[b]Tristan[/b]

“Nothing” says Hector sadly, her face like stone. “I am entitled to nothing, least of all that which may be within my capabilities.”

In the dim light of the flickering torch, Tristan, you see a side of Hector that you did not expect. A great mantle that those strong shoulders could have born. Know you of the sword that your lady Constance carries? That ancient blade, decider of kings? These shoulders could have born that scabbard. Not to wield, no, but to bear the weight. You can imagine Hector holding that burden, tending to the well-being of a young king to be, one not unlike the Lady Liana. You can see Hector offering strict tutelage, stern and serious yet with a love that would stay her wrath, the blade upon her back always ready to be a gift when the time is right. You can see, in the strength that rests upon her that she could have raised a king, a great king over Britain, in a time where swords were not given out by mysterious woodland ladies or ancient and inscribed stones or any other such faerie nonsense. 

And then, then the vision is gone. Like the flickering torchlight, faded in an instant, and you stare merely at a sad and stern knight. A woman who trains for a battle she will never fight and a role she will never bear. Who knows that at her best, she will pass a torch to Robena and someone will listen to her wisdom, and at her worst she will have trained for nothing and pass away without a legacy to her name.