"Then he looked by him, and was ware of a d... damosel that came riding," Tanguish stammered, squinting at the thin, tight print in the little book, "full fast as the horse might... ride... on a fair p-palfrey."
Tanguish frowned at the word, then tilted his head at Helsknight. "What's a palfrey?"
"It's a horse," Martyn interrupted. He sat at the table across from Tanguish in the near-empty mess hall, slowly working his way through a set of leather armor. Dyes, colored threads and metal studs all tangled across the table; ornamentation he was adding to each piece by hand. He picked up one of the segments of a leather gauntlet and scrubbed at it with his thumb. "If you keep interrupting yourself to ask questions, we'll never get to the end of the story."
Tanguish rolled his eyes, and returned his gaze to Helsknight. "What kind of horse?"
"The horse-y kind," Martyn interrupted again
Helsknight sighed, and ran his whetstone in a long, shivering glide down his sword. He had trained with the thing all afternoon at the pell, and now he thanked it for its service with maintenance. The blade needed sharpened, the leather around the hilt re-wrapped. The long, lethal ring of metal had become meditative and tired as Tanguish read. Soothing.
Helsknight was in the middle of one more long, shivering ring of stone on netherite when he said, "A palfrey is a horse bred for endurance riding. Gentle temperament, good for a lady to ride."
"Huh. Not a horse breed?" Martyn asked, pausing mid-way through a stitch.
"Horse type and temperament," Helsknight hummed. "Like a destrier."
"What's a destrier?" Tanguish asked, and winced when Martyn smacked his shoulder with the leather piece he was stitching.
"The book, squire!" Martyn tutted. "Post-haste. Before my boredom devours me whole."
Tanguish rolled his eyes, but opened the book to where he'd left off. He waited just long enough for the glide of stone against netherite to ring through the air, punctuated by the soft tamping of Martyn working an awl across the leather pieces.
"Uhm. Okay." Tanguish sighed. "And when she espied that Lanceor was slain, she made sorrow out of measure, and said, O Balin, two bodies thou hast slain and one heart, and two hearts in one body, and two souls thou hast lost. And therewith she took the sword from her love that lay dead, and fell to the ground in a swoon."
Helsknight gave a derisive snort. "Dramatic."
"Haven't you read all these stories before?" Tanguish smirked.
"It's still just as dramatic on the fifth read as the first."
"Squire," Martyn grumbled warningly.
"Alright alright! Anyway. When she arose she made... great dole? Dole out of measure, the which sorrow grieved Balin passingly sore, and he went unto her for t-to have taken the sword out of her hand, but she held it so fast he might not t-take it out of her hand unless he should have hurt her, and suddenly she set the pommel to the ground, and..."
Tanguish trailed off, frowning quietly at the last few words.
"And?" Martyn prompted.
"Uh. She. Rove herself." Tanguish stammered, frown increasing. "When B-balin espied her deeds, he was passing heavy in his heart, and ashamed that so fair a damosel had d-destroyed herself for the love of his death."
Tanguish paused again, tilting his head in Helsknight's direction. "The lady kills herself?"
"Fell on her lover's sword," Helsknight sighed, and Tanguish wrinkled his nose at the boredness in his tone. "It's Arthurian prose, Tanguish. It's all very chivalrous and flowery. That kind of thing happens."
"Its... Chivalrous... To fall on a sword?"
Helsknight shrugged, "Normally the symbolism is to fall on your own. But yes."
"Knights are insane," Martyn grumbled.
"It's a story." Helsknight scowled.
"Logistically speaking, how does that even work, anyway?" Martyn continued, his voice upbeat and a bit mocking. He pointed his needle at Helsknight. "You what? Try to hold the pommel with your feet and just bend down?"
"Why are you asking me?"
"Well there's only one insufferable knight in this room."
"I've never fallen on my own sword," Helsknight flashed Martyn an unpleasant smile. "If you're so curious why don't you try it for yourself? I'll help."
"Are you threatening me, insufferable knight?"
"Just offering a solution to a problem."
"Are you calling me a problem?"
"Alright!" Tanguish interrupted, holding his hands up to physically separate the pair of gladiators, who had started leaning dangerously close to each other. "No one is falling on anyone else's sword!"
"Well not with that attitude," Martyn smirked.
Helsknight rolled his eyes and let out a disgusted scoff. Before he could pick another fight, Tanguish spoke up. "I don't understand. Aren't these stories supposed to be about chivalry?"
"They wrote the book on chivalry," Helsknight scowled. "Courtly chivalry, anyway."
"But isn't killing yourself against chivalry?" Tanguish asked, flipping through the little book. "The lady chose an unchivalrous death?"
"It isn't about her," Helsknight said, clearly annoyed by the question. "The story is about Sir Balin's pride. He takes a sword that can only be wielded by a great knight, and whoever wields it, will die by it. Knowing this, Balin takes the sword anyway, and begins his journey to his well deserved end. Knights must joust, so when Lanceor comes for the sword, he kills him. A lady must die of a broken heart for her love, and so she dies, despite all Balin's efforts to stop her. In the end, he kills his own twin brother fighting for a blade he never should have lusted for -- and his twin brother, his perfect mirror, the only knight who could ever match him, mortally wounds him in turn. He dies pursuing a perfect knighthood, ultimately doing no good, and saving no one, not even himself."
Helsknight stood and slammed his sword into his sheath. "And for the record, you fall on your sword by putting the pommel on the ground, and the blade beneath your ribs, and praying gravity is quick."
Helsknight stalked abruptly from the room, leaving Tanguish feeling vaguely sick.
Martyn sniffed, and returned to his sewing, muttering, "I don't understand chivalry."
