Meadow

There he is, knight back from the days battle, and still he acted like a boy caught messing about in the flowerbeds. It is perhaps because Ylva was who she was that he was always so aware of her likes and dislikes, of what would make her more inclined to favor him with conversation. It had not gone unnoticed when she did not ask why he had this or that scrape, cut, or bruise - he only had taken it as another ‘well, he is simply peculiar’ expression, though. She was clear about her self-sufficiency so much so that he often kept his defending to himself. She was clear about her singular control on her like so much so that he always kept it to himself when he had driven off something or another.

He does not want the recognition. He did not think he would have even wanted the recognition if it would win him her favor. He had no name to offer her, no legacy to offer any child that might come of that offer if accepted. What could he possibly do for her that she was not already clearly capable of doing herself?

So he stands apart, though a little more apart than was most usual, and tries to pretend away the cuts and scrapes left by the now fled wolven newlyweds. His black is darker in the shade, his mane long enough, he had originally thought, to curtain any signs of the jumping bites he had endured in the frosted morning. He had anticipated only more pressed lips and flicking glances, though they had not been made coyly and he had believed them only idle curiosity, and almost dips his head after his greeting to grab a tuft of grass that grew his length or so into the forest.

"You’re hurt," she states, plainly, and without question to soften her tone. Nose in the chestnut heaps, that is what his face looks like. Like he has been found out in some embarrassing enterprise and by the last person in the world he’d hoped to be found out by. "I, erm," His ears flick back, her marched hooves bringing her straight up on him so that his mane’s red-tinged tips brush her cheek as she sticks her face towards his and furrows her brow, "What have you been up to so early, Errant?"

His eyes are a little wide, his swallow making a knot in his throat that he has to clear, "Mkhm, I- um," he tries to start again, making the most perfect picture in that late fall morning.

There he is, a knight housed in her castle only by her good graces and tolerance. He tries to sneak into the great hall, quiet save for the minor clanks of armor as he removes them to set by the fireplace in the early morning when no one should be awake save the few servants that shuffle down the corridor. He knows he needs to change his tunic, the arm cut by the blades the bandits had tucked into their belts to use on their victims. He was good, but he was not invincible, and he had hopes to make it to his chambers before the Lady rose to break fast in the morning. When he turns to see her there, however, he angles himself to better hide his injuries in the sharp contrasted shadows of the firelight. Her beauty almost steals his words, but he manages to greet her. “I am back. Sorry that my walk took a little longer than I thought.” His smile is short, courteous but uninvasive. He knows that he only is given the pleasure of her company under her sufferance. He would do much to remain there, to be able to see her, speak to her. While other knights rode in and off with the hopes to beguile her, claim her, buy her estate by her hand-- just her begrudging acceptance of his residency in her small guard quarters satisfied him enough. He needed no grail nor dragon when the approval of such a One as this Lady could be earned through his service and respect. “You’re hurt,” a sharp tone says, breaking him free of his wistful thinking, surprising him as he towered by the mouth of the grand fireplace. Her steps are hard on the stone and he knows now that this was not the first time she had seen his return with scrapes, no matter his nonchalance or deflection. "You seem very prone to hurting yourself." She says at last, her eyes stern and lovely skin crinkled at her brow. His own eyes are wide, bewildered, and her proximity is so much more than he could bear. He stammers at first, hand suddenly snapped to hold over the wound as she finishes her march, his face wincing at the sudden impact he so swiftly applies. He would not, could not, lie to her. He would never do her the dishonor of pretending she was just some frail noblewoman to be kept up in her tower with frills and flowers and combs.

"I do not look for the trouble," he says as his only means for a defense, his backtilted lean keeping their noses from touching. "I have only answered trouble that would come to call. I try and make sure it is not near the boy," he begins, looking away as he swallows thickly again, "and… that it does not find it’s way to you." He clears his throat again, looking to one side and feeling the most peculiar urge to clack his teeth at her like a child might do to a elder member of their herd. "It is a small thing, not something worth your notice." But isn’t it quite the picture anyway, the fourteen hand mare stepping up and gaining ground on the sixteen hand stallion with ease.

His eyes cast to one side, perturbed by the way he can see his own heart hammering in the tremors of his chest beneath his tunic. He almost wondered if she could hear it thudding the cage of ribs into only so much dust with his proximity. He prays the red tinging his cheeks and ears is staunched by the red light of the fire, pleads with his and any other gods that might listen to make him less easily undone. “It is nothing to mind. A knight anticipates wounds so minor when he patrols and finds the ill-willed waiting to do harm.” He steps back half a step out of instinct, his back finding the stones there cool despite the stoked flames bringing warmth to the room. He clears his throat and ducks his head, “I am sorry for concerning you, Lady.”