Difference between revisions of "1327/The Next Lesson"

Latest revision as of 07:44, 13 January 2015

Loros (303) has posed:
Bedivere and the others living in the castle have probably been receiving or overhearing rumors of late, that the strange alchemist who lives out in the tent by the woods has been behaving even more strangely. Reports of him wandering the pathways of village, castle and lands holding paired sticks, or crystals dangling on string have filtered in, including the observation of him muttering to himself and writing things down in some sort of journal.

It is with this background that some time after mid-day Loros can be seen driving a wagon onto the grounds of a castle. Not overly large, but of sturdy and simple craftsmanship, the donkey pulling the cart seems only mildly perturbed, if at all. While the magician sits in the driver's seat, it is the seven foot tall object covered in canvas that probably draws the most comment. While the details are somewhat obscured by the canvas and burlap covering, it has the vague shape of... a door, perhaps? Or possibly a mirror? Something of that general shape and size.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The pact-mage is up to something, and the people of the village know it. The braver folk mutter suspiciously under their breath when they're certain he's out of earshot. The more meek watch him with furtive and worried eyes. Eventually, word of that was bound to trickle upward until it reached the appointed lord of the region.

Perhaps that lord is less inclined to pay attention than others, though. Sir Bedivere, or perhaps more truly Fionnlagh of Dál Riata, is no magician. He has the makings of one, for he is the son of a filidh, but he doesn't have the skills. That's where the unsettling pact-mage comes in.

The stable building and yard are recent completions. One can still smell fresh timber over the muskier aroma of horses and straw. Outside, its yard is churned to a frozen slush from horses and other beasts of burden coming and going. Someone, or several someones, have managed to gather up stones and make a wall for the yard – a thing of simple beauty, without a single bit of mortar to hold the expertly-fitted stones together into a proper paddock. Two trough on the side each hold fodder and water, since none of Dún Reáltaí's vegetation has regrown yet.

It's atop this wall that Bedivere sits. He's wearing commoner clothing again, mostly for warmth; several layers, and the scarf Arturia had knitted him wrapped around his neck. Up against the wall are a number of horses from the yard, ranging from lanky saddle horses to enormous, heavy draught horses; all nosing at the quietly laughing lord in search of a treat. One of them almost tips him off the wall, but he finds his balance, rubbing at the ear of the offending horse.

Several of them look up as Loros' cart comes into view, ears pricking and nostrils flaring; but rather than approach, they move away, as though they just didn't care to be around it. The last to go is an enormous golden stallion, obviously bred to pull a plough by his size. After a last unsuccessful nose at Bedivere's tunic, he too drifts away.

Frowning, Bedivere hops down from the wall, grimacing slightly when it grimaces his sling-bound arm, and walks over toward the cart, waving to announce his presence to the donkey and driver both.

"Master Loros." He glances oddly at the canvas-covered burden, tilting his head in puzzlement. "I did not know you were bringing in any loads. What have you brought?"

Loros (303) has posed:
In truth, it is probably Loros' presence that unsettles the beasts, since a few hints of his power are actually gathered about him today. A faint haze of smoke from the cigarette between his lips. The breeze that passes by him picks up unsettling yet unclear whispers and murmurs.

As the horses move away from Bedivere the magician's smile fade for a moment, a wry twist of his lips. Shaking his head after a moment he hops down from the cart with suprising ease. With a wide gleaming smile for the Lord of the castle, he answers the inquiry, "Why, the start of your next lesson. But first..." Turning away he busies himself unharnessing the donkey with care and obvious practiced skill. Whispered words and gentle hands guide the beast into one of the paddocks, next to the horses so that it can make the aquiantence of the other equines when they recover their nerves.

It is only then that Loros turns back, dusting his hands and robes off – for he is indeed bundled up against the weather in heavy robes and cloak, in his usual black, with flashes of silver here and there. Once again with an easy grace he hops back up onto the cart.

"You've probably heard about my recent wanderings and investigations. And I'm not particularly surprised to find that several of the leylines cross under the castle. Feeble, worn out things that they are. Have you the bauble I started your Sight training with?"

As he talks, his hands busy themselves with the cordings tying down the canvas covering whatever it is in the back of the wagon. And as each cord is released, a faint sense of... weight? Presence? Whatever it is, it begins to gather around the shrouded object. Nothing oppressive, but noticable.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
There's something that might be a flicker of approval when Loros takes the time to see to his beast of burden. Bedivere had always had a way with animals, often getting along with them better than people in Camelot's stifling confines – unlike most of the nobility, he personally saw to the care of his animals at times, especially his horses. That Loros even thinks to do so apparently rates some approval from the soft-spoken knight.

