach her. Upon seeing her Champion and friend's handsome husband, however, the young princess abandoned the habit and broke into a girlish grin. She rushed forward and curtsied, beaming.

"Sir Lancelot! It is so good of you to stop in and visit with me. Have you met with my goodly father? How was your ride into the country? You were gone so very long!" While Keridwen was speaking, a pair of her attendants fixed the room with two chairs and a small table of fresh fruit, wine, bread and cheese. Keridwen took one of the seats and waved cheerily towards the other. "Sit down, won't you?"

-------------------------------------

Alanna made still no move to defend herself from Edric's views of her. She had contributed most splendidly in his battle, and followed through with her word, and had only ever acted out of the best of her intentions. There were few men in the world, she knew, that could ever be swayed to agree with those facts.

The Dame du Lac rose to leave, but paused as Edric offered his final words. She turned back and offered him a bow. "Thank you, Sir Edric. I must say...it seems we share certain qualities, straying from the expected...I know few men who would speak well of both the Pagans and the Christian race in the same breath, if at all. I shall be certain to invite the maid to speak with you, as soon as is possible. Fare well, Sir Edric."

And Alanna stepped out from the tent, and moved off through the shadows with her golden head held high once again. She feared nothing, and went in peace.

"Ah, Brilane!" Finnian had exclaimed. "I'm no 'sir,' no not at all. Call me Finn," he urged with a smile and a squeeze of her hand. What a day! It had been rushed at first and frantic in flight, then violent and bloody when it came down to battle. Now, now everything was golden! He could speak! He could breathe well and it made him feel alive! All because of this woman, lovely, and smiling at him from fine eyes, hand intertwined with his. The only thing that would dampen his spirits would be to lose hold of her, and when she asked about his liegelord, he realised that it might just happen.

"Sir Edric..." mouthed Finnian, getting used to words he'd never said. "Cinnte. Yes, you're right... He did say he wanted to see you. Damnú air." Finnian sighed, watching her eyes for a moment. The Irishman glanced at the cart, then back at her for a moment. He grabbed a wineskin, tied it quickly to his sword scabbard, then took her by the hand again. "Follow me."

It wasn't a long walk, as Edric's make-shift tent had been made out of one of the wagons. Finnian noticed some sort of nun leaving his tent - tall, and blonde. She went in a different direction from where they had come. As he neared, he released his grip on Brilane's hand. It wouldn't do to look too familiar. He nodded to the men guarding their leader - all knew him - and dipped his head under the canvas with a whistle to announce his presence. There was a moment of awkward silence. He'd never spoken to Sir Edric before.

"'Ello sir. It's Finnian, sir. I've got Brilane here - you're one from Londinium, like you asked," announced the young ruddy-haired man timidly. Sir Edric, still laying where the Dame du Lac had left him, looked up at Finnian blankly.

"So, you can speak," stated the wounded knight. "Praise God. I'm happy for you. We'll need to talk, properly, but... not tonight. I need to see that the Christian dead are burried, that that woman is kept under guard. See to Dylan, and his lads at their celebration. Then I need sleep, Finnian. Rest. So go, have the night to yourself. I'll speak with this woman when we break our fast. And you. Goodnight."

"Good night, Sir Edric," replied Finnian as he tried to surpress a grin and he ducked out of the tunnel to stand before Brilane. Finnian's face split in a smile, and he said quietly, "Sir Edric will speak witcha t'morrow. Can I offer you a drink, miss Brilane?"

As the fires slowly sank into nothing along with the sun the new sort of activity took hold of the Pagans under the direction of their massive leader. They began to dig. Their efforts slowly bore fruit as they worked in teams of ten, taking short breaks, digging a large pit deeper then the height of a mans head with a narrow ramp leading down into the bottom. While some dug, the others returned to the baggage train to lead forward a number of livestock, two cows, several sheep and some pigs along with a gorgeous horse that looked suspiciously like the one the two strangers had rode in on.

Such were their efforts that within several hours the pit was satisfactory enough for Ragnar who had been busy explaining the ritual to Dylan. The big Norseman had listened closely and nodded a good deal but now he seemed confident in his actions. He began to prepare for the ritual. He stripped off his armour until he wore nothing but his leather pants and a big leather harness form which hung his great axe. He pulled out the axe and meticulously began to sharpen it, working out the nicks in the blade where an enemy weapon had caused it damage. His man began similar arrangements, they all dressed in their war finery, polished their mail with straw until it seemed to glow in the firelight and ensured their weapons were as sharp as their lords.

