The Girl He Used To Know.
Some people can tell when there dreaming more so than others, some even to a degree called 'Lucid dreaming' - Pierre Havelock (formerly known as Gem Havler) is not one of these people.
In fact Pierre doesn't dream that often at all - Well logically he knows he must dream quite alot, we almost all do - But despite a notepad at his bedside for scribing down any dreams he does remember, said notepad lays almost completely empty.
Today would mark the end of this.
"Sir Havler?! Sir Havler where are you man!" Came the faint shouts of a soft spoken but commanding voice.
'Sir Havler' sat atop a small wooden stool in a small cheap-wood lined room, eyebrow raised towards the others in the room at this strange interruption.
The low ceilinged door of the room flew open with a flourish a few moments later;
"There you are!" - The same voice barked and in through the door strode a women in her early twenties - Hair a beautiful shade of chestnut-brown flowing behind her shoulders, red tinted eyes staring intently at her 'prey'.
Sir-Havler rose his youthful but callused hands in foe-surrender;
"Here I am indeed Milady, is something the matter?"
The young women scrunched her face indignantly, glancing around the small room to observe her audience of four.
Aside from the cheekily grinning face of Sir.Havler she was also greeted by the rest of her current party:
Her manservant (A small sheepish slip of a man with shaggy blond hair), a monstrously tall women with a ridiculously large broadsword afixed to her back, and finally a more regular sized man with his fringe over his eyes and a bow of the finest making by his side.
The women hesitated for a moment on weather to continue with this captive audience watching before speaking once again;
"Ahem, what I want to know is why exactly you have been transpiring behind my back, in contact with my Father no less!"
Havler frowned a little at this assertion, simply shrugging his shoulders. To his side the tall women sighed ruefully - "What have you done now Sir.Havler?"
"I really don't know this tim--" the man himself tried to say before being once more rudely cut off by the young women with the beautiful hair;
"Don't know hmmmmm? Then I shall read it right now, the letter I found in your quarters no less, yes!"
And with that she began to read from a piece of letter sized parchment in one hand:
To your grace, My King.
I write only in response to your own letter to say that perhaps a story is in order,
It is no doubt true that one does not fix the finest diamond to the sharpest weapons,
That such precious stones are to be made permanently beautiful within jewellery,
Or at the very least made to such fine weapons as to be hung upon a wall in a court of royalty.
Indeed one does not pluck the single beautiful-blossoming flower from a barren field carelessly,
And no doubt your daughter is the most magnificent of Flowers, the most shining of jewels--
"Well Havler? What have you to say in your defence, you traitorous scoundrel!" The women finished, her face a picture of hurt & betrayal from reading the words.
To her side the young manservant with the moppy hair leant close to the bowmen with the permanent scowl;
"I do not understand why our lady is so mad, was he not complimenting her?" The boy asked.
The bowmen laughed crookedly in response, "Perhaps but it was not his words that have offended her so, but their meaning.
The King wishes our lady to seize her adventuring - And now our resident knight offers his highness license to demand her return by recommendation of her own retainer."
He explained, with a questioning glance in Sir.Havler's direction.
Rather than form excuses, the knight simply shrugged again; "I meant no harm. Have you read the back yet Milady?"
The young women (still standing in the low doorway) slowly turned the thin parchment around to reveal further writing. Somewhat more quietly she began to read from it aloud, her face going from ready to further chew out her knight, to one of abject embarrassment:
And yet my Lord, though it may not be my place to say as such,
Does the craftsmen who constructs such jewellery not need tools of a higher brand?
Is not a chisel tipped with the finest diamond needed to make true ornaments?
Are the strongest blades and arrow tips not forged from those same rarest metals?
The very sword by my side as gifted me by your highness on the day of my oath,
Is it not made of the rarest of all metals, Magite?
Is it not therefore so that your daughter, greatest of blossoms is also capable to be the greatest of blades?
It is then that I beseech my lord not to further proposition me to speak with your daughter,
For my lady, who stands the lone blossom in the barren field -
Must surely be,
the most beautiful and most deadly of all weapons and I doubt if any man,
You or I could ever temper that most magnificent edge.
As she finished reading the last words, the young woman's face caught alight in a flush of bright crimson hotter than the sun.
"I had left that on my table out of indecision milady, if my words were too harsh I fear they might trouble your father into further harshness towards you, for my arrogance." Sir.Havler said with a louse wave of his hand.
The lady stared down at her feet in silence, the other three occupants of the room clapping - Half-sarcastically & half in earnest;
"That's our Sir.Havler for you! What can you expect from a wanna' be storyteller!" laughed the tall women.
"Quiet the smooth talker isn't he" sneered the bowmen.
"I-i think it was sweat...." Half muttered the also blushing manservant.
Sir.Havler hopped to his feet and began to make his way over to the still silently blushing women, his hand reached for her shoulder;
"I hope I haven't upset you Milady, I apologies if it seemed crass--"
Pierre sat up in his bed, slowly rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
It had not been a nightmare or a sudden awakening - No instead the light of daybreak flooded gently through the half-open curtain and a small bird chirped playful on the windowsill outside.
He reached over calmly to his notepad and began to write down the details of the dream.
'Did that actually happen years ago or was it a confused memory?' He lamented, trying to write all the details down with haste.
'I haven't had a dream about my time with her in... well years. What was she wearing?!
Aardig what was she wearing for God's sake?
Her hair... yes her hair was definitely brown and her eyes red, that much atleast is clear..... What was she wearing damn it?!'
Was she.... pronounced in the bosom or did she wear heavy armour like Maka suggested? Could the dream be affected by Maka's precenes here? Could my memories be changing, bending around her?!'
Trying to remember dreams is a funny thing.
The more you try to force it the more they seep away - Like attempting to cup water in your palms.
Pierre tapped his pen against the paper impatiently, trying to squeeze out as many details as possible - As many as could give him clues towards the girl called Maka currently living in his home.
"Ge-- Pierre I mean. Your late for breakfast, you coming?! You promised we would go on walk today my good man, remember?" - Shouted a kind, warm voice from another room in the house.
Pierre sighed laying down the notepad with barely a line or two written in it - The dream now dissipated like smoke.
Then again it had also been years since anyone had called him for breakfast - Maybe it's not all so bad having her here.