ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY

See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.

Author's Note : I should try and make an excuse for leaving this story languishing in WIP hell for so long...but I am just going to grovel profusely and say that I am truly sorry for leaving readers (if I have any left!) with such a horrible cliffhanger. Perhaps my greatest apology should go to Lancelot for leaving him in so much pain since 2007...yes, 2007. I would like to thank lynneanne, whose timely & very kind review was the catalyst in spurring me to write this chapter.

Chapter Notes: 'Selume proferre' means 'towards the light' (Latin). I also took the liberty of giving Lancelot breeches as I did not want the distraction of his nakedness nor some sort of toga/nappy construction!

PART 20: SELUME PROFERRE

"It appears that we still haven't pissed your God off. He has not abandoned us yet, Arthur," Gawain announced as he pulled his horse up to an abrupt halt beside the knights' crude camp. He had wasted no time, riding out in the depths of night and returning as dawn cracked over the horizon. "There is a mansio at Horsa's Ham."

"How far?" Arthur asked.

"About a ten mile ride north east of here."

Arthur glanced at Tristan's dour expression and the barely perceptible shake of his head. "There is nothing closer?" he asked, tiredly.

Gawain's face fell when he realised that his mission had failed. He had been a fool to think he was bringing good news. Lancelot was in no state to be moved. He was barely clinging to life and a ten mile ride would truly be the end of him.

Grim silence descended on the group and all eyes turned to Tristan's careful ministrations over Lancelot's broken body. Lancelot had not awoken since his knife wounds had been cauterised and, while they were grateful for the mercy, his fellow knights held greater fear that he would not wake up again. The scout had done everything in his power to anchor the young man through the cold night while Gawain had set out by moonlight in search of benevolent civilisation.

Despite the heat of the fire, Lancelot's body was cold until Tristan had instructed Arthur to lie alongside him and try to share some of their own body warmth. At first, they lay in silence, unable to break through the horror of what had happened to their brother. Lancelot was so still, it was hard to resist the conviction that they did not huddle close to death itself. Arthur had found his own hand wandering to find Lancelot's.

Even though his hands been tended to, the warrior's nail beds were blue and bruised and flakes of blood still stained the fingertips. Some of the joints and knuckles were swollen from where they had been reset and bruising coloured the tender flesh. Arthur could not help how his brain walked through each horrible torture that had left such damage in its wake. He remembered breaking a finger once many moons ago. The pain had been intense but it had been tempered by the fact that he had been stick fighting with a childhood friend. Arthur could not imagine how awful it must be to have no distraction from the pain, to be forced to feel as each bone was systematically dislocated or broken, every nerve ending jangling as glass shards were dug into your fingertips. But what sickened him the most was that Lancelot's hands were only the start of the evil he had endured. To survive strangulation, whips, burns and knives just demonstrated the sheer strength and will that must return Lancelot whole.

Tristan had broken the silence with a crude comment about the Roman fashion to lie with young men. Arthur had refused the bait at first but soon found himself drawn into jovial conversation and, at some point, they almost found it possible to believe that Lancelot was just sleeping heavily between them. Tristan occasionally got up, busying himself with scouting for medicinal plants by lamplight and tending the fire, making sure that clean water was always to hand in case Lancelot awoke. At some point, with Tristan's blessing, Arthur had fallen asleep and was only woken when the scout informed him that Gawain's horse was approaching.

Now, Gawain settled himself miserably beside the fire and helped himself to the bone broth Tristan had made from the previous night's rabbit leftovers. The small group sat in silence for some time, each so caught in his own despondent thought about how to get their injured companion to safety and proper shelter that they failed to see the first signs that Lancelot was waking up.

Gawain was the first to see the slow blink of bleary dark eyes staring heavenwards. "Lancelot..." he breathed, quickly moving to his friend's side.

Lancelot could hear voices around him, talking low or at a distance. The voices stopped for a time or maybe he lost consciousness, he did not know which. As he focused more, he became aware of his body against the familiar sensation of hard ground and the chill of the outdoors. A bone deep coldness was permeating through the weight of a blanket on top of him. Lancelot tried to move his hand beneath the wool and concentrated on instructing his fingers to move. The tiniest twitch took every ounce of energy he possessed and was the greatest mistake he could make. Sudden, flashing pain ignited from his fingertips to his head and down to his toes. It was so complete and all-encompassing that Lancelot could not even begin to recognise the source.