At last all seemed ready and Dylan waved Uthred over, marveling at the Wolf crested helm the smaller Norseman. "Where did you get that?" He asked, still staring at it. The younger man shrugged. "Used to belong to my father, poor fellow had been dead these past nine years."

Dylan smiled and then pointed up the hill towards Edric's tent and the Christians, mingled with the Monks who watched them warily. "Sir Edric wished to join us, fetch him will you?"

Uthred nodded and jogged up the hill, the Christians scattering in front of him as he strode amongst them, looking all the world like a God of war. He arrived at the makeshift tent and stepped inside with a half polite knock on the tent post. He bowed slightly to Edric. "Sir Edric. Jotunn requests your precense."

His manner may have been slightly less then courteous but he quickly stepped forward to help the wounded man stand and leant him an arm to lean on as they made their way towards the pit. Several fires had been build around it now, big bonfires, and the lights cast eerie shadows on the ranks of silent, armoured men.

Edric was given a spot near the ramp where he could look down into the hole and see Dylan clearly, the big axe in one hand. He offered Edric a stiff nod and then looked to Raganr who waved the men into silence. The first animal, a cow, was led into the pit and halted in front of Dylan. The big Norseman looked terrifying in the dancing light, his axe gleaming darkly as he raised both arms and face towards the sky. His voice rang out loud and clear.



His axe flashed suddenly and the cow died with a bellow. The second animal was led in and the process repeated until all the animals save the fine horse lay dead at Dylan's feet and blood ran in rivers down his muscles body. The horse was nervous as Uthred led it down the ramp, the smell of blood making it toss its head and rear. Dylan slowly stroked the creatures nose and placed his forehead against its own then stood back. The axe swung and a roar arose from the watching Pagans.

The ceremony was not complete however. Dylan climbed from the pit and his men entered it to drag out the bodies, hanging them from a grove of tree's to allow the blood to seep into the earth. The dead horse was buried in the pit however as it was refilled by the watching men.

The ceremony was complete. Another two oxen were led forward and killed with much less fanfare and placed above two of the fires. Mead was hauled forth and the celebration began in earnest.

A shiver passed over Brilane as she waited outside of Sir Edric’s tent. She pulled her cloak over her dress, feeling the coming chill of evening. Out of courtesy, she tried not to listen to the muffled words exchanged by Edric and Finnian. Her eyes trailed after the blond woman, who was stepping in the opposite direction, into the shadows. Like Finnian, she assumed the mysterious woman to be a religious figure. A nun, or maybe even the resident Abbess of the monastery. She appeared young, but she carried herself with such rectitude… not to mention, there was something familiar about the way she walked.

Shortly after, she was face to face with the cheerful Finnian again, and she forgot about the blond woman. She found herself relieved to hear that Sir Edric would meet with her tomorrow instead of that evening. “Fine by me,” she smiled back at Finnian, nodding. Then her nodding slowed to a more considerate bob as she heard his last question. “Yea, a drink would be most splendid, Finn. Now, if you don’t mind if I help meself…”

She stepped close enough so that she could reach the wineskin he tied to his scabbard belt. She took a step closer still, and the breath from her nose could stir the light fabric of his leine. With head bowed, her eyes glanced up at his as she untied the strings of the wineskin with dainty fingers. The look in her eyes was coy, flirtation blossoming behind lowered lashes. When she had the ties loose, she uncorked the receptacle and lifted it to her lips. ‘Here’s me, going back to my old harlot ways,’ a small part of her chastised as she drank. ‘But what of it? I’m not lookin’ to make some coin,’ the rest of her internal mind retorted, as she swallowed the wine.

“Mmm, thank ye, Finn. I trust we can share this wine between the both of us… there’d be enough,” she grinned as she weighted the full wineskin in her hand. “Here, have your part, my friend. This would be the second time I offer ye a good drink… water, then wine, did I not say?” She laughed lightly as she proffered him the skin.

Earlier, she had noticed the funeral pyres on the knoll, and smelt the foul smoke and saw the fire off in the short distance. She knew at once that the men weren’t Christian to be attending such a ceremony, singing such rowdy requiems. Now, she was seeing the animals lead up the hill, hearing their noises… it made the wine feel sickly sweet in her throat. Her heart quickened, and she grew more heady...

