Gododdin, Northern Britain

Derelei sits high upon her horse. She is a small figure but a strong one. When provoked, even the smallest of martens can prove to be a fierce challenger. Suspicious of the Gododdin, she rides behind, insisting, "I can more than satisfactorily defend the rear, myself, thank you!" Peredur's attendant Etlym (who is, in reality Arianwen, princess of Din Eidyn) walks just ahead of Derelei, guiding the roan, upon which is sprawled the mortally injured Pict sworn to protect his lady. Their pace quickens to Din Eidyn for his sake.

Peredur rides beside Etlym's horse, with Symril clutching the bracer upon his arm. The merlin almost appears to smile at having her master back again, and the Great Fool chuckles at the absurd thought.

The envoy, Urien of Gore, leads the troupe of men dressed in rich, auburn and charcoal. The lavish raven-brooches upon their shoulders mark them as Royal Men of Lothian, and to Peredur they appear every bit as lordly as he might imagine Lot, himself, to look. They insist upon Peredur and Etlym joining their company and enjoying great praises for their heroism at Lot's court. For the time being, Peredur and Arianwen oblige them.

After a glance backward, to be sure Derelei is out of earshot, Arianwen leans toward Peredur. "Did you mark the calibre of weapon the assailants wielded?"

Peredur nods. "They were not mere peasants of the wild country. They're working for someone."

"Surely not Amangons," Arianwen wonders, nudging an errant lock of silver hair back under her helm.

"I always think it's Amangons," Peredur answers with a small shiver.

"Everyone has their demons." The princess-turned-yeoman notes their approach toward the fortress palisade, her eyes darting left and right in the dark wood. "As much as I desired freedom from these walls, as a girl, I could never imagine riding through these woods. Not with the Beast about."

"The Beast?"

Arianwen's eyes see through the veil of reality and into the world where there dwell shadows, dreams, memories, fantasies, and halls of the Fair Folk. "They say she was once a woman. Forsaken, forgotten. She became possessed of such hatred and bitterness that she grew into a loathsome wyrm - a dragon. Since, she has terrorised the North Country. She often calls these trees her home. The adder stone in her tail is said to be possessed of great magicks and is sought by those foolish enough to hunt the Beast."

"What are you two blathering about?" comes Derelei's accented voice from behind them.

"I beg your pardon, Lady," Arianwen answers with annoyance, "but you can see that we are having a private conversation." She looks apologetically to Peredur, remembering the importance of Derelei's role in uniting Britain.

"All I see are a pair of horses' arses!" the Pictish warrior-princess answers.

This painted brat needs to be taught a lesson, Arianwen thinks...without thinking. Tossing the roan's reins to Peredur, she steps heavily back to Derelei and forcefully takes the lady by the wrist. "Perhaps it's customary for your kind to speak so, but in this country your nobility is defined by your manners. At the rate you're going, you're best suited for emptying the cesspit, do you understand?"

Derelei's superior scowl is suddenly replaced with an aspect of amazement and humility, first ashen then ruddy. Massaging her wrist and frowning from the scolding, the painted girl still maintains her lofty poise. Though Arianwen has turned her back upon the girl, Peredur continues to watch as the impervious Pictish hide is quickly softened by Etlym's brilliant leatherworking.

"Oia," the Perceval murmurs between slightly parted lips.

Arianwen takes the reins from her master and passes them to one of the Gododdin troupe. As a princess of the realm, she knows well his name is Accolon, but she remembers herself and says nothing. "Alas, Sir Urien," she calls ahead to the envoy. "My master and I must part this good company and follow our own course. Give our warmest regards to Lot, Chieftain of the Gododdin, and tell him it is my master's wish that both he and the fair and gentle princess of the Pretani find mutual favour in an amicable alliance."

With fists against their breasts, Urien and his grateful company salute Etlym and the Perceval. Derelei says nothing but turns her head to watch Etlym a while, regarding him with great curiosity.

When the company are out of sight, Arianwen cups her face in her hands only a moment before suddenly bolting westward, heeding neither bush nor bracken. Dismounting, Peredur goes after her, suspecting the cause. Symril, hurling a screech into the leafy awnings, soars after her teacher.

"My lady, please wait!" he hollers after her, unable to keep up with the long, nimble legs of the sylphlike princess. Her helm flies from her head, but she does not stop to fetch it. Peredur catches it in the air, following in the wake of cascading silver tresses. A sharp talon of yew branch catches the young lady's cheek, forcing a gasp and a flinch backward, into Peredur's arms.

Arianwen tightly closes her weeping eyes, partly from the pain of her bleeding cheek but mostly because she cannot bear to face Peredur in such a vulnerable state. She has long been his rock, his steadfast and immovable companion. What would Peredur think if he were to see me like this? she frets silently.

The Perceval holds her fast, trying to calm his distressed companion. Allowing her knees to fail her, she collapses to the cold woodland floor and struggles to regain her composure. Peredur kneels beside her and brushes whisps of wavy argent back behind the girl's ear before applying a bit of river-soaked linen to the small wound beneath her right eye. "You were wonderful, Arianwen ferch Loth."

"I was prideful, Peredur," her voice trembles while her large, cerulean eyes look away. "I fear I may very well have cost Arthur's alliance with the Pretani."

"I very much doubt that," Peredur smiles, gently holding up Arianwen's chin in his hand. "Derelei took your tutelage to heart and will make a quite different impression upon your father than she would have had you not stepped in." The dry end of the linen softly brushes away the trails of tears.

The vulnerable Fair-born girl finally meets his eyes and tries to hear him. "What you must think of me, Peredur..."

"Shall I show you?" the Great Fool asks soberly. The only answer the princess makes is an earnest expression of devotion and trust. Peredur leans in and meets the girl's soft lips with his own. When the princess does not make any attempt to end it, Peredur takes the time to savour her smell, the sensation of her hair against his face, the brushing of her nose against his, and the breath-taking sweetness of her mouth upon his own.

What must have been only a moment seems an eternity, and still not nearly long enough. The kiss ends and they share a smile. Symril is perched upon Cryf's saddle, and she clucks three times, as though laughing at the pair of fools.

Like two sleepy people waking from a dream, Arianwen and Peredur stand and struggle to recall the business at hand. "Erm..." she hesitates.

"Yes..." Peredur adds. "Your secret entrance into Din Eidyn!"

"Yes!" the willowy young woman shouts giddily. "Follow me!" The young pair fly northwest, without fear of Wyrm, bandits or Picts. They shared between them a brief glimps of contentment that made all worldly concerns melt away. Cryf huffs and Symril clucks again before the two abandoned animals follow after their blissfully distracted masters.

---