I'm on a roll! This is, what, my fourth chapter in 24 hours? Woohoo!

I must admit, it was immensely satisfying to smash Agravaine's nose last chapter.

By the way, I would like to reaffirm THERE WILL BE NO MAGIC REVEAL. I said it right near the start, and I am still following those guidelines.

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000 0000

Bedivere looked after the Knight in confusion.

That was strange. The man was a Knight, that much he knew. But he didn't look much like a Knight. He didn't act like a Knight, or at least how Bedivere thought Knights acted. He didn't even talk like a Knight.

"Is he a real knight?" Bedivere asked the cook, just to make sure.

"Go stir the pots," was all he got in reply.

Sighing, Bedivere returned to his post. He peeked into the pot and saw it was just a broth, for now. Looking furtively around, he dipped the spoon in and brought it to his mouth, drinking deeply.

Smacking his lips, he stirred the broth, pleased with his secrecy.

Then he frowned.

He couldn't get that creepy woodsman out of his head. The way the man had muttered those words about him, two handfuls, they simply stuck in his brain.

Bedivere let go of the spoon and cupped his hands together. He looked at them and tried thinking hard to figure out what the woodsman had meant.

"What fits in a handful?" he asked another cook.

The cook glared at him pointedly. "Little boy's tongues who talk instead of stir soups."

Bedivere's eyes widened and he started stirring again. Then he turned back to the cook, careful to keep the spoon moving. "Why did the sick man go with the woodsman?"

The cook stopped in horror. "What?! Disease, in my kitchen? Where?"

"He left, with the woodsman. I don't think he should have done that."

But the cook had deflated after hearing there was no disease at the present. She was about to berate the boy for such a scare, but was called away to season the deer. Bedivere watched her leave, his question left hovering in the air.

He thought. The woodsman had said Bedivere would make two handfuls, and the cook said little boys tongues would fit in one. What would fit in the other?

Bedivere stared uneasily into the broth.

"I don't like the woodsman," he told it.

The broth did nothing.

He scowled. Broth didn't listen, people listened. But grown-ups only listened to grown-ups, and he wasn't one. How could he tell people that the sick man needed help? The woodsman couldn't help him, because he was a woodsman, not a physician. The sick man had left with someone who couldn't help him.

Or maybe didn't even want to.

Bedivere bit his lip. If he told someone and they listened, would they be able to help the sick man?

Abandoning the broth, he wandered over to the deer to clean the butchering station. Bedivere was the unofficial 'extras worker', set on any minor thing that needed doing at the moment. He enjoyed saying it. It sounded important.

He bent down to pick up the blood bucket, and paused, staring in perplexity.

The blood bucket was the worst part of being the 'extras worker'. It was a large, metal bucket that was placed under the table where animals from the hunt were brought in. The table had grooves carved into it, leading off the edge to where the blood bucket sat on the floor.

Generally, the animal's throat was cut, and it hoisted from hooks above the table so all the excess blood could drain away. WIth a deer, the blood bucket had overflowed on more than one occasion.

Except now, the bucket was hardly half-full.

"What happened to the blood?" Bedivere asked a scullery maid rushing by.

The maid looked at the bucket and shuddered. "Ugh! There's blood in there, don't you see?"

"Yes, but there's not enough."

The maid looked at him with startled repugnance. "I - well, I never! You should be glad someone took the rest away from you then, if you want to play with it! Demon-child!"

"But I take it away."

The maid, however, had scurried off at top speed as soon as she finished talking. Bedivere sighed, and chalked it up to grown-ups being grown-ups. Why didn't she just say she didn't know? Grown-ups seemed to hate doing that. Maybe they wanted to know everything, but it didn't work out right?

Bedivere grasped the blood bucket's handle and lifted it. Since it was much lighter than usual, he had no trouble carrying it out the door into the tiny courtyard where scraps and such were tossed.

He set it down and started to tip it over, then stopped.

Something was teasing him, a small something that he felt was very important. A question that had been asked, and a thing that had been said...

Are you looking for the sick man?

That was it! The Knight had been looking for someone, and he had never answered Bedivere's question. The Knight could be looking for the sick man, which meant that maybe he could get help! Except...

The Knight didn't know the sick man was with the woodsman. That meant wherever the woodsman and sick man were, the Knight wouldn't be there. So even if the Knight was looking for the sick man, that didn't mean he would find the sick man. That would mean the sick man could get worse because the woodsman didn't care enough to get a physician. He could even die! Bedivere was old enough to know what dying was.

The sick man shouldn't die. He didn't even look like a full grown-up.

Bedivere straightened and nodded firmly to himself. The Knight needed to know where the sick man was, and Bedivere knew where he was. Grown-ups didn't listen to little boys.

Except the sick man would die if the Knight couldn't find him.

So Bedivere would make the Knight listen.