"Ah, I had wondered when that would continue." Bedivere sighs, though he doesn't seem precisely disappointed. Instead, he arches a brow. He might fold his arms, but it's a physical impossiblity. So he leaves his good arm hanging, the other still gathered to his chest with the sling, and tilts his head slightly. "Yes, I had heard rumour of your activity in the village. You've had quite a few townsfolk quite unnerved, I might add, but I have soothed what ruffled feathers I have been able to."

Reaching into a pocket, Bedivere produces the small glass sphere, holding it up for Loros' inspection. "Aye, Master Loros. I carry it with me, and I practise when I am able."

He lowers his hand, though, squinting up at the coverings. The squint gets worse when a few of the ropes fall away, and its presence starts to make itself known even to his senses.

Bedivere frowns, all cordiality gone from his face.

"Lord God," he murmurs, uneasy and startled, taking a step back from the thing. "Whatever that is, I sincerely hope you'll not ask me to fix my Sight on it. What in the nine hells have you brought into my courtyard?"

Loros (303) has posed:
"A Door."

The last of the cords is undone and the canvas drawn away. What lies beneath is... a thing of beauty and age. Carvings of vines and trees done in a mix of jade and fine woods make up the frame, twining up over a heavy door of some dark aged wood with a handle and lock carved in more of that jade. The colors of the jade are varied, and yet all part of one great stone, the carvings done in such a way that the patterns in the stone seem like shifting light.

The top of the door rises up to a slight point and the branches of the carvings hold an orb of some sort of green crystal or emerald overhead. Reaching into his pocket, Loros produces a key carved to match the door.

"Feeble they may be, but the lines here are old enough to support the weight of this – and you have my promise it leads to no place evil or dark. An old pathway of a long abandoned elven kingdom – and a Door into that place if you have the right Key and the knowing of the Way."

Chuckling softly, he shakes his head. "While it might be a touch overwhelming, I don't think it would do you harm to view it with your Sight. Perhaps later, as practice. When it is closed."

Reaching out with delicate fingers, he sets the key in the lock and turns it with a loud, deep click that carries oddly far. As he does so, he sings a fragment of song, haunting and yearning, in a flowing tongue. A sense of... stretching fills the air as the carvings seem to stir in an unseen breeze... and then the door opens.

And from it comes the scent of green things growing, of rich soil, of the decay of healthy forest and jungle – and a wave of heat and humidity that quickly fogs in the Dún Reáltaí air.

With a cheerful laugh and a beckoning hand, Loros steps through that door, silhoutted in bright sunlight before he passes through into a place that can be dimly glimpsed.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The knight lifts his eyes at those two simple syllables, beholding as the last of the ropes fall away, and the canvas is whisked aside. Jade and emerald reflect in his violet eyes as they widen, for even with his untrained senses, he recognises a thing of age and beauty – and a thing of magic.

It takes Bedivere a few seconds to stop staring at the Door and find his tongue again.

"I had suspected there might be leylines of a fashion here. Nothing enough to sustain a Servant, but I suppose with my lack of training, perhaps they have been helping to keep my king intact." He reaches up with his left hand, rubbing at his jaw speculatively. "And this place seems to me one of magic, however dilapidated it may be in its current stance."

His eyes flick back to the Door, as Loros gives his promise, and finally settle on Loros himself. He eyes the Wizard for a moment, too bland to be suspicious, but eventually he seems to come to a decision; nodding faintly.

Bedivere looks to the Door again, narrowing his eyes as Loros produces the key and sets the thing open, singing that snatch of song that brings the knight – so uncharacteristically in tune with music; he who still bears the blood of a filidh in his veins – to shiver.

Eyes closing, he inhales deeply the scent of growing things, of greenery and light and life; things long deprived from Dún Reáltaí. Even with his eyes closed, a brief look of longing crosses his face.

"...I had missed that," he murmurs, low, eyes slowly opening as he walks forward at Loros' cheery laugh. "I had missed the sun."

He has to squint once he passes through the Door, the light startlingly bright. In fact, it takes his eyes several seconds to adjust from the dark, clouded half-light of Dún Reáltaí's stormy and snow-threatening skies to the brightness of the forest glade...

Loros (303) has posed:
More than a glade, this.