He wanted to scream but lacked the strength. He forced his heavy eyelids open, blinking blindly into grey light overhead. Then suddenly there was movement beside him and blurry faces blocked the sky from view. Lancelot struggled to sharpen the shapes, a sudden flashing image of a thin man with dark features clouded his view and he felt a deep shuddering fear run through him.

"Lancelot?" the voice said, then more quietly to another, "He is shivering."

A hand rested on his and the young Sarmatian felt a bolt of pain travel up his arm and the tendons of his neck to jar his brain like a hammer. He winced and closed his eyes as he tried to manage the rising nausea. As if comprehending his pain, the hand quickly moved away and another, calm, low voice chimed in. Between moments of blackout, the knight could hear fractions of conversation "cold...shock of...conscious..."

The quiet, low voice spoke again close to his ear. It was familiar and comforting. "Lancelot, I need you to open your eyes for me." Mustering what little strength he possessed, Lancelot acquiesced. He stared hazily up at a face hovering upside down above him. A name came to his lips, unbidden. "Trist'n." His voice was little more than a broken whisper and it hurt just to push air past his lips.

"Yes, it is me. Drink this for me," he urged. Lancelot lay still, unable to do anything more. He felt a hand cup his neck and a cup was pressed to his lips. The sweet nectar of cold water wet his lips and Lancelot tried to remember how to swallow. Each sluice of water was like a burning torch being jammed down his throat but it kept coming. Black spots danced at the edge of his vision and the pain was unbearable. Lancelot tried to listen to the coaxing voice in his ear but the next sip sent him into a spasm of coughs that felt like it was tearing him apart.

Strong hands pressed down on his shoulders and he felt another rest on his head but the coughs were taking him to a place beyond reason that Lancelot had no control over. Then, a burst of adrenaline shot through his system and, when he looked up at the faces holding him, recognition came like an arrow to its mark. It was Arthur! He had come for him! And Gawain? Gawain, whom Lancelot had last seen as a prisoner in the Saxon camp.

Through coughs of water, the knight reached for Gawain's arm, putting as much strength as he could into the grip. "You were...I thought..."

Gawain's strong blue gaze held his and his hand closed over Lancelot's. "I am safe. As are you, my friend." Lancelot managed a smile and closed his eyes, feeling a wave of relief wash over him.

"Lancelot, stay with us!" Arthur begged, seeing his friend's eyes lose the light of consciousness. "Lancelot?" He rested a hand against the knight's cheek but the dark eyes were flickering closed and no amount of coaxing could bring him back.

Tristan sat back and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Gawain perceived a tiny tremor in the scout's fingers, a worrying sign that even their trusted Tristan knew they were running out of options. Trying to maintain some optimism, he pointed out, "He recognised us. Surely that is a good sign? No delirium or fever?"

Arthur did not move his hand from where it rested against Lancelot's cheek. "We cannot stay here. We have to move him."

Gawain swallowed dryly, trying to imagine how on earth they would be able to transport Lancelot without doing more damage. "The trauma may kill him."

"But remaining here will kill him!" Arthur barked before lowering his voice, "We have no choice. Tristan, how long do you need to make preparations for the journey?" The look on his face was one the knights had learned to recognise. He would not be swayed. This was no comrade's decision, it was their commander's.

Gawain wondered if the scout would defy their leader's orders but, to his surprise, Tristan merely replied, "I have everything that I can use from this place. We should ensure we have ample water for the journey but, apart from that..."

"Good," Arthur said, relinquishing his hold on Lancelot. "Then we leave as soon as we have refilled the water skins."

The knights readied themselves for the journey. Barely a word was spoken as each man fought against the fear that, in trying to do the best by Lancelot, they may just murder him.

Gawain had packed his own belongings much more quickly with the silent help of Aedre, who then withdrew to help cool the recently boiled water. She wandered through the nearby undergrowth, occasionally slipping items from the ground into the small leather pouch at her waist. The girl never wandered far from the group but she must have felt their suspicious eyes upon her at all times. Gawain wondered if she contemplated her fate or whether growing up as a chief's chattel had long since dulled the fear of losing control over her own life.

Strapping his bundle to his horse, Gawain went to where she had drifted into a small copse. "What have you been gathering?" he asked, gesturing to the leather pouch.

