SUMMARY: Gwaelin learns how long she'd been captive. The art of conversation is explored. Music, of a sort, occurs.
"Thou never hadst companions on thy quest? Not a one?"
The corner of Alef's mouth quirked. "Most of thy subjects, Princess, loveth their lives enough not to throweth them away."
"But not thee," Gwaelin felt compelled to point out.
"Not me," he said simply, as if it really was that simple. And maybe to him, it was.
"Yet thou hast traveled all over Alefgard." His armor was Rimuldaran; his shield Garinham-make. Who even knew where he himself had come from—anywhere, nowhere. Impossible Alef, who sprang from the dirt full-formed and ready to save the world. "Thou must have friends all over the isles."
He snorted. "Allies, mayhap. Opportunistic shopkeeps willing to sell me arms at extravagant prices." A particularly wide puddle commanded his full attention for a moment, and as he hopped over it, Gwaelin had a momentary sense of weightlessness. "Yet not a soul with whom to converse."
"Nor have I had anyone these many—" She swallowed, hard, "—months. So I understand thy loneliness well." Something inside Gwaelin's ribcage tugged, hard. But maybe it was just Alef's foot finding solid earth once more.
Alef frowned at a rock on the ground. "I spake not of loneliness."
"Thou didst not need to."
