Welcome to Gaia! ::

In a camp this size, there was always something to do. Nothing she, personally, did ever seemed to require any real skill, of course -- just the dull ease of long repetition -- but the lack of necessary skill wasn't enough of an excuse to get her out of work and into assignments that were less cookie-cutter. Even if it was all grunt work, and she felt sidelined doing it, like she was contributing less than her more talented comrades, that didn't change facts any. There was too much work to go around for her not to do her part.

It was nice, then, to at least get away for a little while. There'd been a recent successful capture mission, and that meant that there were currently four live Negaverse agents enjoying the hospitality of the castle dungeon at Camelot. The injuries they'd sustained in the course of their capture had initially been low-risk enough that Ida had declared them all stable for transport and incarceration -- but their injuries needed monitoring and their bellies needed feeding, a pair of tasks for which Hvergelmir had volunteered. At least it meant she got to get away for a little while, even if it was just to deliver four biodegradable clamshells full of camp food to a group of angry prisoners. And at least it would give her a chance to check on Camelot Royal Knight himself, which she was always surreptitiously trying to do. He worked so hard.

She was supposed to meet Camelot in the clearing where they stacked their firewood, so they could travel to his wonder together. Medical bag slung over one shoulder, and a stack of food in her arms, Hvergelmir made her way over to the clearing to find Camelot hadn't failed to be punctual.

"Hi," she said warmly -- mainly because 'hi' was one of the very few words in existence that could still say without a tongue, and tone was so important. If you only had one word with which to express that you were happy to see someone, you had to really sell it.

Royal Knights were so powerful.

Once she'd hit knight rank, Hvergelmir had expected trips to her Wonder to get easier with time and experience. But as the years had gone on, and Chaos's hold on Earth had advanced, it had become more and more wearying each time to make the jump. As it was, she could only manage a visit to the Well once a week, just like always -- but no matter how much she drank from the Well while she was there, how much energy she drew, she never came back feeling any better than she had when she'd left, anymore. It used to keep her fresh and rejuvenated, as it was meant to: nowadays the only reason she could tell it was still working was that she never came back feeling near to collapse, like some of her fellow knights did.

But Royal Knights could do it constantly -- and despite the toll it must have taken, they still seemed to do it so easily. If Camelot felt even the slightest fatigue from the trip, he never showed it.

But then, of course he didn't. The great Camelot Royal Knight was never tired. He was never angry or terrified or miserably unhappy; he never complained; he never got headaches. He never smelled like body odor from a long day's hard work, and he always got eight hours restful sleep and ate a balanced breakfast.

Which, of course, was a bullshit image that took a tremendous amount of effort to maintain for the sake of morale, she was fairly certain. Once she was done with the prisoners for the day and had her hands free, Hvergelmir would see if she could get Camelot to give her any idea how he was actually doing lately -- he was the only father she had these days, and she was never really too old to be in need of one.

Hvergelmir shifted the stack of boxed food momentarily over to just one hand, surveying their new surroundings. It was nice to get away like this, to stand in the full sunshine for a few minutes again. No one looking, no one waiting to pounce, no one meaning her harm. No constant tree cover or going out in the pitch of night. Just soft, green grass, gentle wind, and clouds passing calmly away from the sun. The world was not as much at war here, in Camelot.

She made a broad, sweeping gesture at their surroundings using her free hand -- then, eyes crinkled in an obvious smile, Hvergelmir passed a splayed hand in front of her face in one of the better-known sign language words: beautiful. The basic intent would carry, she was sure, even if the sign didn't.

Hvergelmir's face lit up. Some people had infectious smiles, and Camelot was one of them: not the soft, benevolent smiles he bestowed on people as a Royal Knight, distant and protective, but the personal ones, bashful and caring -- the ones that came from Anthony Darrow, if he really cared about you. Even with her face half-hidden, she couldn't help but smile back.