Aedre looked up, the bare twitch of a smile at her lips. "You think I am building a means of escape? Perhaps twigs for a Roman catapult or mayhap you think I am working some Saxon magic to poison you all and run for the hills?"

Gawain looked taken aback. "That is not why I asked."

"I know," Aedre reassured him, quietly. "Here." She leaned closer to the knight and stretched the leather wide so that Gawain could see the contents. "Just a few remedies I learned to make from our lach."

"For Lancelot?"

Aedre shrugged, shyly. "Tristan is highly skilled. I doubt that I have anything to offer but..."

"...it means a great deal. Thank you." Long years in army camps and tabernaes had only ever brought him into the company of jaded women whose bodies were for sale every night of the week, whether they were from a peasant family with few prospects or penniless widows with no means of making a livelihood. Yes, there were a few who chose the life but they were few and far between, given its rank as little better than slavery. Now, as Gawain looked down at the wide green eyes turned to him, he felt a deep ache in his heart. He ached for the innocence he could see in her soul and he ached with a longing to envelop himself in her.

He found himself leaning closer to the full lips, chapped a little from the cold weather. His hand caressed Aedre's soft cheek and he could feel her balance shift towards him, her small fingers grazing his wrist. Her touch felt electric and Gawain's heart pounded in his chest. Their lips touched, gently at first, his mouth stealing grazing kisses at first but, as the world around him faded away, the knight's ardour became fiercer. His tongue sought the soft warmth of her mouth and his arm snaked around her slender waist to pull her close. At first, he was oblivious to whether Aedre returned his passion but, as his brain reconnected, he realised that even though one of her hands was pressed against his chest as if holding him back, her other was fisted in his blonde hair. What her kiss lacked in experience it made up for in fervour.

The sound of Arthur calling for him drew Gawain up sharply. His breathing came in ragged gasps and, for a moment, the pair remained frozen and entwined. He could see the red bloom that his beard had scratched against Aedre's smooth face but her pupils were wide and she held his gaze in rapture. Gawain stepped back, instantly breaking the moment between them. He opened his mouth to say something but he could not find the words. The shame of his actions when Lancelot was dying metres away was great enough but, in truth, the knight did not know what lay ahead. He could make no promises and, by the gods, he would not steal Aedre's innocence only to leave her sullied for another. Drawing himself up to his full height, Gawain broke his gaze from hers and walked away.

Tristan and Arthur paid him no mind as he returned to his horse, Aedre trailing some paces behind. Having packed up the last of their belongings and stamped out the fire's embers, the knights took Tristan's cue about how to transport Lancelot. "It would be better for him to travel with one of us. His frailty and the position of his wounds do not allow for him to be tied to a horse of his own."

"I will take him," Arthur insisted. "My horse is strong enough for two." Even though they all knew every horse was strong enough to take a second person, none of the knights challenged their leader. Unspoken though it may be, everyone knew who their second was. Gawain and Galahad relied on one another, Bors and Dagonet, Arthur and Lancelot. Only Tristan stood apart, his relationship with man and beast as fluid as the clouds rolling in the sky overhead. It was only fitting that Arthur should want Lancelot with him.

Arthur nodded, "Then it is settled. We stop for nothing."

Tristan caught the Roman's arm just as he put his foot in the stirrup. "Arthur, you understand the risk we take?"

Arthur nodded, tersely. "I understand. This is my decision, Tristan." He forced the scout's steady gaze upon his own. If anything went wrong, no one would feel the guilt of this decision but himself.

Tristan returned to where Lancelot lay, running a callused hand across the sick man's forehead. He could not tell if the Sarmatian was sleeping or unconscious but could only pray that he remained beyond the veil for the journey. Nodding to Gawain, the pair carried the knight between them towards Arthur's horse. Their leader reached down and supported Lancelot under his arms, pulling him up towards him then Gawain helped to manoeuvre his legs so that they were astride the horse. Blankets were passed up so that the knight could be bundled up against the cold and wet and Arthur did his best to make his friend as comfortable as possible.

Tristan laid a hand on Arthur's leg. "Tell me if you feel the start of fever. If you leave it too late..."

