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.

[i]Why is it that I am alone?[/i]

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 [i]alone[/i] 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."