“Finnian,” she uttered, one hand going to him, seeking comfort much like she felt when they held hands. Instead of his hand, her fingers clung to the fabric of his leine. Her eyes turned frightened as she thought of the monstrous blond man with the axe. “Ye won’t join the men on the hill, will ye? Pray ye will stay with me…” Her voice ended in a tight, anxious note. She didn’t like the sound of it, and quickly cleared her throat.

“If it will please you so, of course,” she added in an easier voice, conquering her fear enough to loosen her grip on his clothing. Her fingers relaxed and stroked the fabric over his chest. She wet her lips and they formed into a small smile, thirsting for more wine.

---------------

Lancelot made a chivalrous bow in the presence of the princess. After he returned her greeting, he accepted the seat at the scrumptiously set table. Then he leaned forward slightly to answer her questions.

“Yes, I did meet with your father the King, over a rather trying matter… but nothing to worry yourself over, sweet princess,” he assured gently. “It had to do with my ride. On the road, I made a few new acquaintances, a foreign couple. Perhaps you will meet the lady. The man has been banished, and I hope you never lay eyes on him, your highness.” A touch of his former exasperation returned to him. But he pushed it aside and changed the subject.

“Now, I have come seeking my lady. I thought you would know best, Princess, where your champion guardian might be.” He lifted his brows inquiringly, glancing from side to side as if to double-check that Alanna wasn’t hiding behind any of the fine furniture.

A small gold coin rolled back and forth across the knuckles of Dinadan's left hand. His eyes wandered after the coin with impish intensity.

"Ah! Another useless skill." Tristan sat down adjacent to the Jester Knight and gave his head a flick, his golden hair cascading back. "It seems every time we part you come back with some mildly entertaining trick."

At the sound of Tristan's voice Dinadan had lost the coin under the table, he was now ducked beneath it searching. His muffled voice came, "I spent the last month with some lord who's obsessed with his Roman heritage. My little tricks kept me from expiring of boredom."

Two mugs were set on the table with a clunk and the inn keeper asked, "Will you sirs be taking the same room as last time?"

Dinadan poked his head over the table, "Yeah, just for one night. We'll be staying at the castle tomorrow."

Tristan waited for the inn keeper to turn away before placing his hand on Dinadan's. "So, Sir Geoff came into town this morning in quite a huff. Would you know anything about that?"

A sorrowful melody played from the corner of the tavern as Dinadan looked at Tristan with a hurt expression, "Why would I know anything about that? Tell me, how are my brothers?"

"Please, I saw his shield on Mule as I passed the stable." Tristan leaned back contentedly, "Brunor is off making war with the Picts, from all accounts he doesn't even need his shield wall. The enemy trembles at his name. As for Daniel, until a week ago he was courting a visiting lady that I can't remember the name of to save my life. He recently rode to the Saxon line, I'm not sure why."

"Brunor never was good at being a knight, I sometimes think he should've been born a Saxon chieftain. Ah, Daniel is probably doing something for Arthur. I sent him a letter not too long ago, and he wouldn't miss seeing me for just anything."

The two men parted as a wench came to their table with two steaming plates. They ate and drank in silence for a while before Tristan looked up with a smile, "Arthur and Camelot can wait for tomorrow, tell me what you've been doing for a month."

Mist hung thick in the air, only parted by the dust raised under thundering horse hooves. Riding side-saddle, Morgan la Fey balanced with a somewhat wobbly grace. Her deep purple skirts flounced in the stead of her horse, and the dark, forest green mantle was left loosely round her face and hair.

Her mind was allowed, for the first time in what felt like ages, to wonder among things that didn't darken her brain. Things that seldom made it accross her view; flora with not magical significance, area creatures that weren't yet under her command, and even the weather itself, which had always been a dull and uninteresting subject. Everything in the space occupied outside of Camelot and Gore, now took on a more comfertable tone and hugh.

A spark triggered inside her mind, bringing her back to reality. A magical being was nearby, and a quite powerful one at that. Wheather twas friend or foe, she couldn't tell, but kept herself wary none-the-less. She kept her energies at the ready, and even slowed the pace of her pale horse to a canter so she could quickly look about for signs of struggle.

