Hector didn’t sleep. He got an hour’s worth of rest at best, perhaps two, yet no more chances at dreaming are going to come his way anymore as he watches the sun rise.

He stands, and indulges in the bliss of the cold air which tickles the bottom of his nape. The presence he felt last night hadn’t been anything like the mere training sessions with the other knights back at the castle, and Hector finally understands what his brother had meant when he’d pushed him to the ground three years ago and said, “War and playing soldier are not the same.”

He reaches for his sachet, filled to the brim with the appropriate culinary items to last him for the rest of the day. Though Hector is as quick to open it as he is to close and drop the small leather bag. “What in the King’s name is this.” He gasps. His eyes widen at the sight of neon-green slugs—hundreds of them—sliding around a space once meant for Anne-Marie’s home-made bread.

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Hector bites his lip. He picks up the wretched thing and makes his way over to a nearby bush before releasing the slugs into the wild with a long, elongated sigh. “I suppose we’ll have to make do.” He turns to face his noble steed. “Isn’t that right, Beatrice—” Hector stifles a yelp, for he is startled by what he finds. Braided and intertwined with lovely flowers is the great dark mane of his horse. Who has done this, and why? is his first thought, and then: How silly am I, for it is obvious as to whom the who in this question is.

“Blasted witch.” He curses under his breath, clenches his fist, and walks around his horse in hopes of detecting any other…undesirable problems.

With two grunts and a huff, Hector declares it safe to continue. He undoes what he considers a distasteful way of modifying a battle-horse’s appearance, before taking a seat once more upon his saddle, as he moves his ankles and thighs, until the both of them are but a shadow racing dawn’s sun, trampling small rose plants that had once been stable and snug between his mounts’ mane.