Constance ponders this question with perhaps more gravity than it requires- or perhaps not. The heart, after all, is the heaviest of burdens, and is her role not that of its caretaker? She has been long out of practice, her own so long chilled. What is the role of the priestess? To deal with that which cannot be seen except in its motion, and to speak to the decisions that cannot be made alone.

"The squire if you would stay and learn to love the land as much as you would learn to love him," Constance says, carefully, her gaze not entirely on Tristan. "The knight if you would see wonders that have not yet been seen in this land- but never a hearth of your own." Tristan, after all, is a lover, which is to say, he is someone whose heart's desire is to fulfill those of others. So it would be best for him to know what he is getting himself into; two different roads with two different destinations. But she cannot make that choice for him, just as she could not make Robena's choice for her.

When Robena returns, should Robena return, she will find Constance there waiting for her, with her hair knotted about a comb of polished bronze, with her feet bare upon the earth, with a belt of pearls and bronze links set about a dress as green as the grass that grows on the Berkshire Downs, and a careful hope in her smile.

Would pursuing the squire make him a coward? Would pursuing the knight make him a vagabond? To think in terms of risk is to think in terms of consequences. Unspoken is the fear that neither would have him, but it is smothered by the heavy implication blanketing the decision as Constance presents it - that both could, if he chose it.

So choose. Open one door and close another - and the closing of all doors beyond that, all chances and opportunities unseen and unseeable from this present point. Make the right choice on so small a question as; What would make him happy?

Even as soon as twenty four hours ago, the Squire was the obvious choice. But since then he had talked to Sir Hector, and since then such fantastic options of the Knight held appeal and intrigue to him. Liana now represented the doors that Sir Hector had revealed to him as ones worth keeping open.

"You've given me much to think about." He tried to emphasize 'given', like gift, for Constance. "I wish I had an answer that would satisfy either of us, now. But I am grateful that you have allowed me the question."

The spirt that once was King Pellinore

As Robena kneels, it is obvious to all involved that this is sacred ground. Perhaps it always was. No chapel for you, who were once a king, no artifice or worked stone will hold your fast-fading feet. Here, there is soft earth, free of frost, to receive Robena's knee. Here there is cool air that caresses the cheeks and lifts the spirit, reminding you, however briefly, what it felt like to be alive. Here there is still a faint evening sunbeam in a shade of orange that defies the brightest marigold to bear its match.

You turn your face to Sir Hector, and without hesitation she fetches for you your great axe, for such a weapon is needful to match the strength of Robena's blow, nearly a year prior. You hold it in hands that barely obscure the wood, but your grip is firm, steady, and true. It is always like this, is it not? That even as things fade, the tools remain to the last. Tools for killing, yes, but so too for gathering and building. An axe can always be a tool to gather wood for the fire. You know that your grip on your axe will be the last thing, the final thing of all things to fade from this world.

When you look upon your charge, the earth embraces her. To your eyes, it is clear as day. In this space, the world bears her gladly, holds her fast and will not let her slip from it. Your oath was an oath of justice, a fair balance, and the earth has said that it would not be fair to take her. So too did the Lady Constance, and her retainers, and privately in turn each of your knights whom you asked.

Sir Harold offered that she was yet young and had much service to give. That wrongdoing must be met with an opportunity for repentance and that he saw her on such a course. To him, no blow was needful at all. He always had a soft heart and the Lady Constance had softened it further.

Sir Liana offered that she wished for tutelage and asked you spare your blow. She reminded you that justice was not a matter only of the person affected, but of those around them and their needs, and so too could they bear the burden of your blow shared among them. She had spilled a drop of her blood for you on Robena's behalf the night prior, a gesture that befit her royalty. She would have her take the blow, but lightly as almost a mirror of the Lady Constance's suggestion.

Sir Hector had thought long and hard on the matter. She, more than all the others, felt the weight of this thing, the burden that it would carry forward into the future. Would it be well understood how hard Robena had worked to reach this moment or would the lesson be taken wrongly by future generations? She tried, in her way to balance the matter. She had told you that it was Tristan's words that had moved her in the end, and so she too asked you to stay your hand and offer only a nick.

And as for the Lady Constance's advice. You judge her both wise and mortal. As you are no longer either of these things (if ever you were) you offer them each great respect as they are due. And now the earth confirms her judgment and stands firm beneath you both as sacred ground.

Last of all then, was Robena herself. She had not sought refuge in loyalty, nor in ignorance, nor in strength. She sought penitence, but did not shy from her duties as a knight. In each hunt in turn, she comported herself well, neither with wanton glee nor unbecoming hesitation. What was the ideal of chivalry if not the striving itself? To strive towards wisdom and action joined together, to boldness well-directed, bravery in humility, and strength for those most in need.

