#merilles

While I do say things like "I love Arthurian OCs" as a means to convey that I view everyone's new creations as valid and interesting, I actually don't believe in a strong differentiation between Chretien de Troyes' Sir Lancelot or Marie of France's Sir Lanval and what you or I are writing today. We're participating in a tradition which can, at times, necessitate the creation of a new character or repurposing of an existing one. I think as soon as you create a character for your Arthurian story, they're an Arthurian character. Some refer to Lancelot or Galahad as "French OCs" or call Knight of the Cart or the Vulgate "fanfiction" as a means to degrade it's validity. Some seem to have an arbitrary timeline on which the full body of Arthurian works is measured, and the more recently something was written, the less authentic it becomes. I think they're wrong. I believe that whether or not we enjoy an installment in the ever expanding Arthurian tradition is irrelevant; it's all equally entitled to a measure of respect, even the new characters. No character or story is lesser than another by virtue of its age or language of origin or target audience or medium. I disdain the excess of scrutiny put upon certain arbitrary groupings of Arthurian tradition. Each story is full of original characters and building on the foundations of what came before. That's the nature of creative influence. Whether or not Arthur was a real person at some point in history is moot. The guy in the Mabinogion or the Vulgate or Le Morte d'Arthur or BBC Merlin is a character. He's a tool to tell a story. Such as your creation will be! Your brand new Arthurian character stands equally with all the rest who preceded them. :^)

Now, it can be helpful to distinguish between a medieval character and a modern one, sure, as they may represent different things depending on what point in history (or part of the world) they were created in. But Arthuriana isn't a franchise one must obtain express permission to contribute to, and it doesn't have a "canon," so therefore differentiating a character as "other" can be counter productive when developing a story. I don't believe Sir Robin from Monty Python and The Holy Grail (1975) or Brian from The Adventures of Sir Lancelot (1956-1957) are any less valuable as characters, even if they do draw on traits of existing Arthurian motifs in order to commentate on them or otherwise expand. In fact I think they're great characters and serve their narrative roles beautifully. One simple and one complex. I recommend watching those to see how it's done well and that may help you develop your own characters. But I'll delve into it a bit here to illustrate what I mean.

Sir Robin carries the coat of arms of a chicken, he's a cowardly knight followed around by a troupe of musicians that sing songs about all of his exploits. That is, the things he's run away from. Rather than use an existing Arthurian character and degrading them, Monty Python developed Sir Robin in order to tell their joke.

The flipside is Brian, a bona fide kitchen boy, who attaches himself to Sir Lancelot and desires to squire for him. Brian's narrative purpose is to deconstruct the nobility in a way that Gareth Beaumains, whom Brian is plainly inspired by, could not. Brian begins as a true serf forced to endear himself to Sir Lancelot to elevate his station. Merlin forges papers of nobility to convince King Arthur that Brian is worthy of this privilege. Even after that, Brian must face the brutality of his fellows while living in the barracks with them, as they don't take kindly to a "smelly kitchen boy" in their midst, plotting to get Brian to incriminate himself as a thief and get evicted from Camelot by Sir Kay. This role is incongruous with Gareth as Sir Gawain's brother, who was always noble, always a prince, and merely cloaked himself in the guise of poverty to prove a point. Gareth could return to the comforts of wealth whenever it suited him and his reason for going stealth was to intentionally distance himself from that privilege. The character Brian exists in order to commentate on the injustice of the upper class's oppression and dehumanization of the lower class in a way Gareth, or even Tor, could not, as they are of noble blood, even if it came by way of reveal. That's why Brian is a great addition to the Arthurian tradition.

Really, it comes down to treating the creation of your new Arthurian character like you would developing one for any other work, one entirely separate from the tradition. If they're a good character, they're a good character! Try not to get hung up too much on whether or not they're going to mesh well with the rest of the cast. For centuries, writers have transformed historical figures into Arthurian characters. (See: King Mark of Kernow better known as the Cuckhold King from the Prose Tristan, Owain mab Urien better known as Sir Yvain from Knight of the Lion by Chretien de Troyes, Saint Derfel better known as Derfel Gadarn from The Warlord Chronicles by Bernard Cornwell, etc.)

