What was good anyway, she wondered, gazing at the ancient being before her. Peculiar among his kind was Benedict. Unlike any other ancient she had ever known. Soft spoken and seemingly frail, more so than even herself. And yet no doubt he could crush her with one blow of his pale, dainty hand, and he would weep for her too.

He had seemed deep in thought when she had found him, sitting in the topiary garden all by himself, contemplating the whimsical shapes of the trees or perhaps the insubstantial clouds moving lethargically under the full moon. Even after she approached and sat, he said nothing for a while. And then this.