ooh, mysterious house.

[floweredknight]

He pushes briskly through the door -- a smallish young man of eighteen or twenty, sensibly dressed out of somewhere in the Middle Ages, sturdy, dark-haired and fair-skinned; he probably looks familiar. He stops as soon as he sees where he is, and looks back over his shoulder anxiously. "Brother

Comments

[lesser_son]

Melou startles and then almost, almost smiles, but reserves it out of habit. "Sir Florence!"

[floweredknight]

"Ay?" equally startled, turning toward him a little wide-eyed.

[lesser_son]

"How art thou, sir?" warmly, as greeting a brother.

[floweredknight]

"I'm very well, but forgive me-- I don't quite remember--"

[lesser_son]

"Melou." He looks suddenly embarrassed at the lack of recognition. "Sir Mordred's younger."

[floweredknight]

"Oh!" as it clicks, and he flushes. "Forgive me, cousin. But you've grown, look at thee!"

[lesser_son]

"Ay," looking down at himself a little self-consciously. "Ay, I have--Melehan is taller."

[floweredknight]

"He would be," with a wry grin. "How are you, both?"

[lesser_son]

"Melehan is slain by Bors."

[floweredknight]

...Way to put your foot in it, Florence. "--I'm sorry."

[lesser_son]

Melou winces. "It was--it hath been ill. With us."

[floweredknight]

He has no idea just how bad, of course; condolences seem pointless, questions seem unkind. Instead he opens his arms.

[lesser_son]

To which his cousin makes a small, ragged gasp, startled himself at how this affects him, and gives himself up to Florence.

[floweredknight]

Who hugs him tightly, warm and steady (this, at least, he has from his father).

[lesser_son]

Finally Melou lets out his breath and edges back. "Thy pardon."

[floweredknight]

"No, no. My fault."