Speaking of Prose Tristan, would anyone consider Sir Dinadan an OC? Or Sir Palomides? They're characters added to a story drawing from a much, much older tradition, and I think they enrich the story. I feel likewise about the many Perceval Continuations, including the German Parzival by Wolfram von Eschenbach, which adds a half brother named Sir Feirefiz, or names Chretien's anonymous haughty maiden Orgeluse. What about Sir Aglovale's son Moriaen in the Dutch tradition? Amurfina in German Diu Krone by Heinrich von dem Türlin? Morgan le Fay's daughter Puzella Gaia in Italian La Tavola Ritonda? Not to mention the countless Middle English additions. The Green Knight and his wife? Dame Ragnelle and Sir Gromer? Or how about everyone's favorite Savage Damsel, Lynette of Castle Perilous? Is she not a late-era addition to the tradition courtesy of the man, the myth, the legend, Sir Thomas Malory himself? And then here comes Tennyson, who read Le Morte d'Arthur, and got to the end of dear Gareth Beaumains' story and had the same reaction we all did: "What the hell? He marries her sister?" And then he went about changing that in Idylls of the King. Speaking of Lynette, what's up with her niece Laurel? She's just a name on a page, the vast majority of retellings choose to ignore her, even if they do keep Lynette and Lyonesse. Laurel can scarcely be called a character, after all. She doesn't even have dialogue. So as I've gone out of my way to make her a prominent, fully developed character, with her own culture and back story and motivations, does that make her an OC of mine? And Henry Newbolt who included Laurel in his play Mordred: A Tragedy. And Sarah Zettel, who wrote from Laurel's point of view in Camelot's Blood. We did all the work, but we threw an Arthurian name on the character, so therefore, she isn't ours? But if we changed her name, she would be? Who gets to decide?

All of the Arthurian characters belong to all of us. That's the beauty of writing in a long-standing tradition, which exists apart from all other forms of writing. We have complete creative liberty to do what we want and refer to it how we want and no person or corporation or anyone can dictate otherwise. The intellectual property of Arthuriana belongs to the people. So invent a brand new wife for Gawain, and well, you're only the millionth author to do it! Just make sure she's an interesting character and that's literally the only requirement. Can't wait to meet her. (And all others you create!)

Nibenaes has not spoken since Rochind had found her, ragged and bleeding, on the edge of the forest bordering Hollin.

He had not asked - he is an elf of few words and he hoped that Nibenaes remembered that after their years apart - but instead swung his cloak off his shoulders to cover her.

Since he is so much taller than her, it trailed along the floor as they made their slow way to where Rochind had left Lorast; but it had likely got so dirty just from contact with Nibenaes that he does not take heed of the bits of forest floor that are undoubtedly collecting on the bottom.

She drifts closer to him as they walk but never breaks the gap between them. He knows she wants to - can feel her desperation practically radiating from her - but she holds herself back.

He wanted just as desperately to pull her into his own arms but he does not know what holds her back and so did not dare to try.

He used to know every facet of her, and now he is acutely aware that he didn't anymore.

So he held the distance, all the way back to Lorast, where he silently helped Nibenaes - who was starting to slow down even further, probably finally registering that she was barefoot on a sharp, forest floor - up onto Lorast's back.

He could last a bit longer walking. He came here with rations and water and straight from a good night's sleep; she has come freshly escaped from a hell of the enemy's making and her own cousin's death. Who knows what injuries hid beneath her tattered cloak?

But Rochind could not check yet. They had to get far enough away from Sauron and his orcs that they were not likely to be found, and that meant a relentless walk west until they were quite literally out of the woods.

++

It was another day and a half until they were and Rochind feels safe enough to help Nibenaes slide from Lorast's back and bundle her up as he lights a low-burning campfire.

