Chapter 6
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Lessons to be Learned
My jaunty walk took me through a thicket of trees and when I saw the great blue sky beyond, it was far wider than was right for the middle of a forest because, indeed, I was not in a forest anymore, it was a desert. When I turned around to see where I had come from, there was nothing but sand. Shrugging, I continued on.
There was nothing visible from the top of a dune so I walked down the valley between a pair of the giant mounds of sand and up another. Sure enough, the scenery had changed. No longer were there barren sands in all directions. From the peak of this second dune I saw a mirage to the west, it appeared to be a great oasis but I knew there was none there. Still, I continued towards it.
Down I went again, and once more I rose unto a third peak. From its heights I was able to determine that I had again been moved, without any feeling of disorientation, for when I now looked south the oasis, which had been an illusion of the heat, had become real.
Palm trees swayed by the water’s edge, the tallest in a long line of plants which rimmed the silvery pool. Beyond this bastion of life, in an otherwise deserted place, was a wall. A wall made from sand stone for what else might be found in such a desert as this.
Beyond the defensive structure, towers rose - none beyond the height of a fifth or sixth floor. They too were constructed from the stone of the sand and were designed in square shapes, with wooden trusses poking out from just beneath flat roofs.
For now, the city of khati was but a blip on the horizon, which my keen eyes defined for me, but upon lowering down once more into the dip between dunes and climbing up again, I was right at the gate - the space inbetween having seemed to have disappeared.
I walked straight through the lightly guarded gates of the city, without so much as a glance from the khati stationed there, and entered a tributary of the road network.
The desert side of the settlement was the poorest and most run down. Buildings were old and in disrepair. I thought, perhaps the next person to whom I was a caller might live here. Certainly, there were plenty who looked close to death, as if an errant wind might knock them over the edge. Dozens of such people lay haphazardly about the street but none could see me, so my feet carried me further into the more bustling parts of this sprawling metropolis.
Before long, I had joined a stream of people headed towards the market. That stream then joined a river and I was swept along, out of my depth. People bumped into me from every direction; some felt a cold chill, others a bony elbow, but for each who unintentionally assaulted me, there was another near-enough-by to blame.
Soon, I suspected something might be going on. From what I knew (which was everything), the streets of Dro’Zira shouldn’t have been so packed, not even on market day. Though we were headed to the market square, the mood of the crowd was not in line with what one might expect from happy shoppers.
Khati were angry, shouting and jeering as they pushed closer to the heart of the city and, looking around, I noticed the thin and starving appearance wasn’t limited to those in the slums of Dro’Zira. Everyone here was malnourished and looked to be quite upset.
If this was a rebellion, I would reap more than one life today. But no, none of the shouting khati were armed, save for their claws - but even they weren’t out.
It didn’t take long for me to be swept along to the target of this anger and the reason for this gathering. We came to the market square and it was cleared, guards kept the rowdy crowdy back. In the centre of the square was a stage, hastily constructed out of wood. In the middle was a stump with a crescent shape carved out and dried bloodstains covering it. This was an execution.
A well dressed leopard khati, adorned in the desert style with white linens covering him and gold jewellery decorating his long and softly furred fingers, stepped onto the stage. The crowd hushed as his predatory stare swept over the gathered commoners.
“Dro’Zira is dying.” he stated and the hush that was about the gathered khati morphed into a complete silence. Everyone knew his words to be true but it was something talked about behind closed doors, no one wanted to acknowledge it publicly for fear it might be true.
“My name is Vassir Dro’Zira,” he continued. At this, an angry susurration swept through the crowd. “I know,” he said, lowering his paws in a calming motion, “House Dro’Zira, are not looked on kindly and for good reason. My brother, head of our house, has led this city to ruin. There is no food, the oasis is drying up, and what does he and his wife do?”
By this point he had the khati hanging off his every word and to prove it he let the question stand in the silence for a moment; not a murmur was made as they waited for him to answer.
“They sit there, in their ivory towers, eating cake, playing, and laughing and I ask you, is that fair?” This time there was a chorus of shouting and calls of agreement.
“Exactly,” he said, quieting the crowd once more, “This cannot stand, and though it pains me to do this - I cannot sit idly by any longer.” At his cue, a woman was marched out onto the stage by two expressionless soldiers. She walked with her head held high, dressed in simple, plain garments.