"I will tell you," Arthur said, his voice laced with concern. "I will tell you," he repeated again with more strength, scrubbing a hand across his forehead. Tristan noted his leader's drawn appearance and the tense line of his jaw. Lancelot's tentative hold on life was taking its toll on the whole group. There was nothing for them to fight, no strategy that would save his life. They could only wait and pray. Such occupations were not a soldier's strongest suits.

Tristan pulled himself up onto his own horse and nudged it into motion behind Arthur. Gawain quickly shifted position from where he rode alongside Aedre, striking out ahead to lead the way. The scout noted how the blonde knight did not look back at the girl whose face was a mask of misery. Something had happened between the two of them but if they wanted him to buffer them, Tristan was content to do so, for now at least.

The small band rode hard through the morning. They avoided the main road, keeping a discreet distance just within the tree line. It slowed the horses but only enough to ensure that they did not tire and Lancelot did not bounce out of the saddle.

Arthur held the injured knight close to him, keeping a tight grip around the man's waist. Mercifully, Lancelot remained unconscious for the first hour of the ride but, as the first drops of rain began to fall, he began to rouse. Arthur slowed his pace as he turned his attention to Lancelot's mutterings.

"Lancelot?" Arthur whispered. Lancelot's forehead was furrowed and his lips moved silently over incomprehensible words. His eyes remained closed but they fluttered on the edge of consciousness. "What are you saying?" Arthur asked, trying to anchor his friend in reality with the sound of his own voice. He pressed a hand to the injured knight's forehead. It felt a little warm but, in the cold rain, it was hard to tell the difference between normal warmth and fever. Lancelot did not appear to be shivering or sweating so Arthur made the decision to keep moving. He cast a glance in Tristan's direction but the scout was now far ahead with Gawain and Arthur could see his beloved hawk circling above their heads. Tucking the blankets more tightly around his friend, the Roman spurred his horse onwards.

Halfway along the route, they were forced to stop by torrential rain. At first, Arthur had insisted that they continue but Tristan had persuaded him of his folly. "Arthur, look at him. He is already nearly soaked to the skin. If his wounds do not cause a fever, a chill will for certain. If your goal is to preserve Lancelot's life, then we must take shelter in the woods." The scout looked up and squinted into the rain. "I can see blue skies on the horizon. We will not have to delay long."

Once under the cover of thick foliage, Arthur relinquished Lancelot to Gawain and Tristan, who gently carried the injured knight to a good camping spot. The scout set about tying branches together to form a less permeable roof over their heads. As Gawain was adjusting the blankets around Lancelot, the dark haired knight's eyes cracked open. "Gawain," he breathed.

"There you are," Gawain smiled. "How are you feeling?"

Lancelot paused, taking a silent inventory to answer the question. Deciding against the full truth, he focused on the one certainty he could latch onto. "Alive."

Gawain nodded. "Good. Stay that way."

Lancelot managed a feeble smile and let his eyes close. They felt like lead weights dragging him back into darkness. He heard Gawain call his name but the knight could only respond with a grunt of acknowledgement. Just as he was drifting off, a hand was pressed firmly to his cheek and he was rudely brought back to reality. When he forced his eyes open again, Arthur's anxious face was hovering over him. "Arthur..."

"You are in safe hands now." The Roman smiled, "You have no idea how glad I am to see you awake."

Lancelot wished he could comply but he did not have the energy to speak. Arthur started to lose focus in his vision and the sounds around him were dimming. Again, that insistent hand was on his face, gently jostling him. "Lancelot, talk to me."

For the injured Sarmatian knight, he could not withstand the pain of consciousness much longer and the voice that emerged from his throat was a hoarse whisper. "Arthur, please...hurts...too much."

"Lancelot!" Arthur called as he watched his beloved friend's eyes close once again.

Tristan guided the Roman's hand away. "He needs rest. His body has much healing to do. It is a mercy that he is not awake to feel his pain. I have little to administer for his discomfort." The scout pressed a hand to the Sarmatian's forehead, holding it there for a long minute. Then, he reached for Lancelot's injured hand and ran his fingers along the inside of the knight's wrist then matched the action with his own. Catching Arthur's curious glance, Tristan explained, "You can feel his heartbeat here. I am checking to see how closely it matches my own. Here, try."

He gestured for Arthur to pick up Lancelot's other hand. The Roman struggled to find the pulse point. "Can you feel it?" Tristan queried. It was hard to look at Lancelot's hand without wincing and Arthur imagined that, if his friend were awake, their touch would be causing him pain. "Now, find your own," Tristan instructed. "Do you feel the difference?"