Still, they say nothing, and they keep that space between them.

And then:

"I feel so dirty," Nibenaes says, her voice cracking in the manner of one who screamed for a very long time and has only just started to recover.

Rochind glances at her. Her knees are pressed tight against her chest and she is staring into the glowing embers of the fire as Rochind pokes them; they have run out of food and tomorrow, he will take his bow and hunt them something.

"There's a stream, nearby. I can hear it." He hesitates when she does not seem to react, still entranced by the dancing flames. "I can help, if you need it."

He thinks that he needs to look her over. Check for bleeding and any potential infection that might have taken hold - it was a quirk of her partly Mannish biology that her wounds can be sometime prone to getting fevered if left unattended.

They'd had a few close calls before.

She jerks slightly, her head tilting in short bursts until she's looking at him. Or through him, for she doesn't seem all there.

And then she nods, once.

++

Rochind has a spare tunic in his pack, and some extra hose, and he puts them to the top of the saddlebags before turning to Nibenaes.

She has brought herself to her feet but stands there, swaying slightly in the wind, and so Rochind hurries towards her to take her by the arm and guides her towards the water he can hear.

It was a stream. Lorast comes behind, careful and quiet, and drinks as Rochind strips first himself down to his underthings before carefully, almost reverently, taking off Nibenaes' own clothes.

The cloak goes first, which he lays on the ground. He pulls her surcoat over her head, folding the ruined fabric with the embroidered Nornútë (and she still wears their symbol) barely legible and placing it atop the cloak.

Her arms are loose, easily malleable in his hands, and he is careful not to jostle her too much. This close, he can see where the blood has bled into the fabric turning the purple dark beneath darker mud caked atop it and knows for certain that there will be tender injuries beneath.

Then, he carefully unlaces her kirtle and pushes it down over her shoulders. It's front-lacing, which Nibenaes hasn't preferred since the end of the First Age, since Rochind has always been there to tighten the back for her.

He pushes down a twinge of guilt at that. Of course he wasn't there, she had been the one to leave him behind.

Normally, the kirtle would be pulled over the head, but Rochind loosens the laces a bit further and pushes it down over her shoulders. He's gentle, going slow so that it doesn't catch against cuts.

As it slips further down her skin, it reveals more and more of the lacerations under the grime. Cuts litter her arms, deep and shallow alike, and Rochind tries not to think how she got them. All he needs to worry about is how to clean them.

He gets the kirtle down to the leaf-littered ground and gently urges her to step out.

That, too, gets folded and placed atop the cloak, and then he gets to the shift beneath. It's almost soaked through with blood in places but was mostly kept from being during dirty, save for the hem that had dragged through enough mud to drag it down.

He undoes the laces keeping it tied at her throat and wrists, and gently manoeuvres her out of that too.

Then, he takes her hands in his and gently pulls her to step into the water with him. She was already faintly shivering from the cold air but the water is freezing to the point of serious discomfort; still, Rochind needs to make sure that she's clean before they do anything else.

Ignoring her shaking, he takes the cloth he had found (they had no soap) and gently scrubs each inch of her skin until the blood and dirt and sweat is pulled away by the rushing water.

As it does, her skin reveals injuries that are now (for better or for worse) mostly healed, and scars that are much older than Sauron's attack on Hollin.

He tries not to get distracted by them, for he has a job to do and...well, they are not as they used to be. He did not have the right to linger over her injuries.

But there is one...

Above the place where her heart would be, there's an ugly set of gashes, as if from a very large and wild animal.

The hand holding his cloth falters and he finds his thumb ghosting over the silvery scar tissue in mild horror.

It isn't that he hasn't seen such an injury before - he has, plenty; he even had one himself much like it, stretching over his hip - but it was the fact that he knew nothing about it.

He hadn't been there when she received it, nor afterwards to patch her up and hear her tale. He could not say when she had got it, only that it had been several years at this point, nor why nor how.