You lift your axe. In your heart there is no rage to match that which consumed the Lady Sandsfern and burst from Robena a year prior. You swing with calm. The blade fast and sure strikes her neck. A nick upon the side, clean and small. A drop of blood falls from her broken skin onto the earth below, and the earth is content. The assembled release a breath they had all been holding.

The lady's voice speaks, though her mouth barely moves. It is quiet and yet all hear her words clearly and no sound stirs to interrupt her.
"Robena Coilleghille. Your blow has been answered in kind. The doom upon you is complete."

The clouds and the king release a sigh one and the same, and a flake of cool snow falls upon Robena's neck, soothing the wound. The axe is upon the ground and of the Lady Sauvage, who once was King Pellinore, there is no sign.

It is snowing, and it is time to go inside and be warm for another day.

Robena Coilleghille sits atop the white cliffs and gazes out across the Channel. Mail and leather lie between her and the soil of fair England. She contemplates a world she didn't realize she'd be leaving forever.

It hurt that there had not been a parade. There had not been a celebration. There had not been gifts of gold handed out by jeweled lords, dressed in dead men's finery. Some deep part of her still craved that, the pat on the head and promise that she was a good dog. Some part of her would kill for that. Die for that. Perhaps it always would. To find someone worthy to drown in...

But there would be no attagirls this time. No one would wipe the blood from her lips and tell her she'd done well. She was not to be honoured with title and land. She was not to be blessed with a faerie sword. She was not to be treated with kindness and love. She'd chosen a path of terrifying isolation. She'd chosen a path apart from every other knight she knew. She'd chosen a path apart from the Kings of Britain, apart from the Duchess, apart from the bards and minstrels and camaraderie of rough women. Nobody gave a damn about her story, she had realized. Nobody wanted to hear it. Nobody wanted to assist in its telling or its aftermath. She was sat here in silence after having dragged her way through a land that had not called for her, leaving ruin in her wake. In the end she had not ascended to the rank of storied hero, she'd climbed to the lofty pillar of performing the basic functions expected of a human being. No wonder nobody stood by her now. They did not make women saints for merely resisting temptation.

Her thoughts were stormy enough to block the channel, dark enough to call for four more weeks of winter. She stared at distant France for a long time, metal hands tapping away at the chalk. She considered departing. Starting again in some foreign land, with a spotless reputation and enough hard-won wisdom to avoid repeating the mistakes of the past. What more could she do here, in this country that she had failed?

But then her brooding thoughts asked a different question, and the storm stumbled.

Why is it that I am alone?

She had walked England for years now. She had not yet found a sisterhood of worthy knights to pledge herself to. Lostwithel had faded away into the snow, taking its dreams and glamours with it. Where then were the true knights? The ones who fought with honour? The ones who defended the weak? The ones who spoke only truth? The ones whose wroth undid the wicked? Was she truly alone in all of England? Was she, of all Knights, the greatest among them purely because she had attained basic morality? Was she alone in learning to resist temptation?

Good God.

She stood on the cliff's edge and turned to look back at the green and rotting land that covered the northern horizon.

She had considered herself uniquely wicked. Uniquely damned. She'd stood obediently alongside a woman with the soul of a dragon, even after the devil herself had revealed the wickedness contained within Lady Sandsfern's heart. A morality tale for the rest of England to shake their heads knowingly at. But where were those moral people, those spiritual guide, those ideal role models? Why had they not found her? Why had they not found any of the Knights she'd met? Where in all of Uther's Britain were the righteous?

With that question the storm in her mind finally broke. In turn, the clouds of Britain opened and rain began to fall upon her face. Feather-light and sweet. No cloak kept it from her silver shoulders. No reflexive hatred sent her grumbling in search of shelter. It pulled away dirt and grime and oil that it felt had been there forever. Though it chilled her the sun shone through, away to the east, as though distant Jerusalem was reaching out to touch her.

She was not the hero England needed. But she alone knew what that hero might look like. She was not kind, but she knew what kindness felt like. She was not wise, but she understood foolishness. She was not a great woman, but neither was she a beast. She was not a member of a noble sisterhood of knights... but she could help found one.

She turned away from France for the final time. When she did she froze, for the half-storming sky was kissed with the most vibrant rainbow she had ever seen.

And beneath the rainbow, by a simple lighthouse by the cliffs, came a young girl like an angel from God. She was wet from the rain, but still she scaled the heights step by weary step. Robena stood still as the girl made her way up the endless muddy hill, arms filled with heavy bundles. When she arrived at last, the girl beamed up at her in the mortal reflection of the rainbow above her head. "Heya! I'm Artoria. You looked so cold and lonely, up here alone, and I noticed you were having trouble getting your horse to come up the hill with you so... I bought you a cloak!"

There was no fear in this girl's eyes when she looked up at her. She, Robena, a giant in stature, clad in mail and heavy ax... this wasn't a figure of fear. To this girl, she was just a lonely person who had lost her cloak.

