A cloud of flies devouring everything and Arthur's words so vivid before his own eyes, drawing a sacred painting from an impish scratch.
"It is a plague."
He had filled the words with a cloak of defeat and a crown of crows.
"It looks like a halo," Bedwyr repeated with his hands learning how to pray, almost knelt before Kay's desk, "The King said so."
"You've known him for years, just—"
"The King said so."
Bedwyr's voice wasn't too tough or too sharp, his fingers weren't meant to bear the sword —and yet his eyes were keen and prepared for a battle he didn't want to be in.
Kay's whisper looking for a way out of its cage.
"So, what's next?"
"Y ddraig goch ddyry cychwyn." The chest tearing itself apart (the claws he had spoken). "The red dragon will lead the way."
Kay's lips desperately trying to keep the bird safe inside.
"No way you're going to—."
"Os gwelwch yn dda."
I ask you please.
"Don't— listen, just don't."
A quietness and then a knock and then a woman asking for some food, dear seneschal, please give my children some food and then a crack on the wall and then the same crack on the bars.
(Kay finds faith in Bedwyr's eyes and mistakes it for penitence.)
"This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you've ever had." The sound of metal clinging to the skin. "Of course I'm in."
"Thank you."
(An apology.)
"Diolch i chi."
You're welcome. You'll always be.