And it really was an excellent surprise. There were so few people she could talk to without feeling like her vague gestures or her dry erase scribbles were wearing on their patience.

Hvergelmir set her supplies temporarily on a nearby table.

You did well!, she signed back with enthusiasm, trying to keep the conversation simple. I'm very happy I can talk to you.

I'll be back in a little while.

She took the supplies Camelot had brought, along with the food, and made her way down the stairs to the dungeon to check on their prisoners.

* * * *

Her arms were empty when she came back up the stairs; a long stain of chicken grease ran down the front of her dress where one of the three lieutenants (the fourth was their captain) had refused the food they'd brought and thrown it at her in protest. Well, she wouldn't die of chicken grease, and the other encounters had been more jarring, really. It was fine.

The man in the fourth cell, she signed with slow care, his knee is infected. I gave him medicine. I'll leave you more. Tell me if it gets worse.

Hvergelmir took a small bottle of antibiotics out of her medical satchel and set it on the table, for the lieutenant with the septic wound. Six per day. Okay?

At his assent, she nodded, dismissing the issue of the prisoners. She wasn't sure she wanted to talk about them. People in captivity unnerved her.

When did you find time to learn?, Hvergelmir asked. You're so busy.

He was still new, she had to remind herself. She couldn't just go signing everything and hope he got the right general idea. They could ease into the transition from paper to sign.

Hvergelmir reached into her subspace storage to produce her writing pad, flipping it over from the paper side to the dry erase board on the obverse. It was how she was used to communicating with people, except the rare few friends who could read ASL. It could be a little slow, but not too bad, all told.

It means so much to me, she wrote, underlining judiciously. I'd like to be able to talk to you more, too.

Hvergelmir waited a moment, holding up the pad so he could read what she'd written, before erasing it and writing again. Any news of Nathan recently? Has there been any sign of him?

Hvergelmir winced, hearing the latest news -- which wasn't much of news at all, and really more just a recounting of recent tragedy from start to open-ended finish. She reached out to brush some of the graying hair away from Camelot's face, to lay a hand in brief comfort over her surrogate father's cheek.

His relationship with Shalott had always seemed to her to be proving ground for him, a balance point for his more slowly considered, calm moves to action. Shalott was vibrantly passionate; Camelot was gently reserved. At best, they tempered each other.

Here, she wondered if they were simply at odds, simply struggling with their pain in different ways that put huge stresses on each other. Shalott had lost a daughter -- who was Hvergelmir to judge her choices or intentions? But Camelot had lost a son, too: it was hard going to ask him to give Chaonis up for lost. Not his child. Not this soon.

Ah, how she worried.

Nathan is still Nathan, she wrote. Chaonis is still Chaonis. If you take away whole sections of a person, they're still there. Memory helps shape what we are, and afterward helps us understand what we've become, but without it we've still come to the same place even if it's confusing not to see the path behind. Save him because it gives him a chance to live and be happy someday, even if it's not in a family with you. He still deserves that. It's more than Chaos will leave of him. Your son is still your son. You'll still love him even if he doesn't remember enough to return it the same way. Keep faith in him.

She nodded along. Camelot may have been apologizing for 'bogging her down' with his burdens, but she was grateful he'd opened up to her about it. Sometimes even just talking about problems was enough to make them a little more bearable -- especially for the ones who tried to carry everything on their own. Hvergelmir was satisfied that hopefully she'd helped, a little. Reminded Camelot that he wasn't struggling in the dark.

We're the good guys, right? she scribbled. We don't ever give up.

Do you want to go back?

His hug was incredibly welcome -- as hugs from him always were and always would be. Camelot was special to her; she held onto the embrace longer than the teleport back to camp required, and leaned into the hand he pressed to her face.

You're my family, she signed back, and I love you. Don't you know that by now?

Hvergelmir smiled.

Not too sappy for me, she signed back, careful and slow. Then, as he was her knight, was everyone's knight, she cut a formal curtsy, gave him a final wink, and took her leave.