A partner to the door exits into... a courtyard. Ruined in ages long past, the skeleton of ancient ruins is partly reclaimed by the jungle that surrounds it. White perfect stone still gleams in sunlight here and there, and brightly colored mosiac tiles can still be found scattered about.

Were it not for the massive slabs of that white stone anchoring this place and... something more that fills the air, even this space would have been overrun by the encroaching jungle. In the center of the space made for this... temple? Plaza? Courtyard? In the center of the space is a pool, about ten feet across and deep. The depth is actually visible, for despite there being no source flowing in, or water flowing out, it remains perfectly utterly clear and pure.

Loros stands about equidistant between the doorway at the edge and the pool in the center, head tilted back and eyes closed as he breathes in slowly and deeply, practically basking in the heat.

"This was, and remains, a place of Power. A place in which the Elves revered the force that gathers here, the energy of Life. Of growing things and healing... and sometimes red fang and bloody claw. But by and large they were good people, and their ancient workings still keep the Power here pure."

Lowering his gaze to his student, he gestures Bedivere forward. And then points at where his most recent wound is. "And frankly, having you hold on to a little too much Life is not a concern, since you so freely spend it. Now... if you See, you will know the Power that flows through here. You will be reaching for the smallest, tiniest strands, and trying to place them in that little bauble. To hold them there, and to practice gathering, holding and moving the raw force of Mana."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere strides out slowly into the plaza, trying to look in all directions at once. The aroma of growing things and forest loam is all around, and the warm, humid air is almost dizzying to the knight, who's never been in a place warmer than midsummer Britain of the Middle Ages.

Actually, he finds himself stripping off his outer layers in a hurry. Sweater and long-sleeved tunic are a bit too much for this climate, and that leaves him in a thin short-sleeved tunic beneath the other two, which he drapes over his wounded shoulder.

He casts hooded eyes to the pool, frowning slightly as he regards the water when it's indicated. A few slow steps take him closer to the water, peering down into its clear, unblemished depths.

"A sacred mere... hm." His gaze follows Loros' pointing finger, to his bound shoulder, almost dismissively, but he sighs. "It was hardly by choice," he protests. "If I had no desire to fight him, he would have pressed the issue, and likely it would have ended far less favourably for me if he had."

He frowns. "So, then. What would you have me do? Use my Sight, and look at the mere...?"

Loros (303) has posed:
Loros chuckles softly. "If you like. Although I think you will find looking directly into the mere will be a bit like looking at the sun." He seems oddly unperturbed by the sunlight, still dressed up in his heavy robes and cloak. In truth, he almost seems to be luxuriating in the heat, his posture far more relaxed than Bedivere has ever seen him. One almost expects him to find a handy rock and curl up for session of soaking up the sun and the heat. A hand languidly gestures at the faintly visible pillars and overgrown doorways marking the outer edge of the space.

"Start there. Each is... hm. Think of the standing stones. A marker and an anchor both, to hold the lines in place, to feed into the greater in the center. They will... well. The metaphor differs for each magus, and the sense. Some speak of braiding ropes, others of rivers and streams of power, and still others of bound raw energy crackling. And some speak of seeing Song, of tasting colors."

Turning his face upwards to the sun, he adds, "My task for now is to be certain that you do not overwhelm yourself by reaching for more than you can take, so you may find yourself blocked from the greater of the flows. Although with you, I am less concerned. Power hungry and uncautious you are not. But even a little can be a heady draught. Just... reach for it with all that you are, much like you willed to see."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Half a glance is cast back to the Wizard, watching the way the man seems completely unaffected by the heat. He almost seems like the stray cats he had once spotted around the kitchens in Camelot, hovering around the hearths during the winter snow.

Saucy and insolent, they'd been, and one even had the gall to bite him when he'd offered it a bit of jerky, but it had warmed him to see them around... and they helped control the rodent population; always beneficial in a place where mice and rats were a constant problem.

Still, he would expect more of the pact-mage. Loros always carries himself with a certain elegance, and it's almost amusing to see the difference right now.

...Possibly it's a bit like watching Bedivere when he's had enough mead to forget he's supposed to be dignified.

Turning to look at the pillars, Bedivere rubs his jaw speculatively, left-handed. Something about them seems strange; perhaps it's only the ambient energy that surrounds them, or perhaps it's just his imagination. Whatever the case, his gaze flicks back to Loros, listening.

"Standing stones? I did not venture near such things. Those were the places of the druids. More sacred even than the places of the filídh... and not a place a Christian would be welcome, either." Bedivere smiles, a little wryly. "Very well. But I am no magus. To hear my lady's previous Master speak of it, they are different from..." His expression falls. "Well, whatever it is that I am. I am not that, anyway."