“This is Lady Shavari Dro’Zira and it was her policies that brought about this famine.” This comment fueled the anger of the khati and insults were hurled her way indiscriminately. Still, she weathered it all without breaking.
Someone in the crowd shouted out, “What of the Lord, where is he?” and the sentiment was quickly latched on to. Cries of, “Off with his head,” and, “Death to the lord,” could be heard throughout the square.
“He fled,” Vassir Dro’Zira revealed, “He fled as soon as he heard of my intentions and realised that he was out of favour with the court; he left his wife behind.” This received even more angry remarks, “So she shall pay in his stead!” He finished to the approval of the blood thirsty khati.
There prosseeded a great drumming that once more hushed the crowd and with each beat the Lady Dro’Zira was marched one step closer to the block, never wavering in her confident stride. It looked as though she was walking her escort to their deaths and not the other way around, that was until she reached the bloody stump and laid her own head upon it unprompted. Nothing but determination lay behind her eyes.
The heavy drum beat stopped as Vassir placed his sword gently upon her neck, not so much as scratching her skin. There was a moment of infinite silence as he razed his blade. And then it fell, swift as lightning, and parted the Lady’s head from her shoulders. There was a brief moment when the cheering began and then the world stood still and was drained of its colour.
Unlike most, the Lady stood in her new spiritual form, reattached her head, and looked about without any delay. In seconds she spotted me, lurking in the crowd.
“Ah, there you are,” she said as if she were expecting to see me there. I stood, frozen for a moment, surprised.
“Well, get on with it then. I haven’t got all day.” At her prompting, I moved through the crowd and up the steps to join her on the stage.
“This is a surprise,” I commented as I came close.
“It's not a surprise to me, I’ve been waiting for this for months.”
“Not that you would die,” I corrected. “That you’re fine with it, that you’re not shocked upon seeing me - a creature not of this world - and that you seem to be in a hurry.”
“Huh, very well if you want to talk then fine. I am not okay with dying, I don’t think anyone is, but I understand its necessity in my case, and as to your existence I am well aware. Most of the khati don’t have access to the archives but I do. I have read the accounts of Makir from the First People and they spoke of a god of death matching your description exactly,” she responded primly.
“Well,” I said, still slightly taken aback by her attitude. “Lady Dro’Zira, shall we?” I asked, holding out a hand for her to take.
Before she could, another voice spoke up, “Lady Shavari Dro’Zira, I know that name,” the cat said, appearing from nowhere and walking between us.
The Lady, who had been frosty and aloof but respectful when dealing with my skeletal form, when she saw my feline one her demeanour shifted. She prostrated herself on the wooden floor and spoke with great reverence:
“Great ancestor, you honour me with your presence. I am delighted that my lowly name has reached your ears. This is an auspicious sign indeed.”
The cat puffed up with the sudden praise and I saw as his ego swelled.
“Ahh, now I remember. Didn’t you just give birth to a litter of kittens,” he went on in a warm and loving tone - as if speaking to one’s favourite pet.
“I did, your holiness,” she replied. At the mode of address, his fur turned silkier and his steps more graceful. To wit, he preened.
“Then why, may I ask,” the cat went on, “Are you so ready to die?”
“Reverend ancestor, my death was arranged so that my children might live,” she explained readily.
“Wait,” I interjected and she turned a cold glare upon me but I paid it no mind, “This was your plan?” I asked, suppressing the answer from myself so I might hear it from her lips.
For a moment, she didn’t speak, but after my cat-self nodded she acquiesced.
“Yes,” she answered shortly.
“So, what? All of this, your execution, your husband being ousted and Vassir taking charge, all of it was your doing, Vassir himself was behind none of it?”
“Yes, he thought he was the one pulling the strings but the families of the city are just doing as I and my husband instructed. The original plan was to sacrifice both of us but when the kits were born I insisted he left with them,” she shared.
“And why must you die at all?” the cat pressed in a manner that suggested he knew the answer and was just testing her.
“The people are out for blood,” she replied, gesturing to the crowd, “Talk of rebellion has even entered our own house - this situation was no fault of ours but it is our responsibility to bear. If the people came marching to the gates of our home, I do not trust that our guards would be willing to stop their brothers and wives, daughters and children. It is better that only I die and their bloodlust be sated than the people unwittingly throw themselves into ruin,” she reasoned.
