Having unburdened his chest, the Prince of Yarzat sank back down onto the emerald turf. The wrinkled parchment he had fought so fiercely to defend now rested limply upon his knees, curled and spent.
Merelao draped himself onto the lawn beside the boy his velvet mantle spilling across the green like splashing wine.
A long silence settled between them, broken only by the cold rustle of the high willow branches.
"So," Merelao began softly adding his help to the window, "The crux of the tragedy is that blood must inevitably spill regardless of your stroke, and yet said stroke cannot be stayed?"
"Yes," Basil replied, his voice flat and blunt. "And I've already had my ears boxed with the speech about having a soft heart and needing to make the hard choice. So if you came out here to dump another lecture on me, my lord, the garden gate is wide open. Pick a direction and walk your grace there."