So. Reaching, then.

Half-closing his eyes, Bedivere activates his magic circuit. The patterned knotwork lights up, flowing up and over his arms; meeting behind his shoulders, visible even through the thin linen of his tunic.

No thaumaturgical crest has he, but perhaps it's just a mark of his magic circuits, or a peculiarity of his heritage. Or, perhaps he does have some form of a crest-like thing, without his knowledge? It's hard to say. Whatever it is, the effect is certainly aesthetically pleasing, at least to La Tène sensibilities.

Carefully, he probes at the power lingering around those overgrown doorways, at the outer edge of the region. Even he can sense the mere is probably best not disturbed; as Loros says, it would be like staring at the sun even to his novice's sensibilities.

He reaches for that lingering power almost hesitantly, like a man cautiously poking at a sleeping dragon with a stick – the gentlest of taps, before he reaches, as delicately as he knows how, to lift at that waiting power, like separating a single thread from a skein. Surely only a bit like this wouldn't be too disorienting or harmful...

Loros (303) has posed:
To the Sight... this is as described, a place of Power, long lost and hidden from the world. One might wonder why the elves never tried to reclaim this place, why no other custodian or keepers have moved into this place. But to the Sight, there is Life and Mana.

And to the touch of a Mage, one who has started the power moving within his own circuts, it responds like a thing alive. Like a swiftly growing creeper vine, or perhaps like an excited and friendly beast it responds to that touch like something long denied its purpose.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Between one heartbeat and the next, Bedivere finds himself sitting flat on the ground, without quite knowing how he got there. Breathing hard but not winded, he's startled himself enough to snap himself clean out of the Sight, power faded from his circuits.

Taking a deep breath, and with great dignity, Bedivere climbs back to his feet. The motion is a little awkward for his wounded arm, but he shakes his head and tries again.

This time, he's even more cautious, reaching as slowly and subtly as he dares for that exuberant, enthusiastic power. This place remembers its purpose, even though it may have been abandoned; it remembers what it is to be touched by those like the filidh or the magi, and it seems to want desperately to be used again.

What forgotten thing wouldn't? It almost reminds him of the household items in that manor in Azuma, where the things left for a hundred years had gained their own spirit. Well, perhaps a bit different, here, and on a much larger scale.

Carefully, Bedivere reaches out again, curious, as though to test the mettle of this place for himself – wary, yes, but not quite fearful.

"It's... alive," he murmurs, slurring a little through his concentration.

Carefully, though, he reaches for a bit of that power, lifting again as he had before – directing it, nudging it, guiding it as best he knows how to the bauble in his hand. It's a long and slow process, maybe even a little painful to watch with his own clumsiness, but Bedivere is a stubborn man. He will persevere as long as he is able.

When it's finally done, however long that may take, he sits himself back down and exhales as though in relief.

"Would that I had had some of my father's training," he sighs. "I do not doubt that this would be less of an ordeal to me, then."

Loros (303) has posed:
For all his languidity in the heat and humidity, Loros remains an attentive teacher. Whenever Bedivere struggles or reaches for too much, a careful comment, or a flicker of starlit power restrains student or Power as needed. Advice and guiding comments are added, along with the occasional dry nudge that no, really, you can probably handle a bit more than that.

"It is Life. Many sources of power have natures that reflect their source. This one is safer than most to handle and work with, much more so than the raw stuff."

The power fed into the bauble fills it with more and greater light, the bright deep green of growing things. "As for the teachings... as you continue to practice, and gain greater control, I want you to start to. Hm. Listen, I suppose, to the Power. Snippets of Song, of the First Word, still echo in these old places. And when we get back, there are a few books tucked into the cart. A primer on the modern dialect of elven, a folio of songs and a couple of books of tales in the tongue. And when I say 'elf', I don't mean 'Fey'. Though they are distant cousins, the elves of my world are still mortal and of the world, more or less."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere lifts the bauble on its delicate chain, cocking an eye toward the green light suffusing it. That green light reflects in his eyes, and for a moment he can almost imagine forests, plains; whispers of light and life in places so attuned to such energy. For him, the memories of those places are in Britain, and perhaps even further distant Dál Riata.

He sighs, regarding the bauble thoughtfully even as he listens.