“Hold on,” I said, and again she was displeased with my interruption though her Ladyship didn’t say anything, “If your brother-in-law, Vassir Dro’Zira, believes this was his idea, he must have already been planning to oust you and your husband.”
She nodded in response.
“Do you not hate him?” I asked, not understanding her lack of emotion on this matter.
The Lady was genuinely surprised by my question and took a moment to answer.
“Why should I?” she asked in response, seeming genuinely confused.
“Because he is family, and he killed you,” I replied, also confused.
“And? If I were in his position I would also be using the unrest to my advantage, I can’t say I would have acted as blatantly as he did but the people will listen to him now.”
“But he killed you, shouldn’t you hate him?” I insisted.
“No, in fact I forgive him. He knew of my children, even though the population at large did not, and he still let my husband escape with them to safety and I secured his word that he would not lay a claw upon them.”
“Huh,” was my only response. Mortals were confusing. Not wanting to dwell on it any longer I offered a hand to the Lady. She looked to the cat and, at his approval, took it and disappeared - on to her next life.
✯
“I don’t understand,” I began, talking to the cat that accompanied me as my walk took me through a humid jungle. “Why does the first mortal I come to despise his killer and the second forgive him?”
“If you don’t know, why would I?” the cat asked in his rich voice.
“Because I created you to ask questions I already know the answers to… and for exposition,” I exposited.
“There is no answer for this question. I could explain why each of them thought the way they did but that still wouldn’t make sense to us - we cannot understand this,” the cat explained. I looked inside myself and found that what he said was true.
Lady Dro’Zira had forgiven her brother-in-law because he had let her children go. Ori’Vairion had wanted nothing more than vengeance on the elf who had promised to hunt down and torture his. While I could understand these motivations in theory, the emotions that drove them were a mystery to me.
“Hmm,” I said, deeply introspective. I was unnerved by this gap in my abilities. Was it wise to have created gods with the potential to grow in power without understanding this fundamental thing they had and I lacked?
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How might they react if they grew enough to hurt me and discovered I existed, hiding from them for years? Creating a thirteenth god, directly opposed to one of the existing twelve, definitely wouldn’t endear me to them.
What might they do, if they had the strength to crack the planet in half, rather than just a small island - as was presently the case? What would one of my gods do if one they considered family died? Would they destroy the world?
I continued brooding as our journey went on through dark forests and arid farmland. Before too long, we arrived at my next destination, a week old battlefield. Dead humans lay everywhere, mixing with the mud to create a mound of blood and filth.
What used to be grassland was now churned up earth which stank of offal. From beneath my feet there came a trembling. Distracted as I was, I didn’t notice until it was too late.
I was knocked from my feet and thrown on my side as the open grave was burst through by a figure. His armour was rusting and dented and missing in places. The knight, for clearly that was what he was, let out a cry of jubilation, happy to have finally surfaced from the gruesome depths.
“I Live!” he shouted, with tired delight. As soon as his declaration was made, the world dimmed and the clouds seemed to slow in their constant glide across the sky. The man slumped to the floor, the last of his life drained by his laborious escape from a mountain of corpses.
“And now you die,” I said as his soul left his body.
The knight turned to me, looking me up and down, “You are Death?” he asked with disappointment but no surprise. I nodded in affirmation and he dropped to his knees - his armour making the most awful sound as he did. Clasping his hands before him, the man of station begged:
“Please, just one hour, that is all I need. One measly hour compared to the entirety of my life, one hour and I shall give you anything that I can offer. One hour and…” he went on but I had stopped listening.
It wasn’t unusual for people to beg Dem for their life. He would usually ignore them and stand there - hand outstretched - until they came with him. But holding off death for but an hour was an interesting idea. What did this knight intend to do with that time? Perhaps I could learn more of these mortals if I were to watch him.
I had intended to behave exactly as Dem would, so things would be upset as little as possible, but I had already fucked that with my first job. I shrugged and cut off the man’s constant begging.
“Sure, why not?” I said, agreeing to the human man’s request.
“...And, if I can live but for one more hour, I shall commit whatever life there might be after this one to you and I will…” the knight went on, listing more and more outrageous offers in return for his single hour. His eyes focused firmly on his feet, not having seemed to have noticed my agreement to his proposal.
“I think he might be deaf,” the cat commented, jumping out from a pile of bodies, chewing on an ear.
I sighed as the man continued with his pleading litany.
“I think we can fix this with a little cure-all I’ve invented,” I said to the cat as I picked about the bodies until I found the broken haft of a weapon, now just a long stick.