Arthur focused his attention on the sensation of Lancelot's heart pumping blood around his body. He could feel the strong, steady rhythm of his own and the irregular flutter of his friend's beside it. When he looked up at Tristan, Arthur found that his voice was suddenly choked with emotion and the sting of tears came unbidden to his eyes. "Tell me the truth. Will he live?"

Tristan held Arthur's gaze, unwavering like a tether holding the Roman steady. "Lancelot is strong but, Arthur, this is in the hands of the gods – yours or mine."

The knights rested in silence, waiting for the moment a crack of blue sky appeared in the clouds. As soon as the worst of the rain had passed, they mounted up once more and moved out. Tristan cast a glance back to where Aedre was riding behind Arthur. She should not be bringing up the rear, there should have been a knight buffering her as protection from attack. As Gawain knew the route, it fell to the scout to do the honours. Still, he was surprised that Gawain had not offered. He could have easily guided the group from behind but instead he seemed to be studiously avoiding any contact with the Saxon girl.

Tristan dropped back to ride alongside her. Aedre's face was drawn and she looked exhausted. Tristan knew she must have made journeys of similar length and he was certain it would take more than a few nights under the stars and a day's ride to wear her out. But he had to remind himself that she travelled as a prisoner, her father's death close at hand. She must know that the Romans would make Unferth suffer for his crimes.

At first, the girl did not acknowledge Tristan's presence at her side but the scout saw her shoulders stiffen as he pulled alongside her. She had no reason to trust him. "Not long now, my lady," he said. When Aedre did not reply, he continued, "You must be accustomed to travel. You came from across the sea, did you not?"

At this, Aedre levelled him with a hard stare. "Yes. We travelled by boat from Haduloha, from the banks of the River Elbe."

"I imagine it was a dangerous journey," Tristan ventured.

Aedre nodded, "It was...but I only remember the sadness I felt in leaving my home, my mother."

"Why did she not come with you?"

"She died not long before my father decided to leave. He loved her very much," Aedre said. When Tristan made no response, she looked at him, "Does that surprise you? That a man such as my father was capable of love?"

Tristan shook his head. "No. Power can only be won by the acts that we do. Your father used violence as a means to an end, nothing more. It brought him power."

"He was not always so," Aedre countered, weakly. Then, her eyes travelled to where Gawain rode ahead. "Do you believe every man capable of love?"

Tristan looked from Aedre's solemn face to the blonde knight riding ahead of them. "At the right time. Sometimes our destiny is greater than the love of another."

Arthur held fast to Lancelot as if in doing so he anchored his friend to life. The injured knight's forehead rolled loosely against Arthur's neck and the Roman's heart sank as he recognised the heat of fever against his own cool skin. He called to Tristan, who quickly rode up alongside his leader. Without a word, the scout leaned over in his saddle and pressed a hand to Lancelot's forehead. As always, his face remained as inscrutable as his hawk's. In turn, he shouted ahead, "Gawain! How far?"

Gawain turned back, instantly understanding the urgency. "Not far, just another mile perhaps."

Tristan cocked his head on one side, looking Lancelot up and down. "He has the start of a fever but it is not life threatening yet."

"Yet?" Arthur echoed.

Tristan ignored the man's horrified expression. "We should make it to the mansio. There is nothing more that I can do for him out here."

Never was there a more welcome sight than the thin, grey wisps of smoke on the horizon that told them civilisation was within grasp. The group spurred their horses on, pulling up hard alongside the mansio. They had barely dismounted before a well dressed, middle aged man came out of the villa.

"Good day, knights. May I see your papers?" he asked, proffering a hand adorned with rings.

"We need a bed. One of us is gravely injured," Gawain said sharply.

The man gave a mirthless smile, his lips stretched tightly across his teeth. "Your papers, first." His hand remained proffered and Gawain turned to Arthur as he weighed up whether to hit the man.

Arthur was distracted with his arms around Lancelot, carefully lifting his friend's limp body from the horse's back. It was Tristan who approached the mansionarius and produced his passport papers, one hand steadying Gawain's clenched fist. "We were on a mission from the Wall. One of our knights is wounded. He will need a bed and whatever medical provision you have."

