It was indeed full summer before Berit next had sight of the Chapterhouse. The winter had been long and mostly tedious. After gaining permission to enter the monastery of Bagat – just a few hours before the first snow storm of the season – it was several days before anyone was willing to talk to him about his... condition. But once the interest of one was sparked it roared through the monastery until all other pursuits were thrown aside.

Berit had settled into a quiet routine: rising early to share a simple breakfast. Then he would be taken aside and questioned about his experience, trying to tease out a thought or a feeling that he hadn't mentioned before. The rest of the day was his own – he tried to earn his keep by completing simple maintenance or manual tasks that were needed around the compound. When deep winter had gripped the mountains they had all retreated inside and the discussions were heated enough to warm everyone – apparently intellectual stimulation was important when the monks found themselves snowed in, and they were grateful for the distraction.

As the weeks rolled by Berit had found himself trying to tamp down his impatience. Of course no-one else would weigh this with the same importance as he did, and it was unreasonable of him to expect otherwise. But still, each day that passed in which the research had been paused to find an alternative translation of a document, or in which discussion had spiral into a tangent nagged at him.

Berit found himself becoming less comfortable with the fearsome cold of the mountains, feeling an empty echo of what the monks were calling 'The Event' each time an icy wind buffeted him. Rising before the sun didn't bother him and the pagan ceremonies he politely ignored – as the monks did when he went to his own prayers. But there was only so much meditation he could stomach when his uncertain thoughts chased themselves round in his head and he had run out of physical tasks to keep the dark fears at bay.

When spring had truly come to the mountain range Berit made ready for his departure. More days were filled reliving The Event without being able to dredge up anything new, and further time spent writing it down for the monks to pour over once he had left. The Abbot – that wasn't his official title of course, but that was how Berit thought of him – had given his assurance that their enquiries would continue even in their subject's absence due to the intriguing nature of the problem.

When Berit had finally taken his leave it was with thanks, relief and some trepidation. Thanks for the efforts that had been made on his behalf so far. Relief that he was going to spend another winter confined with a group of people who were examining him as a quirk of nature. The trepidation stemmed from the few answers he had gained so far – gaining them had been hard and learning to live with them would be harder.

Now he was nearing the city of Cimmura and the Chapterhouse- heart of the Pandion order. Weeks of heat had started to turn green fields brown – the crops would need rain soon to give a good harvest. Sun beating down on the back of his head reminded him too much of blood on sand, so he had hastened his journey. Stopping less. Travelling further each day. Berit knew he should have rested his horse more but the road drew him on, keen to be once again in familiar surroundings among his friends. He had never been homesick before – not when he had travelled to Tamuli, not when he left his family and began his novitiate at the age of twelve. The last few months had been difficult however, and his heart ached for his Pandion brothers.

In particular Berit missed his close friends. He hadn't seen Bevier, Ulath or Tynian since the return to this continent, them having returned to their home orders: and he had been too immersed in his own misery to spend much time with those who did live in the same country. It was too long since he had spent time in good company without a war or it's consequences hanging over his head. He longed for some simple conversation, the smell of clean armour and the rattle of practice swords.

Berit found himself particularly concerned with Khalad – concerned that the anger he had kindled in the other man would still be burning. It didn't take much for a noble to make the young squire irate, and Berit had found a number of ways to do it: going to Bagat on his own, managing to get himself hurt, dying in the first place. A tendril of shame wormed it's way through his soul at the thought of that last morning they spent together and the argument than had built form fierce mutterings to yelling and cursing. He had said some things that were ungentlemanly and damn well untrue. Could he hope that would be forgiven for those words?

At last Berit rode through the large wooden gate, that nestled into thick stone walls that would have been intimidating if it hadn't been home. He nodded to the familiar faces on guard duty with a smile that was returned, the archaic ritual greeting having largely falling out of fashion. One called out his name in pleased surprise which drew the attention of the small group of men who had been sparring in the courtyard. They lowered their weapons and one approached as Berit dismounted, handing the reigns over to a young stable boy who had appeared at his arrival.