She took the woolen fabric from the girl. It was heavy, and warm, and a deep and simple blue. She actually choked up for a moment, but the brilliant eyes of the girl didn't seem to notice her stumble. Robena swung the cloak around her dramatically, and felt a childish happiness that the girl's eyes went wide at the coolness of the gesture.

"Thank you," she said. "I am Sir Robena Coilleghille, Knight of England. As thanks for your kind gift, I offer one of my own: apprenticeship as my squire, and inheritor of all my arts."

The girl's eyes went wide as saucers. "I! I-I think you've gotten the wrong impression, ma'am," she stuttered. "I don't know the first thing about fighting -"

"But you know about kindness," said Robena. "And I have come to realize that is a far harder thing to teach than war."

Speak of a hard decision and do not speak of war and sieges, the prices paid with other lives. Speak of love, of your choice of co-author in the story of your life. The graft of one into another, and the heavy scars if ever to be removed.

Sir Liana had not been an easy decision. She was a commitment to doing more than was asked of him, of an aversion to failure. She was a commitment to seeking trials and duties greater than his shoulders could bear, for the simple fact that they were the trials worth pursuing. She was a commitment in her own right.

There remained a blight upon the land. Knights in need of a greater monarch - knights who would accept a seat at a round table of equals. A table Castle Sauvage could host. A table that would seat knights such as Sir Hector.

Maybe Sir Coilleghille had not found the company of such knights in her travels. But how many times have you found sundries in the places you already looked? A coin pouch in the very place you left it, the first place you checked. Seeing without seeing.

Good character is much harder find than bad. Arrogance announces itself. How does one see humility? What does a virtuous person look like, when you pass them in the street? The task is oblique; You can only find it by seeing it reflected in others. And Robena counted directness among her virtues.

For this, Tristan finds himself uniquely suited. Not from anything he had learned, but in how he had approached learning them. An endless and sincere interest in others, in learning what they valued so that he might also value it, and an infinite patience. A good heart, though at times far too trusting and easily misled. Crucially, not misled when it had mattered most.

In this he finds a perfect partner in Sir Liana, and she in him. A mutual flaw of idealism becomes something greater when shared - when the world or its people disappoint, one alone looks inward to correct the failure in their judgement. Two draw reassurance from each other. They look outward, and correct the failure in the world.

A samurai's story starts with failure. It is only through a failure in the service of a greater whole that leads to a quest for redemption through individual valor. It is the reverse of a knight's - their worthiness to serve the whole is proved by a quest showing their individual valor. Tristan had begun at the confluence of his parents two traditions; A quest to prevent the failure that would define him.

Alloyed from two stories that are each the other's reverse, how could it be any other way that Tristan's ends in beginning? In pursuit of the piece that Pendragon's poison snuffed: The greater whole worthy of true heroes.

The England that should have been.

In the depths of the Forest Sauvage there is an old, tumble-down ruin. On either side of the moss-choked walls, there runs a river, cold and clear and singing even in the deeps of winter, and this river winds its way to a wide lake, mist-shrouded, reed-fringed. On the far side of the lake there is Bywater, whose people take to the water in coracles with nets; but there are fish within that they have not caught, nor can they. On the side that abuts the forest, there is a place marked by a circle of stones standing on their ends, each one the height of a man, little more. Each is placed so that their crown marks a star and a day; each is faded and worn by the rain and the wind. They stand lonesome.

A ways, a ways, there is a cottage; thatch-roofed, stone-walled, surrounded by a wild garden, by fruiting trees that spring up in orchards, by bees and their hives. The windows are shut, the door likewise; the girl who opens them in the morning is Beth Hooper, here for the season. The three cats have to be fed, after all: Tybalt, Palug, and the third who refuses a name, big and heavy and insistent on her dominion over the cottage. The bees have to be tended. The garden must be weeded. It would not do for the Lady of the Lake to come back and find her affairs out of order. All year she was here, after her outing last winter, and it was Brigid who saw to the house then. The Lady's got business across Britain, she does, in far-flung places; why else would she leave her perfect little house?

And on the Bristol Avon, there's a lady with her hair loose on her shoulders, and she's on her own coracle with her own oar. And she's got a fair sword naked in her lap, and she's not wearing samite. That's for queens. Constance Nim, daughter of the Bristol Avon, is no queen; she is a fixed point waiting for a wandering knight to return. And she no longer can carry this sword, terrible and wonderful and heavy enough to slip beneath the water. That was the old way, with the swords of bronze, and her mother still remembers.

It's heavier still when she lifts it. As if it doesn't want to go. But she throws it as hard as she can, and before it can strike the water, there comes an arm and an hand above the water to meet it, and catch it, and so shake it thrice and brandish it, and then to vanish away both hand and sword in the water, and there's our Constance left behind with nothing for it but to row against the current, to row home and tend to her cats, to guard what she can against the dying days of Uther and know the spring's on its way again.