It simmers in his chest and all the careful work he had been doing to not think about it - these last few decades (centuries, almost) after the woman he is helping broke his heart with barely an explanation - just so that he could keep going starts to falter.

He has to work to push everything back into place.

Until she is safe. He can be angry and fearful and have complicated emotions after Nibenaes was safe.

"Rochë?" she asks, a slight slur in her words as she uses a familiar nickname of bastardised Sindarin.

He collects himself, snatching his hand away from her skin and bringing the cloth back up to continue his work. The water is cold and she will freeze if they stay here too long. "Apologies," he says shortly and ducks his head so that she cannot see the way his emotions have built up in his eyes.

"No." Her hand comes to rest on his wrist. He gets the distinct impression that she is trying to grip it hard but simply does not have the strength to. "What's wrong?"

Bitter words rise unbidden to his tongue and he bites them back; later. "I know," he starts slowly, pauses, and then corrects himself. "I knew every inch of your skin once. I know that scar wasn't there before."

"Oh."

Her hand drops back to her side, and when Rochind can finally bring himself to look back at her, her eyes have gone listless and distant again.

Figures. He would add that question to the later pile.

++

When he is sure that she is clean, he pulls her from the water and rubs her dry with the tunic he had just been wearing - he can bear the cold a little while without it, while he waits for it to dry, whereas she definitely cannot - before pulling the spare one over her head.

It's as good as putting a dress over her, for he has nearly a foot on her in height, although it is likely not as warm. The hose (long ones made of wool) will help with that, as will using the camping blanket as a makeshift cloak; but first, he intends to examine her feet for injury in a way he couldn't within the stream.

The dirty clothes, Rochind ties up and shoves into the most empty saddlebag, before he leads horse and peredhel back towards their fire.

It's almost died, so he feeds it enough wood that it might throw warmth onto Nibenaes who is still damp.

So is he but that is not so important. He has not the human blood that makes him susceptible to disease, nor the weeks under the hands of the worst being within the bounds of the world.

Once he is sure that she will be warm enough, huddled by the fire, he finds the box of medicine and bandages tucked into the packs and returns to her.

As he had found, most of the cuts that had caused the blood on her clothes had closed up on their own but there were still a few that were sluggishly bleeding that he endeavoured to quickly bind and then he turned his attention to the soles of her feet.

"Oh 'Naes," he says with a sigh as he uses the edge of a bandage to brush away debris from the forest floor off her torn up skin. How long has she been walking without any protection? It looked like it might have been several days.

Still, it didn't matter. What did was that he cleaned and bandaged the injuries, pulled on the hose to keep her toes warm and then making sure she didn't walk on them again for a week or so.

Or something like that. Rochind was no healer.

++

Despite the fire and the blanket, Nibenaes is still shivering when he's finished. It's with some trepidation that Rochind realises he will probably have to rest beside her if he wants her to warm up.

Helping her wash was one thing - a purposeful touch that was mostly done with a cloth between them - but this? It was dreadfully close to what they had had before and Rochind...

He didn't think about it. Thinking about it would end with him overthinking and he couldn't afford to do that.

He carefully, purposefully wraps his arms around her and pulls her to lie in front of him, her back to his chest. They didn't sleep like this before very often - Nibenaes was the sort of person who sprawled in her sleep, and when they slept in each others' arms, she wasn't usually as still as this - but her shape is familiar to him all the same.

The years had left her thinner and he can feel bone where he couldn't before; her hair is longer too and wild out of its usual braids and it keeps getting in his mouth. He had chosen not to deal with it until they found somewhere a bit more civilised which had things like combs and ribbons.

She barely breathes, even as the shaking lessens to nothing.

He wants to ask, "Are you alright?" but it's such a redundant question that it lodges itself in his throat before it reaches his lips.

He sighs.

Of all the ways that he would reconnect with his ex-betrothed, this had not been on his list of possibilities and it has made all the plans he and Mentë had made redundant.