"You finally decided to come back then." The bearded man said, crossing his hands on the pommel of his practice sword. Berit refused to let it be like this. He grabbed the man by the shoulders and dragged him close, and wasn't disappointed when Khalad eventually returned the hug. Parting slightly while giving a slap to the back Berit said. "It's good to see you. I'm sorry for what I said. For all of it." That was the most important thing to say, to try and salvage their friendship.

"Well, about that. There's no fool as foolish as the one who doesn't think he's a fool," was the reply.

Berit frowned. That had the sound of an expression, but not one Berit had ever heard before.

"Is that one of your father's? What does it mean?" He asked.

"No, it's one of mine and it means I'm sorry too. I lashed out - something I despise in others – and have spent three quarters of a year wishing we had parted on better terms." Khalad spoke lowly, so only the two of them could hear amidst the bustle of the chapterhouse. In another man this might be to keep their conversation private and avoid loosing face by admitting a fault. Berit knew that this did not apply to Khalad – his earnest way of speaking only emphasised his words.

"Can you forgive me for keeping secrets from you?" Berit aske. The question had been weighing on him as much as some of the other. Khalad's friendship was important – it grounded the young Knight and gave him a new perspective that he had not previously been exposed to.

Khalad drew back slightly and looked him straight in the eye, radiating sincerity as he said "Your secrets are your own, to share or not as you see fit. I'm pleased that you have shared with me what you have, but don't confuse that with any expectation."

"Good to know, but I could use a little sensible conversation right now, those monks were useful but not the easiest to live with." He could drink on the stories from that place for years if he wanted to, and would happy to, now his trepidation was being replaced with relief, having found his friendship with Khalad as solid as ever.

"Sure. Later. I'm not finished here yet." Khalad gestured over his shoulder to where his sparing partner was looking a bit impatient.

"Fine, I'll meet you later."

The sun had set by the two men next met. Khalad had given more knocks than he had taken, but was still relieved to be released from sword practice. He was well aware that training never really finished for a Knight – it would not do to become lax or complacent – but he would be glad when he was past the stage of working the sword forms daily and the tiredness that went along with it.

Khalad had changed into a fresh tunic and re-trimmed his beard: his mother was always insistent that her sons be well presented when sat at the table, a habit he was happy to uphold.

Searching through the crowded tables in the refectory Khalad spotted Berit in the centre of a knot of bubbling conversation. Not surprising. Away for most of a year there would be many who wanted to talk to the popular young Knight and find out why he had been absent. Snagging a bowl of hearty stew and some fresh bread he made his way towards the full table. Berit saw him approach and gestured for the others to make room, which they did with – somewhat surprisingly - no visible reluctance. Khalad made a start on his meal while listening to the ongoing conversation.

Berit was being informed of every drunken embarrassment, amusing fall or misstep any member of the order has taken, some of them that had only happened that day. Really, these men gossiped more than anyone else he had known and could spread a rumour faster than a carrier pigeon.

Berit's interest was genuine, his smiles broad as he was updated on the minutia of the Chapterhouse. It reminded Khalad of meals with his brothers back on the farm: the easy conversation, gentle ribbing and casual one-upmanship was a staple of a family meal back for him. It was heartening to see the dynamic replicated in this place and though he was not a part of it yet Khalad was beginning to be comfortable with the prospect that he might come to be.

Whenever conversation flowed to Berit's adventures he deflected talk away from the reason for his long absence and towards amusing anecdotes of time on the road. He told stories of his time in the remote monastery: he described the Bagat monks as not so much reclusive as particular. They were largely self sufficient so could afford to pick and choose who they traded with. Their religion was a strange, pagan thing that focused on the accumulation of knowledge but they were loathe to share it unless you had something interesting to offer in return. A Knight returned from the dead would probably have been enough. The few glances Berit shared with Khalad were laced with meaning, promising that there was more to be discussed but not shared with this large group.