“Of course not Maraud. I’m sure Armand would not mind at all if you greeted him.” Mennah assured. “I haven’t seen much of him today, but now that young Ian’s made a recovery, I sure he’s in higher spirits. I heard a rumor that Ian had a duel in the lists today that was quite the spectacle, and it always does a man’s ego wonders when his squire’s training is openly admired.” Mennah said before opening the door to their chamber, where she knew Armand would be.

“Meow.” Pyro greeted up at his mistress as she entered. Mennah was relieved her magic was not yet so out of sorts that she could no longer summon her fiery familiar, but she knew eventually she would not be able to keep him there. Once her child was born of course, she’d be able to summon him back, but she still was not fond of the idea she’d not be able to call upon her fiery cat (with the talent for morphing into a gigantic fiery lion) for protection.

“Armand love, I’ve such news to tell you!” Mennah called out to her beloved husband, her green eyes dancing with merriment. Not all of the news was good of course, but how could he not be excited when he heard their first child (with Mennah anyway) had been conceived! “Maraud has come to greet you as well!”


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Balthazar look a deep breath of fresh air, as she stretched lazily, enjoying the fine weather. The sky was blue, the few clouds around white and fluffy with no threatening signs of rain, and the weather was warm enough to be pleasing to the skin, but with the breeze not overly so as to overheat. All in all, it was the perfect day to fly. He had been cooped up in his castle for far too long, and though Newberry was no longer the lonesome place it had been after the banished fey from the lake had taken up residence, it was just good to get out and take a fly every once and a while. The girls of course would not be happy he’d up and left without announcement, but as he was not romantically involved with any of them, he saw no dire need to inform them he’d fancied a day trip out of the castle. This of course was not due to their lack of trying, (quite the contrary, as many had stated quite clearly on numerous occasions they’d be more than willing to warm his bead) but Balthazar rarely took a fey woman as a lover, and especially not ones as young as they. Though he’d always found great conversation with fey, and could appreciate their beauty, fey lovers were dangerous waters. He could keep up with their games, and even win, should he become engrossed in it, but he had long since grown tired of the pettiness, the vainness, and most of all, the insincerity of it all. Both Fey and dragons lived for centuries, sometimes even millenniums, which was much too much time to grow tired of each other, perhaps the reason why most fey he bedded were merely interested in a fling.

It was for that very reason, why he cherished the memories he’d made with human women like the most precious of jewels. Their lives, so beautiful in their briefness, and so fleeting compared to his own, was what made them special to him. His time with them was not just limited, but they always seemed to be genuinely happy to stay with him (once they got past the part about him being a dragon of course). Their eyes were always content and happy, not the hungry, calculation, and lusty eyes he’d grownup around and learned to loath.

The day was gorgeous though, and summer was no doubt in full swing. The large meadow he’d landed in was lush and dotted with lovely pink wildflowers, and he simply stared with admiration for a moment. In his human form, Balthazar was quite the figure. He was tall and well toned, with finely chiseled features, his hair was of the darkest of blacks that held a stylish wavy look to it, but perhaps what was most striking were his scarlet eyes, the eyes no human naturally had. In many ways, he was a perfect specimen of masculine beauty. His clothes also spoke of wealth, as his scarlet tunic with fine gold embroidery clung nicely to him, and even his black trousers were nicely made.

His attention was drawn to the nearby road however, as he could clearly hear a rider approaching, now noticeably less hasty. Perhaps a knight had seen him land and had come brandishing a sword in an attempt to slay him? It would not have been the first time. Walking a bit closer to the road, Balthazar leaned lazily (perhaps even arrogantly) with his arms crossed against then nearest tree, a bemused look dancing across his face as he waited to see this rider and receive their intentions.

As the figure became a blurr, then reached clarity, Morgan noticed the man almost immediately. Uncertain of his race at the beginning, she put two and two together when she studied the power and color of his eyes. Daring to do so was far more than she could usually bring herself to do, but something about the man intregued her so; something warm and inviting, not to mention the inticing way in which his hair waved or his clothes fit.

She stayed mounted, lest he bid her go so quickly. But, bringing her horse around, greeted him as she would any nobleman. "Good marrow sir-dragon. How now, I trust you fancy the weather as it is?"

The words almost seemed shallow for a moment when she considered she was speaking to a Red Dragon, or so she thought it was. Then again, she couldn't rightly think of anything else to start the conversation with. If she'd plummited into deeper waters upon meeting him, he'd surely think her odd. Perhaps it was safer to gradually warm up.