Adequate. Sufficient. Up to scratch. That was how Berit would describe himself. He was a good knight, her worked hard at it, but he didn't think he would ever go down in the chronicles of great knights of the order. He wasn't the fastest or the strongest or the most skilled. He knew that not everyone could be exceptional but that didn't stop him working hard to be as good as he could be. He was stubborn and he would do practically anything for his brothers-in-arms and he had enough pride to want to prove himself, despite his lack of excellence. That drive is what led him to ride after a group of bandits, train against any knight that would spar with him, and sharpen his sword when he was barely awake enough to keep his eyes open.

He was steady. He was dependable. He was bright enough to know that something was wrong, was different, but not bright enough to realise that quickly, despite all the gods and monsters he had faced.

That conversation with Sparhawk never happened. That had sought shade, a drink, and Berit had changed out of his blood stained clothing. By the time he had cleaned himself of his own death Sparhawk had been called away. Then he had been surrounded by his family. Then he had been busy organising the journey home. Then Berit had been assigned duties escorting the injured. Whether through duty or coincidence or family, at no point did Berit have an opportunity to talk with Sparhawk on that long journey home. Berit was avoiding Khalad almost as hard as Sparhawk was avoiding him: he had no answers for the young squire. He had no answers for himself, only the nagging feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

When that moment came the shoe didn't just drop, it stomped, shaking the foundations on which Berit built his knowledge of himself. It shattered what he knew to be possible and gave him a renewed determination to have a chat with his friend.

He hadn't been sleeping well, not surprising considering he was frequently startled awake by nightmares of slick blood beneath him and an endless silence. He made his way to the chapter house kitchen, certain of at least a warm fire and a flagon of something to make the night pass quicker. He was surprised, given the hour, to find someone else already there, ladling soup from an overnight cauldron into a bowl, bread and cheese already laid out on the table.

"Can't sleep Sparhawk?" He addressed the weary looking man in front of him.

Sparhawk started, obviously not having heard Berit approach, so engrossed he was in his own thoughts and the meal in his future.

"Just back from the palace actually" he said with a somewhat forced casualness. "I was just about to take all this up..."

"Don't leave on my account." Berit interrupted, noting that it looked like Sparhawk had every intention of eating from the kitchen before he arrived. He gestured at the food laid out on the table and sat. "Looks like you missed dinner."

Sparhawk – with some reluctance sat opposite. " Something like that. Being both Prince Consort and Interim Preceptor keeps me busy, and some of those courtiers... If I knew Ehlana wouldn't banish me there would be a few more broken noses."

Berit gave a grin at that, imagining that his friend's temper would be severely tested towards those who spent most of their life at court.

"See much of Talen recently?" Sparhawk asked, spreading rich butter onto his still warm loaf.

"Not really, apart from when he wants to complain about his training. Apparently I'm his favourite teacher." They both gave a laugh at that. "I think I didn't prepare him properly for the real world: I put up with too much of his cheek."

The conversation continued for a few minutes, both of them pretending this was just a casual catch up between friends. Berit didn't have the patience to wait for an appropriate turn in the conversation though – something else he needed to work on – so he went straight for the jugular. Figuratively.

Berit unsheathed his belt knife and brazenly cut a chunk of cheese from the portion that Sparhawk had served himself with.

"Enough about Talen." He said. "I need to talk to you about the desert. You owe me some answers." He popped the cheese in his mouth, enjoying it's sharpness.

"That wasn't anything to do with me" Sparhawk was immediately defensive. "I was just a conduit."

"I know that's not true. I remember the conversation you had when... when I was dead." He pushed the words out, finding it difficult to think of that place as the stillness stalked him at night. "I prefer not being dead, I really do, but something isn't right and I need you to talk to me."

Only silence came back from across the table.

Fine.

Knowing his friend, knowing his stubbornness, Berit figured that it was going to be difficult to actually get Sparhawk to talk. He had hoped that it wouldn't come to this, but he had a plan just in case.

With a sharp movement – before he changed his mind – he thrust his now-cheese-free knife into the back of his other hand and into the table beneath it.

That got Sparhawk's attention.

"What the hell?" He yelled, jumping back in shock.

Berit was feeling some shock of his own, the knife a line of fire as it scalded the inside of his hand. He felt the blood oozing from the wound, also hot against his skin, but the flesh felt cold. He involuntarily twitched and felt the lance of pain from his hand flare into his wrist and forearm. It forced his breath to hitch and he clenched his jaw against it.

Sparhawk had moved quickly, taking but a few steps to reach a nearby cloth and had now returned to where Berit had pinned himself. He gently moved Berit's hand from where it still grasped the hilt and replaced it with his own. Giving Berit no time to prepare he withdrew the knife.

"What the hell did you do that for?" Sparhawk repeated, wrapping the cloth around Berit's hand, harsh tone not matching his gentle actions.

The knife coming out hurt almost as much as it did going in, and it temporarily robbed him of the ability to speak. He had been expecting this of course. It felt exactly the same as when he did just a few days earlier. It still surprised him though. If he was wrong he was going to have difficulty explaining this.

"Because I want to talk to you, but you always make an excuse. This is important and I'm fed up of you avoiding me." Berit was speaking through gritted teeth, hand throbbing. But he wasn't wrong – the pain was already beginning to fade. "And I need to show you something. Remember we ran into those bandits on our way back from Tamuli and I got lucky – one nicked my tunic but didn't reach the skin?"

Sparhawk nodded, pressing his hands against Berit's own to slow the bleeding.

"And I haven't got any bruises from training this last few weeks. No matter who I've been sparring with. And a fortnight ago I cut myself sharpening my own damn sword. I can't ignore this any longer."

He removed the improvised bandage, using it to wipe off the remains of the blood and presented Sparhawk with his now unmarked hand. There was no sign of a recent wound, nor even a healed one. It was if his injury had never been. Something was now 'more than adequate' about him.

"What did you do?"