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nothing you can say, nothing you can do
IP: 82.19.140.112
Posted on August 14, 2012 at 10:30:18 PM by arthur & pendragon



People have the unhappy tendency to assume that once a problem is solved everything will improve. The fact of the matter was however, that a solution to one problem usually lumbered you with a whole new set of equally difficult dilemmas. Getting Shaman’s regular climate back had been a solution to the problem of the ice, and to everyone being packed into the Labyrinth. It had not solved the problem of supplies, it had not rebuilt anything, and Arthur knew that reconstruction took a lot of time, and a lot of effort. People needed to be co-ordinated. There was no use in sending everyone off to their own corners of the world where they each began their fresh-start by planting carrots. All that resulted in was an abundance of root vegetables. Different land was better suited to different crops, that was a well known fact, just as other land was not very good at growing anything at all, but was wonderful for raising sheep. The problem came in making sure that everyone knew whether they were living on crop land, or sheep land, vegetable gardens or cow pasture. The organisation of labour was equally important, it was vital to ensure that the right skill sets were applied to the right tasks, or you ended up with brick layers ploughing fields whilst people complained that they didn’t have anywhere to live. It were these problems, and many others, that had populated Arthur’s table with copious amounts of paper.

He looked at a plan of the commune, the nib of his quill hovering between the different rectangles that marked out the different plots of land, so away from the shelters, and others attached to them like gardens. Beside that was a list of recommendations, put forwards by the members of the guards who had been to visit the place itself in the King’s place, listing their suggestions as to what should happen with each. The King could head the thud, thud, thud of a sword hitting against wood and straw from just outside his window, and found his attention drifting. Tristan had grown a lot in recent weeks, he had noticed, and this had lead him to give his son more strength building exercises in order to maximise upon it. They had been through over five straw dummies in the past fortnight. He had expected complaints from the Prince, but Tristan had been spending an increased amount of time in the yard of his own accord anyway, and seemed glad of something to do. Arthur often found himself musing upon the strange change in behaviour, was the boy’s attitude simply changing, or was there some other cause beneath it? A want to be away from the castle perhaps?

The sound of creaking hinges lead the King to raise his head in time to see Mallos stride into the hall. The King placed his quill down on the table top, leaning back in his own chair, the expression on his face his usual mask of neutrality. He had not seen the Spaniard since the day in the Labyrinth when Lorraine had come to collect her possessions, and, in truth, he had been possessed with little desire to seek the deity out. Already he had begun to experience a twinge of regret about his decision not to notify Tsi, it had been a decision based on selfishness, a desire to protect his own, with little regard as to what his people deserved. No, his thoughts cut in, he had been right, revenged would just lead to more revenge, and Arthur had drunk his fill of it, both in his current life, and in his previous.

Arthur surveyed Mallos carefully, as the original picked up the sheet of paper that listed the crops that they had so far successfully seen planted. The Spaniard replaced the sheet, placing it atop the wrong pile, Arthur noticed, making a mental note to correct the error when he was alone again, his attention being dragged away momentarily as the thumping from outside punctured his consciousness once more. Mallos began to speak, and Arthur listened, the tips of his fingers resting against one another as his elbow dug into the oak wood beneath them. His eyes looked off into the distance, avoiding the Spaniard’s face entirely. “I have told myself the same things,” he said at last, in a tired voice, “the same things over and over, a thousand times. A grieving mind, it seems, is not inclined to listen to logic.” There was a small grim smile then, a tiny movement that only someone as astute as Mallos would be likely to notice. It said one simple thing, thank you. His shoulders rose and fell in a deep sigh that could also have contained a shrug, his gaze skimming past Mallos without pausing, before coming to a stop at the window beyond him. He could see the clumsy outline of the straw figure beyond, noticing it began to wobble more violently. “It seems,” the King began, resuming speech at last, “that my world becomes the play thing of forces against which I am helpless. On a whim they could bring this castle crashing down around my ears, could snatch away the son they were kind enough to leave me. Tell me, Mallos, what gives your people the right? I have been very patient, I have sought to accept the turning of a world I was never supposed to know, but I find I am not the kind of man who enjoys the feeling of being tossed around like a ship trapped on a stormy sea with no power to avoid his fate.” Catching himself in his rant, Arthur stopped again, his eyes meeting finally with Mallos’ dark ones, “what do you intend to do?” he asked carefully, “they were your family as much as mine, and you will not always have my limitations.” A fire had crept into the usual cold grey of the King’s eyes, a ferocity that was not often seen within them, even in temper. They were the eyes of the man within him who, in days gone by, and marched into lines of men with nothing but a sword, and cut them down one after another, after another. The thump thumping from outside had reached a newfound frequency, the hits coming closer together, until finally silence descended, carried in on the back on singing steel.








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