“Cure-all? We didn’t invent anything like that. I know everything you do and… oh I see,” the cat replied. Throughout our exchange, the knight hadn’t ceased in his begging and was so focused on thinking of new excuses, he hadn’t even noticed the arrival of a cat that talked.
I pulled back my shaft, aiming for the somehow armoured head of his disembodied spirit, and let loose. The swing was large and exaggerated and, being a man of war, the knight saw it coming - though the shock of the sudden attack stopped him from reacting.
My very much real stick struck his immaterial helmet and made a dreadfully painful sounding gong. The wooden weapon shattered and the armoured man flipped over three times from the impact before collapsing in a metallic heap.
“What was that for?” he complained with slurred words as he struggled to get back to his ghostly feet.
“Not shutting up,” I replied, picking him up by the back of his breastplate and, with two hands, threw his spirit back into his body. Colour returned to the world, the clouds continued their glacial sweep and what grass remained swayed gently in the wind.
The knight laid his hands upon the ground and thanked me profusely.
“Get a move on,” I complained, “The clock is ticking.”
“Yes, of course good sir, I shall move with as much haste as possible!” the knight exclaimed, springing to his feet with a surprising amount of grace for the age his voice suggested. He whistled an ear piercing note then stood, waiting for something.
“What was that?” I asked, rubbing my boney ear holes.
“Hmm, what?” he asked, turning his head to me, “Ahh, the whistling. I was calling for my steed, snowdrop,” he explained.
I looked out in front of me. Not a thing stirred. There was nothing but mounds of bodies and the remnants of war on an open field. I turned around and it was much the same for miles.
“I don’t think there are any hors– Jesus-fucking-christ!” I exclaimed, cutting myself off. When I turned back around, a horse, seventeen hands tall, and snow white had appeared from nowhere.”
“What did you say?” the knight asked as he mounted his mount.
“Oh, sorry. That’s not a thingy, whatsit, here, yet, when,” I let out in a mumbled jumble of words, startled by the animal's sudden arrival.
“Geeya.”
The knight encouraged his steed and the pair took off. Seeing how fast the horse was moving, I could now understand how it had seemingly appeared from nowhere. Without any apparent effort, the stallion tore across the open field at what must have been fifty or sixty miles an hour, splattering me with mud as it sped off.
“Sorry,” I could hear the knight say as he rode away, swiftly disappearing into the distance. Instead of suffering the indignity of wiping myself off, I snapped my finger bones and the filth was gone from me - leaving my creepy black cloak just as untouched as before.
“Do you think he’s trying to escape?” I asked the cat, him having gracefully dodged the spray of wet dirt and so not in need of my magics to clean off.
“No, we know he is a man of his word,” the cat replied, stifling a yawn.
“Let's follow,” I remarked, and so we did.
Pressing through a grove of trees, on the other side of the field from where the knight left, we found ourselves face to face with a small castle in the middle of an insubstantial human settlement. Sir knight rode past, speeding through the gates before the guards had time to react. His steed was skidding to a stop, sparks flying from the cobbles in the castle’s courtyard, when the portcullis slammed closed - far too late. Myself and the cat slipped in seconds before it was shut.
“Name, yourself intruder,” one of the men demanded with his spear pointed at the mounted man, “This is the fortress of the late Sir Cavalier, who would be so brazen as to charge in uninvited?”
“Why, the late Sir Cavalier himself,” the knight replied with some joviality. The man pointing a weapon at him was unsure what to do. Just then, a rather portly, armoured man came jogging out of the keep.
“Spearman, lower your weapon,” he ordered, puffing and red.
“But sir, this man came riding in like a bat out of hell - this could be an attack,” the young guard insisted, keeping his spear raised.
“Stand down I said,” the larger man repeated as he reached the first man and pulled the weapon from his hand before bracing himself on his knees to catch his breath. “This is Sir Cavalier,” he went on, “I would recognize that armour anywhere, not to mention his lordship's horse - he would allow no other to ride him. My lord,” the bolobus man said, standing up straight and gulping in air, “I apologise for the new hand, he was taken on whilst his lordship was on campaign.”
“No harm done,” Sir Cavalier replied, “And how many times must I tell you Rondus, I am not a lord - I am a knight. I earned my Title through my own feats and I had a name far before that.”