When Nibenaes had first broken his heart and fled into the night, Mentelossë had been there. She was the sensible one, unaltered by traitorous feelings that still loved Nibenaes completely and utterly, and had made him promise to tell Nibenaes exactly how what she had done had hurt him and that he shouldn't ever forgive her, not for anything.

But there hadn't been a chance. In the years since, Rochind had only glimpsed Nibenaes across the room; when she came to court to tell Gil-Galad of her ventures, when she strode out again through the courtyards, never coming to the stables.

And now...

He can't yell at her like this. For one thing, she probably wouldn't even hear him through the haze over her mind and then his words would be wasted.

For another, he doesn't truly know what he would say.

It was with these thoughts that despite himself, Rochind slipped into a restless sleep.

++

He wakes abruptly to the sound of forest floor crunching beneath a gentle footfall.

He shoots upright, all at once aware of the noise, the faint midday sun coming through the leaves, the distinct absence of a familiar body in his arms.

"Nibenaes!"

She froze, almost at the treeline.

"Nibenaes," Rochind says again, tired rather than panicked, and pushes himself to stand up. She turns, slowly, guilt writ across her face, and Rochind gets the strange feeling that she appears like a wild animal in state. "Where are you going?"

Her fingers do that nervous thing she has always done, twisting the fabric of the tunic near her waist, as she stares him down and doesn't move.

"Away," she says finally, eyes darting between the trees and Rochind's face and the sky.

"Where?"

"Anywhere else."

She's standing gingerly on her feet - undoubtedly they hurt even more now that it isn't numbed by the listlessness that had taken hold of her the last few days - and shivering slightly, and for the first time, true anger starts to burn under his breastbone.

"Anywhere else? Am I truly such a terrible option, do you truly hate me so much, that you would risk being...being mauled by a wolf again just so that I would not care for you?"

Nibenaes flinches back, and though a small part of his is smugly pleased, the rest of him just deflates.

He has never been good at anger.

Nibenaes shifts on her feet. "I - Rochind, you have never been the reason. Never."

"Then...stay with me, please," he stumbles forward, until they're so close he can almost touch her; then, he gathers her hands to his chest and says, in a voice barely above a whisper, "I can keep you safe."

Rochind is no great warrior. Throughout his life, he's stood in the background of more impressive feats of power and has never cared for prestige or power, but he knows how to cook a warm meal over a campfire and he knows the whims of the forest and he knows, as well as he knows himself, the things that haunt Nibenaes in the night.

Even now, decades since they have last spoken, he knows her. He might not be any better at her for defending against the evils in the world, but he thinks - he thought - that he could at least keep her from the evils in her mind.

He feels her hands flex under his, as if wondering whether to pull away or step closer. "I - Rochind, Cariad-"

Out of her mouth comes reams of her mother tongue. She taught it once, to Rochind, in the long dark nights by the sea where they lived the end of the first age and he can hear the stilted, half formed sentences that she struggles to get out.

Rochind leans forward, until his forehead is leaning against hers, and murmurs, "I'm here," so quietly that the sound is almost taken by the wind.

Nibenaes gives him a watery smile, cutting off midway through. "You are," she agrees, voice quiet. "You have always been there. I don't...I don't know how I would survive - how I have survived - without you. I'm sorry, Rochind, I'm so sorry."

That's a long conversation waiting to happen, but a conversation that's better suited for the front of a fireplace and a warm meal, and now Rochind can see that Nibenaes wants to have that conversation too.

Wherever she was, when she couldn't look him in the eye and told him that the two of them should go separate ways, she's somewhere else now. Somewhere better suited for a middle ground, for opening up hearts, and-

Mentelossë would be furious - he can hear her voice now - but Nibenaes was his first love and his only love, and if she is ready to talk then Rochind will hear her out.

Every time.

"I know," Rochind says quietly. "I'm sorry too. That I didn't run after you that day, and make you explain. When we get back home, will you do me the honours?"

"I would do anything for you, Cariad," Nibenaes says, and her hands have stopped shaking. "Anything you ask."

"Then come home with me."