(Untitled)

[withoutasea]

Once (and it seemed a lifetime ago), there had been a rumour that snow never fell in Camelot unless Arthur gave the word. It had been snowing on the day that she came to Camelot, riding, and she had met Arthur in the wood and he had told her that there was never a more congenial spot for a little happy-ever-aftering. For a time, she had believed

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[more_keys]

This was not his first snow. He'd lived through Chicago at Christmastime. New York City winters. He'd even spent a few weeks snowed in up in Maine. How he'd ended up there was a long, long story.

Still, he'd never seen anything quite like this.

He'd never been one for fairytales. He'd stripped away so much about his life, he'd forgotten the core of what it was to be a child. He looked on it all with a kind of detached curiosity, but when he saw her coming through the trees on her white horse, he couldn't help but smile.

"Hello, Jenny."

[withoutasea]

High up on the horse, with Ygraine curled in warm against her chest, Jenny smiles and raises her hand to her forehead, giving him something that's half wave, half salute.

"Well met, Graham Dalton."

[more_keys]

"Where are you headed?" he asked, hunched down low in his coat. Stubbornly, he'd thrown a black leather coat on over his usual attire, a scarf looped around his neck, and nothing else against the cold.

Creature of habit, always.

[withoutasea]

"To the compound, to get this one fed warmly," says Jenny, as Ygraine squeals and waves both mittened hands. "Would you ride with us? Lorica will easily bear three."