“But I thought Sir Cavalier was reported dead at the battle of Cleater planes?” the newly trained soldier asked his commander.
“And what a mess that must have caused,” the knight said, dismounting his horse who then trotted himself towards the stables.
“Yes my lord, quite the mess,” the older guard confirmed, walking with Sir Cavalier as he entered the keep. No one noticed the shadow of death which clung to the man as he walked into his castle. “Since Sir had no heirs and has not written a will an Assessor has been sent by the crown to… well… assess what you have, to be taken by the king.”
“Yes, I know, it will all be given back to the crown as there is no one to inherit my title,” the knight added, knowing this all too well.
“Yes,” Rondus replied. The three walked down a corridor with some speed; myself and I followed along behind, unseen.
The knight took a moment to look out of a window at the sun, “thirty minutes,” he mumbled.
“What was that my lord?” his man asked.
“Right, Sergeant - I want you to get my squire and a dozen witnesses as well as the Royal Assessor and head to the courtyard. Everybody should be waiting there in ten minutes,” Sir Cavalier ordered.
“Yes my lord,” the panting Sergeant saluted, then turned to the spearman who had been following behind them, “You heard him boy, hop to.” The younger man was confused for a moment but as soon as he realised that the sergeant had immediately, and blatantly passed on his duties in front of his lord, and said lord wasn't saying anything, he sprinted off in search of the people listed.
“Now, Sergeant - I want you to go and prepare my horse for a long journey immediately.”
“Yes my lord,” the man agreed, looking around for someone to hoick the work off on, but finding no one, let out a sigh and began running.
Since the castle was small, it didn’t take long for the knight to reach his library - which consisted of a tiny room with a few bookshelves and a desk. The scribe was at the desk, thumbing through ledgers. As soon as he saw the poorly, but fully, armoured knight enter the room he stood with gusto - knocking over a pot of ink and covering the table. He looked down and grimaced.
The weed thin bookworm was trying to save what he could but Sir Cavalier pushed him aside. “There’s no time for that,” the knight declared, kicking the table against a wall to the smaller man’s dismay.
“My lord, I am delighted you are alive, but must you destroy my books?” the twig of a man asked, confounded.
“They are my books,” the knight corrected, tearing up a rug which was beneath the now destroyed table and started ripping up the floorboards with his hands, “And they don’t matter.”
The other man just watched his lord rip apart the flooring, slack jawed.
“I intend for my squire to inherit my title,” Sir Cavalier began, prying from the remains of the wood, a small locked chest - about the length of his palm.
“But Sir, that’s impossible. Charlie isn’t your son, and he isn’t of noble blood, he’s an orphan,” the scribe rebuked, dumbfounded by his master’s actions.
“An orphan same as me, same as you, and the same as most of our staff, let me worry about that,” the knight assured, “Now, when my squire inherits my title and lands he will be taxed heavily by the crown and since there is a Royal Assessor already here, they won’t miss a penny.”
“What do you mean, he’ll be long gone by the time you're dead, Sir.”
The knight drew close and looked his man in the eye, through his ever closed visor, and said:
“Barnabas, you might be a snake–” the other man spluttered, “you may be a snake, but I trust you.”
“My lord?” Barnabas questions, instinctively grabbing the heavy chest that was shoved into his chest.
“This chest is filled with silver that doesn’t appear on your books, nevermind how. I need you to head to the capital and use these funds to found an orphanage; do you understand? Speak with the Lady Tuntil and she shall help you. Now, do you understand?” Sir Cavalier asked with gravity.
“No my lord, I don’t understand at all,” Barnabas complained, overwhelmed by the suddenness of it all. The knight lay a hand on each of his scribe’s shoulders - which sagged under the weight - and spoke with sincerity:
“Barnabas, there is no chance for those without a family in this world. Will you do this for me?”
Finally picking up on the seriousness of the situation, Barnabas took a moment to calm himself before answering, “I do not understand your kindness my lord, certainly I could never be so generous if I were in your position. But I shall do as you ask - even if it is against my better judgement to waste this much coin.”
“Good man,” the knight responded, clapping him on the back and pushing him out the door, “Snowdrop is waiting for you in the stables, and before you say anything, he has agreed to take you to the capital but no further. You will only be able to ride him this once.”
