Difference between revisions of "Patience and Resolution (Sir Bedivere)"

Latest revision as of 19:04, 30 October 2014

Dun Realtai's great hall was dark, lit only by the guttering orange light of torch and hearth. Shadow swallowed the hall's high ceilings, making it seem even more oppressive, wrapped in a hungering darkness only just held at bay.

He sat in front of the hearth, leaned to one side in his chair. His elbow rested on the chair's arm, his chin cupped in his hand; his gaze was locked on the table in front of him.

The thing on the table was small, only the size of a child's fist. Sleek and glassy, it was such a dark colour that it defied naming, always just a little indistinct if he looked directly at it. It looked like it could have been glass, subtle planes showing when the firelight struck it just so. A length of frayed linen cloth lay beside it where it had been unwrapped.

Sir Bedivere of Dun Realtai was not a man who liked to believe in absolute good or evil. The world wasn't so simple. There were too many shades of grey.

—Yet that thing radiated evil.

How could something so small project so much?

Violet eyes narrowed as he stared at the object. In another time, he might have been thinking of how to destroy it, but that wasn't an option. No. He was bound by honour and oath to protect it. No matter how much he might want to destroy something like that, he couldn't. He'd given his word.

That oath left him with more questions than answers.

How?

From what?

Violet eyes narrowed as he stared at the object. It wasn't that he wanted to destroy it. No, he was bound by honour and oath to protect the thing.

How?

He reached out as though to pick it up, but hesitated, instead taking up the linen to shield his hand. Holding it up to the light, he squinted into its dark core. The shadows seemed to waver, always just beyond the limits of his sight; hazy even as he stared directly at it.

The thing made a steady sound just on the edge of his hearing. Regular as a drum, the sound never so much as faltered.

No, he corrected himself.

A heart. A fragment of a heart.

One of seven.

Bedivere wrapped the fragment of heart back into its linen, knotting the top with calm, disgusted compulsion. Only when he was sure it wouldn't come undone did he brush it off the table into his other hand, and back into his pocket.

He would have to think on what to do with it. If its owner was any indication, he himself wasn't sufficient to stand against the things that could come calling for such a wretched thing. Leaning back, he dropped his chin into his hand, elbow on the armrest as he stared at the fire. Gradually, his eyes drifted to half-mast. Moments later, they closed.

A solution would present itself. He just had to have faith. Surely God would show him the way.

Raising his left hand, he opened his eyes, looking down at the red mark against his skin. It formed a stylised sword, intricate loops and whorls of Celtic-style knotwork coming together to form three distinct partitions.

More importantly, he mused, he would have to find that solution soon. He disliked the sensation of being in debt to anyone, let alone such a creature as that. Yet that debt was necessary... for the sake of that mark on his hand. For her sake. He would do anything for her, and if it meant enduring discomfort or unease, he would bear that burden gladly.

Bedivere lowered his hand and let his eyes drift closed.

Until he found that solution, he would just have to be patient.