"Life?" The relative safety of such a thing is a little more understandable, in light of that. It's hard to have too much life. "Hm. I will do so, then. Perhaps I may see if there is aught to be heard in Dún Reáltaí. There is something about that place that makes me feel as though there is more to it than meets the eye. A feeling, I suppose. Or simply its history? I do not know."

Wearily, and a little slowly, he pulls himself together and climbs to his feet, grimacing a little when the movement twists his arm. "Ah, with pleasure, although I... a folio of songs?" He cocks his head. After all, writing down music was simply not done in his time; it would not be invented until several hundred years later. So the knight-filidh regards his tutor somewhat blankly. "I will practise the language, gladly, but... what do you mean by that?"

Fortunately, that clarification seems to help. He relaxes a bit, visibly, when it's made clear that the elves are not the Fair Folk. "I have but one more question. What happened?" He gestures with his good hand, sweeping his arm out, brows furrowed. "To the elves, that is. What became of them? This place seems... lonely. Like it was eager to meet with someone who could sense it... it... I am sorry; I am not certain how to articulate it."

Loros (303) has posed:
Chuckling softly to himself, Loros settles on an overgrown rock. Or perhaps it once was a carved chair or bench. Kind of hard to tell. "Yes, songs. I look at the patterns of your circuits, of the shape the magic you are working take and something says to me 'This one may have the gift to hear the magic in music.' And the elves at least work such things in beauty. I don't imagine you'd care for The Metal."

He waves off that last comment with a languid gesture before curling his fingers in the air. Should Bedivere still be gazing with the Sight, wisps of the Life magic filling the place gather in his fingers, being deftly woven in and around each other, taking on the shapes of hounds and dragons all entwined like a complex deftly made knotwork.

"The Elves fled this world when a great calamity was unleashed. They opened gates back to the First Home, before the Long Night that resulted from the Star falling upon Azlant began. As for why they have not returned since?"

Tying off the knot with a final gesture, he flicks it at Bedivere – where it promptly ties itself into the pattern of the mage circuits there, adding to them in a suprisingly harmonious addition to the pattern. And incidentally filling the Knight's healing shoulder with the energies of Life and Growth.

"They have not returned for three reasons. They are less than they once were. They do not wish to draw the attention of something horrifying here. And because I have hidden it from both them and the one who would corrupt it."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"It is true that I have a love of music," Bedivere says slowly. "It is more than simple pasttime. If you have read Camelot's legends, you would still not know, for we strove to hide many things from the people. So I will tell you, since it would be of help to you."

The silver-haired knight settles by a similar rock, but rather than sitting on the rock itself, he lets himself slide to the ground, using the rock to rest his back against. He sighs, leaning back, though his eyes are on Loros and the knotwork creatures. "I am born of the filídh. They were the bards, but they are the same thing as the magi. They are musicians, judges, magicians, advisors to kings."

"I am the son of a filidh, but before I could learn my craft, I travelled to Camelot. It was to be a simple trip to sell wares in the market, but I..." His eyes flick to Loros, and he sighs, shaking his head. Is he... embarrassed? "I saw my king riding through the square, that afternoon. Although she had illusion and bearing to try and hide herself, I knew she was no man. And I knew then that I would serve no other master." And he would have no other lady, but he doesn't speak that part, flushing and glancing elsewhere. "I did not return to Dál Riata, but remained in Camelot to cast in my lot with the knight-aspirants. Although," he adds, with a lopsided smile, "I was never a very good knight."

"In any case, my point is this: My king was never unanimously accepted. And when I was appointed marshal, after my training was complete, there were many who resented this pale-haired, tall foreigner being given such a prestigious position over the blooded nobility of Camelot. I dared not give them any reason to doubt my king by doubting me, and if it had become known I was the son of a filidh, her reign would have been over. None would have trusted her; they would have thought she had appointed a warlock to the Round Table."

He shrugs, faintly, with his good shoulder. "I practised music, but in secret. And I never learned other aspects of my father's arts. All that to say, yes, perhaps it would be better as music, but I cannot... 'read' it. I do not know how one would go about even writing such a thing, so disparate from that which is seen."

"I see. So, you have safeguarded this place, both from its keepers and its doom. Commendable, I suppose, though I am certain you have your own reasons for doing so, and I am certain they are not so altruistic." Again, that faint, almost wry half-smile. Once he comes out of his shell, Bedivere is a clever and intelligent man, not above dry humour. "I—"

Oh hey. There is a knot of magic being flicked his way. He tries to shy backward, but there's a rock behind him, and so he grimaces and looks down as the thing settles into him, tying itself into his own magic circuits; artful even against the cyan knotwork of his manifested circuits.