"Well, my friends" Berit announced at last, standing "it was good to see you all but I should retire if I am to present myself to Sparhawk in the morning." He received the offered quips about his lack of stamina in good humour while backing out the room, Khalad following.

"It seems I've missed a lot, but none of it very surprising" Berit said smiling as they walked down the torch-lit flagstone corridor.

"Yes, men will drink too much and fall down, wherever they are." Khalad replied, referencing a very amusing and recently told anecdote involving a Knight, several hours of drinking and an exaggerated fall down a very small slope. "Even where you were, I would imagine."

Berit screwed his face up slightly saying, "Not so much drinking, more's the pity. The closest they got was a sour apple juice, but it's a monastery so I suppose abstinence is to be expected."

"And we're meant to be Church Knights, but that doesn't stop anyone round here."

"Ha! 'We" Khalad? I'm almost surprised that you accepted your fate so readily. Last time we spoke you were resolute that you were never joining the order." Berit paused at the door to his chamber, his amusement clear.

"Don't make more of this than it is. I was just tired of Sparhawks' nagging." At least in part.

"Sure it was." Berit pushed open the door and Khalad followed him in. "Nothing to do with finally deciding to prove that you are just as good as any noble. Your father had that same trait you know."

"I know." Stubbornness, a no-nonsense attitude and the ability to grow a thick beard his father had also passed down. "And maybe if had been wearing armour that day he wouldn't have died."

"Maybe" Berit replied softly as he knelt to light the ready laid fire.

Khalad forgot sometimes that Berit had been there. When still in his teens, purely by chance he was part of the group of fearless Knights that went into the world to defeat a dark God: on the strength of being able to double for Sparhawk. Khalad rarely thought about how that must have been for his friend, to be thrust out on a quest that would have made full Knights hesitate, with only a novice's training to fall back on. Being the most inexperienced of that party Berit was lucky he had come back whole from that. The loss of his father had of course devastated his family, but there were more repercussions from that journey rippling through other's lives. It was a harsh fire in which to be forged into a tool for the Church.

"And maybe it wouldn't have made any difference at all – it doesn't always." Berit was continuing, several small flames now dancing in the grate. "I've seen enough men die in full armour to know that."

"Would it have made a difference to you?" Khalad asked.

"In Cryga?" Berit frowned in thought as he stood from in front of the fireplace and instead sat in one of the two chairs, gesturing for Khalad to take the other. A Knight's chambers at the Chapterhouse were more functional than fashionable, though they held all the essentials: table and chairs, a chest for clothing, a thick rug to ward of the chill of the stone floor, a stand for his armour, a not-too-uncomfortable bed. Berit chose not to trade on his personal friendship with the Preceptor to improve upon this. It was far from the memories of arid desert that the conversation had taken then towards.

"I'm not sure to be honest. Yes, solid armour instead of chainmail would have helped, but those Crygan's were much stronger than normal men. And with just me armoured you would have been the target. I've been thinking about that day a lot – every day really – and I don't think there was a win there for us."

Well, that was sobering Khalad thought. He wasn't one for no-win situations, that was akin to giving up.

"But there was a win, maybe not in the conventional way but we both walked away. In the end. That's a win, right Berit?" Berit didn't respond, keeping his eyes down. "Right?"

Khalad felt the weight of what happened in that moment – the difference between a win and a loss was not just in the outcome of a battle but was in the affect it had on the people involved. Walking away was a win as far as Khalad was concerned, it was a simple as that. Any other after affects could and would be dealt with.

"Berit, what did you find out at the monastery." Khalad cut to the heart of the matter – the reason for this private conversation.

"A lot." Berit's tone was suddenly weary and he rested his chin on one hand. "Most of it not helpful. I can give you a lecture on the spread of pagan believes in agricultural communities sometime. But for me..." he sighed, but at Khalad's encouraging look went on. "I won't bore you with most of the philosophy behind it, but it boils down to the fact that Sparhawk used the power of creation to make me live when I shouldn't have been. So the change he made to – well, there's a word I can't remember for it, 'the way things are' - is permanent."

