#noblevoleur

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑪𝑬 𝑨𝑷𝑷𝑬𝑨𝑹𝑬𝑫 𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑷𝑨𝑪𝑬 𝑩𝑬𝑻𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑵 𝑫𝑨𝑾𝑵 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑫𝑨𝒀, and suddenly it took twice as long to cross Sherwood Forest than it had previously, even if its borders had not changed. A new copse of birch and oak and aspen had inserted itself between the trees, with a stream that came from nowhere, and went on to nowhere just the same.

After he had shifted back to his human form, Niamh fussed and fretted over him. Checking him over for injuries, making sure that he was all right. Even when they made it back to her cottage, where they were safe, she couldn't stop worrying. Not until he took her face in his hands to calm her down.

She cupped his face in return and touched her forehead to his. "I didn't think I would ever see you again." The words came out in a whisper. "I thought..."

@noblevoleur

Something had gone wrong. Like it always, always, inevitably did. It took a moment for Lord Blackadder to realize his carriage had come to a complete halt. And it annoyed him. Was there a reason for this? Had his manservant been shot? Not that, that would have been a valid excuse.

“What’s the hold up?!” He shouted, parting the curtain that separated the inside of the carriage from where the driver sat. “Baldrick, how many times do I have to tell you, if there's a kitten malingering on the road, run it over!"

With the curtain parted, he perceived that they were no long alone on the road. And it not due to any kittens...

“ well, it is yours now, ” is their remark, high from the back of their horse. “ what do you plan to do with it ? ”

There were times when the veil was thin enough for Arthur to walk through the lands of his former kingdom. Though Camelot itself was long gone, he had an oath to uphold to the people of the island. That mist filled night, a coincidental solstice saw him walking between the trees of Sherwood Forest. His tunic long outdated and yet in pristine condition as he strode on the mossy pathways that seemed to have started that endless cycle of slowly being forgotten.

A presence caused him to pause in his tracks. The King was older than the legends suggested, his hair white and his beard a smart, short silver frame to his face. He might never be as sensitive as his dear friend Merlin but he could certainly feel that whoever was near by did not have a heart of darkness.

it's wintertime, and in the nearing dusk, a lonely figure clad in brown becomes one with the tree-trunks, its movements seeming a mere extension of their life's rhythm, as it keeps moving in spite of the cold, the dark, or the lack of road to walk on. the sky and the ground both bright white, unbroken, the wind howling amongst the trees, the woolen hood comes off to bare a young face with ancient eyes, who regards the woods with a level of familiarity and strangeness that seems hard to combine; that familiarity and that strangeness leave no space for fear, however. even as the wind howls further, as little ice crystals settle on his hair, as his footsteps disappear faster than he creates them, as he stops at last to clutch his satchel to his chest, and make sure water has not gotten into it — there is no fear. only a strange and overwhelming sense of calm unexpected by a lamb lost wandering in the woods.

the young man takes pity on him before he even comes close — his situation might just look dire from afar. he, however, asks for nothing. it is a pilgrimage he is on and he will see it through one way or another. still, the offer of company upon the path unseen sounds particularly inviting. he pushes his hair out of his face as to see the other better.