Sir Cavalier followed Barnabas out of the library and headed for the courtyard. When he made it back outside the people he had asked were gathered. A dozen servants, scullery maids, kitchen staff and the like stood round the edge of the square yard and waited. A neveros looking boy of thirteen years was on his own, apart from the group, dressed in practice armour. In the centre was a well dressed man in red velvet wearing a displeased look - the Royal Assessor.
Sir Cavalier scanned the crowd then locked eyes with his squire and called to the lad. The boy trotted over, conscious of the curious eyes which followed him across the courtyard.
“Come here Charlie boy,” Sir Cavalier said with delight as he picked him up in a hug, only to drop him on his feet and crouch to be on a level with the lad.
“My lord.. Stop it.. That’s embarrassing,” the teenager complained, to which his hair was ruffled.
“Now, listen to me Charlie,” the knight said, quiet enough that only the two of them and I could hear.
“What is it?” he asked, some of the former nervousness returning as he heard something in the voice of the man who had adopted him and trained him as a squire.
“I want you to inherit my title,” Sir Cavalier began and received a sceptical look from his surrogate son, “I know, you have no legal standing but there is one way. By divine decree, it is possible to gain any title, if you are to challenge a member of nobility to a fight - with witnesses present - a fight must take place to determine the owner of the title.”
“That’s a thing?” the boy asked, confused.
“It is. All I need you to do is beat me in a spar.”
“But I can’t–”
“Yes you can, and you must. This will all be staged, you just have to declare your intention to fight me for my title and I will agree and set the place as here and now. Then we do the over lower thrust drill, I will let you score a hit and forfeit the match.”
“I don’t understand, why are you doing this?”
“I have no time to explain, just… Charlie,” he said, looking him straight in the eye, “do you trust me?” The boy nodded without hesitation. “Then please, just put on this show and you will be my successor.”
Seeing this now as some kind of act, the kid was on board. Turning to the impatient onlookers he spoke aloud and overdramatically, “Sir Cavalier, knight of the first order, slayer of the beast of Dunlin and other stuff, “I challenge you to a duel for your title!”
A gasp of shock went through the gathered servants and the otherwise unhappy looking Assessor’s mouth twitched up in a grin. At least, he thought, there might be some entertainment on this otherwise unnecessary trip.
“I Sir Cavalier, first of my name, Knight of the First Order, Slayer of the Beast of Dunlin, and other stuff, do hereby accept the challenge of Charles the Squire in front of a dozen lay witnesses and a representative of the crown,” the knight responded, matching Charlie’s level of acting with overloud statements and broad movements as he gestured to the Royal representative.
“I shall call the terms of the duel, we shall fight here and now,” the knight said, drawing his rusted and battered sword. “On guard!” he exclaimed with an exaggerated rise of the sword.
Seeing this as some kind of game, the squire ran in with his own sword low in an attack the pair had drilled a thousand times. Charlie expected to be blocked, or to make a glancing blow as planned. When compared to the knight, his swordsmanship was nothing - Sir Cavalier could have stopped any strike he might have thought of in his sleep.
Sir Cavalier did not block the strike, in fact he jumped in - ensuring the blade went through a hole in his armour. He went even further, falling to his knees to guarantee the blade pierced his heart.
There were screams from the servants and some tried to help their lord, but he held out a hand to stop them.
Charlie was frozen, not knowing what had just happened. His master locked eyes with him, and there was not the anger or pain that he might have expected but an honest smile behind the pinholes of his visor.
“Listen to me, my son,” Sir Cavalier began, “don’t look down,” he said, holding his boy’s head up so he couldn’t see his father’s injury. “Know that this was my Plan,” he said in a voice that weakened by the second, “and know, I… love… you…”
The world slowed once more, leaving the boy in a perpetual state of shock, as the monochrome of death took over.
The armoured figure’s spirit stood from his body, still covered in plate. His head hung low as he turned to me, exhausted.
“Time’s up,” I said, to fill the oppressive silence. “That was… not what I expected you to do with your hour. I thought I might learn something from watching you, but I’m only more confused. I had concluded that if you hate someone, you want to kill them, and if you love someone, you want to protect them but you have shown that is not always the case.”
“Of course it is,” he snapped back churlishly.
“Then why did you make someone you claim to love kill you?” I asked with honest confusion.
“Homos forgive me but I had to!” Sir Cavalier shouted, self loathing fueling his outburst.
“Why?” I asked.
The black cat, who had been napping in my hood poked his head up to answer:
“A duel for one’s Title in the human lands, must be to the death.”