Bedivere frowns, as though he's not quite certain how to react to that, but it's stopped hurting, and that's a plus.

Slowly and carefully, he unties the sling, flexing his arm. "Thank you, Master Loros."

Loros (303) has posed:
Loros chuckles softly. "By which you mean 'Damn it, I don't want this and it sort of terrifies me when you do things like this'. But you are still welcome."

Nodding at his student's observations, story and conjecture, he starts to rise with a sigh. "You are, of course, correct. I am... too Proud to share. And in truth, I share a little of Greed's avarice. Although less so for the wealth, and instead for lore, power and beauty. It is that last bit that occasional gets me in trouble."

"I will be honest. What you describe is a true bard, prophets, wisemen, and musicians. It takes a Gift, one I suspect you had and may still have some fragments of. But you chose another path, and you made that choice based on one of the Forces in all of existence I respect deeply. Not share, of course, but respect."

"No matter how the two of you struggle against it," is added with a wry twist of his lips. "Ultimately, Bedivere, what I am teaching you here is sort of the... basics. To See. To touch and move Mana about. But while I show you these things, I must seek for how your power will best express itself. You are no wizard, nor a warlock or a pact mage inclined to binding yourself to the service of strange beings you barely understand. Still, as your tutor, it behooves me to offer you a taste of the paths that may serve."

Rising to his feet he begins to hum softly, a refrain or coda to the song fragment that he used to open the Door. "Of course, you wouldn't know this but... well. I believe Everything was Sung into existence. Some would say Spoken, but that is so... limiting. And yet... the Bard is not my path, not truly. With enough skill, practice and time, I can approach it. But I will never have the Muse."

Shaking himself, he gestures towards the Doorway.

"Come. We have spent too long in this place, and your Lady will be worrying. Perhaps she will forgive me my little gift."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Slowly, Bedivere glances toward Loros; the complete blandness of his expression suggests agreement with that assessment. The man can be surprisingly eloquent without even speaking a single word.

"I? No. I do not have the awen." The word he uses suggests the kind of prophetic vision that some magicians lay claim to. Even Merlin had been known to foretell events, although one could never quite trust what exactly his angle might be in revealing that information. "Nor do I wish it. There are some things only the Good Lord is meant to know. I count such things among them. Lady Inga has the awen, and I... mislike the way she looks when she experiences those visions."

He looks away, eyes hardening. "I suspect she may have seen a taste of Camlann. I am sorry to have put her through that hell. No, such a thing I would not want."

He falls silent, then, letting Loros explain himself, and what he knows of the gifts that his pupil does have. Bedivere looks a little suspicious, a little wary, but he offers no argument at any of it. Except—

"We do not struggle," the knight insists, plaintively. "We simply..." He gestures, loosely, as though he couldn't quite find the words. "It is hard," he finally says, sighing. "Imagine drowning for what feels like your entire life, and then suddenly being able to breathe. Perhaps I am not so skilled with words, but that is what it feels like. I could not permit myself to view her as anything but my king, and she had sunk herself so far into her duties I do not think she even saw me as aught but her loyal second; her first-and-last-knight."

He shakes his head, sighing. "But we do not fight against what is, now; it is simply... very... difficult. We..." Why is he even saying any of this? The knight flushes, looking away; glaring at some undefined spot near the doorways. "This is... new, for us. Caring. To be allowed to show that care. Indeed, to do anything at all, without fear of reprisal."

For a long moment, he studies Loros, as though he were coming to a decision about something. Those faded violet eyes are calculating, but after a moment he finally shakes his head.

"That is not my name," he says slowly. "Perhaps in time I will tell you what it really is, but I feel I should tell you that. I am not certain why. 'Bedwyr' is simply the name I chose when I remained in Camelot. My brother and my cousin did the same... you would know them, perhaps, as Lucan and Griflet."

Sighing, he climbs to his feet, rolling his formerly-wounded shoulder and eyeing it warily. "Sung? Perhaps. One might say that the Lord God's words are as music, for they are perfect as speech will never be. But that treads close to metaphor, and syntax, and it is not for me to say. Only the Good Lord knows with certainty."

"My lady will worry regardless." He smiles, but the expression carries no annoyance or exasperation; indeed, it seems uncharacteristically warm in light of his usual stoicism. "Aye. I have been too long away from her, and I believe she will."

With that, he files through the Doorway, though not without one last, almost longing look to the world of greenery and life.