Conceal. Don't feel. Don't let it show. Breathe in deeply. The world around you is huge and loud and overwhelming. You cannot allow yourself to be this disoriented. She's behind you; she can see the stiffness. You're as frail as a twig ready to be snapped, Constance, you always have been. This knight, she was from the tower that ran by the river.

You remember Lady Sandsfern, don't you? You made a game of spying on her, half-wild river-child that you were, fresh from your mother's side. You made the rivers and fens of the Low your secret kingdoms, and above them all the tower was a constant landmark.

You don't know what happened to that tower; you were away, anointing the secret faces of the sun in a rough cave, the way your mother taught you. And then you stayed away because you were still young, and afraid, and if you did not approach that fire-ruined axle of your youthful roving, you wouldn't have to admit that it was not a [i]forever[/i]. That things could fall apart if you didn't look after them.

So you didn't dig for secrets.

And you still don't remember the knight's name.

So instead you allow yourself to grow distracted, accepting gifts with the poise and grace that is expected of you: a soft benediction of sky and earth, the touch of your hand upon theirs, and then carrying it yourself instead of letting the knight do it for you, because then you would have to acknowledge the knight, and show your weakness to her, and that is what you are not allowed to do. You are a daughter of rivers, a daughter of giants, intercessor between mankind and the worlds seen and unseen. You do not forget names and sheepishly admit to being too afraid to pursue the truth.

(You have to take the gifts. It's part of the bargain. It's who you are: you are the person who accepts the need of the people, the need they have to change the minds of the winds and the rain and the wheel. The need to say to yourself: I did something. I did what was expected of me. I gave a gift, I will receive a gift. And there is truth to that, but even more truth to the fact that your acceptance of the gift is as much for their sake as it is for yours.)

Ah, right. You're here already. This isn't really the right place, but it is your job to mediate the practical necessities of the keep market with the old traditions. And, besides, don't all traditions start somewhere? So you've made this the right place. There's an idol that's usually kept in a storage shed to keep the amiable peace between her and the young priest who advises the Duchess, made in the shape of the wheel and the disc. Burnished metal shines in the sunlight, hammered crudely into shape by your own hands (and the blacksmith was honored by the visit, never mind that you had to swing the hammer with both hands and a war cry to rally your strength). It is hung with charms and flower wreaths made by children and lovers, and it is here you will bid farewell to spring's rain and new growth and welcome lordly summer.

Oh. Right. You can't carry the gifts offered to you (and by proxy, the world you all must live in, the land that loves you all, and the great wheel of the seasons) and carry out the ceremony. There's dancing that everyone has to join in, and cutting open fresh fruit (in a gentle echo of older, cruder traditions), and you must prostrate yourself before golden summer and thank the season for accepting your hospitality, in the same manner one thanks their liege lord.

So you have to do it.

You have to talk to the knight.

"Here," you say, and hand her the gifts. It is a process that involves carefully passing them from one set of arms to the other. "Hold these." Where are you supposed to look? You try staring directly at her breastbone, then decide that it's more natural to look at her face, then decide staring directly into her eyes makes you seem confrontational, so you-- don't drop the honey!

You fumble it and, worms below, the noise that comes out of you as you bend half over to catch it! You stop it from cracking open on the cobblestones, but only after making an absolute fool of yourself. You stay there, for a moment, your pulse hammering and your cheeks white hot with dismay.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Be their druid, their firm center point. Be their tower that will not burn.

"Thank you," you say, and pull out a simple kerchief (another gift from another time, put to good use). Each gift goes in, and then, there, a simple knot makes it easily portable. "Thank you," you say again, foolish, trying your hardest to be who you have to be. And then you make the mistake of looking at her face.