"Permanent? I'm still not quite understanding."

"The way that Sparhawk made me that day – uninjured, alive, is now the way that things are meant to be..."

"Quite right too" Khalad interrupted, not seeing the problem so far.

"...so anything that interferes with that..."

"Like getting a crossbow bolt to the shoulder." Khalad interjected again.

Berit rolled his eyes this time as he continued "Yes, for example. Anything like that is undone."

"Undone?"

"Undone. To make it so that it never happened."

"I know what 'undone' means. So that's why you heal?"

Berit nodded.

"And this ….. ability to 'undo' ... lasts for how long?"

"That was a matter of some discussion between the monks. There were arguments, much waving of paper, several factions fighting for territory in the library." Berit shook his head, smiling slightly at the memory. "I left before they came to an agreement - or blows – by the sounds of it the question may take years and cause some sort of schism."

"So what did you really find out? Apart from giving these monks something to talk about, what did you actually achieve?" Khalad tried not to sound terse but he thought of the time Berit had wasted traipsing across the land, the arguments they had had on the way – if Berit hadn't found out anything useful then what would have been the point?

"I found out that this is lasting, I found out that that what Sparhawk did is rewrite the fabric of creation for me and that's a lot to take in. I found out... " Berit paused, as if he wasn't going to continue, but at a nod from his friend, did.

"I found out that where Bhellium placed itself during the creation of the world is special, and is the only place this change can not be sustained. I don't know what would happen if I go there: I could drop dead from that original wound or just not heal any more, or a number of other things. I don't know where it is – maybe deep underground, the bottom of the ocean or a thousand feet up in the sky, and I have no idea how to find it. Even if I wanted to."

Khalad took a deep breath, trying to process this latest piece of the puzzle.

"So the world had been reset to accommodate a breathing Berit, except in one specific spot. And that's the way it would be until old age catches up to you?"

Berit just shrugged.

Maybe not the whole answer but Khalad could appreciate why even that little knowledge about your place in the world was comforting. He himself had felt somewhat lost – there had been so much talk about him moving from squire to Knight, but little action on it for so long. He had wavered between looking forward to it, dreading it, not believing it would ever happen. He had teetered between accepting his life as it was and embracing what it would become until he tired of the uncertainty. Now that he was actually enrolled he knew which path he was on and could accept his future: and he was glad if his friend had found some measure of the same.

Was there something more though? Something in the slant of Berit's shoulders, the tilt of his head made Khalad think that he was keeping something back.

"And that's all?"

"That's all I know. There's much more to know, may be more to fear." And for a moment Berit did look afraid, afraid of the unknown perhaps. "I promise you Khalad - I need to have someone who understands, someone I can talk to so I am done keeping secrets from you. Everything else I just don't know, but those monks are working on it, out of their own interest if nothing else."

"Are you going to tell the others all of this? You could do with friends by your side in this, more minds to work the problem." Khalad encouraged.

"Yes, ermm probably – they're probably going to notice at some point any way. I'm not sure how though." Berit admitted with a creased brow.

"You could use this thing we have called 'words' you know." Was Khalad's suggestion, keen that Berit have more support than just one man. Not that Khalad didn't want to help Berit, he was more concerned that there may come a day when he couldn't.

"What, gather everyone together and just say 'I used to be dead and now I'm not. Oh, and I don't get even papercuts any more.'" Berit scoffed.

"Well, I would suggest something more eloquent than that."

"Do you have any suggestions?" Berit sat back while asking the question. Khalad took it seriously; Berit was not in the alone, and Khalad meant to show him that.

"Not yet, but I'm sure we can come up with something. Something that doesn't involve getting ambushed by bandits."

thank you again to ashtynqueen for all their help beta'ing this chapter :)