The mansionarius scrutinised the papers for a long time, his gaze occasionally flitting from one dishevelled knight to the next. It finally came to rest on Arthur and the body in his arms. "You are Artorius Castus?"

"I am," Arthur replied through gritted teeth, partially struggling with the weight of the lifeless form but mostly with the strain of holding his frustration in check. With every passing second, Lancelot's life was slipping away while they stood here talking to this fool.

The mansionarius swept his arm in the direction of the building behind him, "Then you and your knights are welcome to..." He did not have time to finish his sentence before Arthur hurried past him with Gawain leading the way to open the doors.

The mansio consisted of three wings set around a large courtyard, mostly made up of modest lodgings and latrines. On the fourth, open side an outer courtyard appeared to house a set of baths. Gawain was pleased to see that a stable boy was already being dispatched to see that the men's horses were fed and rested. Pushing open one of the bedrooms, he made way for Arthur to lay Lancelot down.

The dark haired knight's forehead glistened with beads of sweat and his body twitched in discomfort against the rising fever. Tristan appeared in the doorway and looked at Lancelot. "Strip him. I will go and see what medical provisions they have."

For a second, the two knights stood awkwardly in the room, unsure of where to start. "I'll start with his boots," Gawain said quickly, moving to Lancelot's feet. Arthur lifted his friend's shoulders carefully and slid behind him so that Lancelot's back was against his chest. He began unlacing the shirt then, with Gawain's help, the pair leaned Lancelot forwards so that they could remove the black shirt over his head. By the time they had stripped the knight to his breeches, the injured Sarmatian was shivering from head to toe and his lips moved in nonsensical mutterings.

"We need to cool him down," Gawain said. "I will fetch water."

Arthur leaned forwards ready to extricate himself from behind Lancelot's back but suddenly stopped, reaching for the shirt and feeling the wet stickiness of blood on it. "Wait. Look at his back..." Arthur breathed in dismay.

Gawain moved to see and swallowed hard, fighting the urge to gag. Lancelot's back was a mass of oozing whip marks, some deep enough to expose muscle and, in one place, white bone. Small perforations told them that the tip of one implement had been barbed with metal or animal bone. "Gods, how did we miss this?!" Gawain whispered in shock.

"It didn't look so bad in the dark. There were just so many...the knife wounds on his chest and abdomen...we couldn't turn him without causing damage," Arthur stammered. He eased himself carefully from behind Lancelot's back and laid the raving knight back down on the pallet. "Where's Tristan?" he asked, his green eyes desperately roaming the room as if he expected the scout to appear out of the ether.

"I will find him," Gawain soothed, pressing firm hands on his comrade's shoulders. "Arthur, Lancelot needs your strength." At that moment, Aedre appeared in the doorway, pausing when she saw the two men close together. Both knights turned at her approach and quickly moved away from one another. Aedre murmured an apology for her intrusion and ducked her head, quickly carrying a pail of water to the bedside.

As Tristan wandered the hallways of the mansio in search of medicines, he was surprised to find that the whole compound was devoid of travellers. The mansionarius met him from the opposite direction, "Follow me, I keep all the medicinal herbs we possess down here." He drew Tristan towards a small room that was little more than a pantry. The shelves were lined with tinctures and potions while dried entrails and herbs hung from hooks along the ceiling.

Tristan quickly gathered willow to clean Lancelot's wounds and recognised the small, oblong leaves of the fenugreek plant, which would serve as a good poultice and keep the skin from becoming too inflamed. There was vinegar and wool for cleaning out each wound. Tristan toyed with a bottle of poppy juice; it was a dangerous way to spare Lancelot any pain for, in his weakened state, he could not be certain that the knight would ever wake up again.

"What is the nature of your man's injury?" the mansionarius inquired. "I know the inventory of this room by heart. I stock it personally and could be of greater service."

Tristan paused as if weighing his words carefully. "He has been tortured. His wounds are deep and numerous. He is succumbing to fever."

The mansionarius looked taken aback, his eyes wild with horror. "Tortured? Do you have hope of his survival?"

Tristan turned to face the man, his eyes burning with frightening intensity. "He will live or, by the gods, I will not be responsible for the wrath of my vengeance."

If the mansionarius was afraid, he disguised it well. "Then, return to your friend, and I will bring whatever useful supplies I can find."

END OF PART 20