Gawain ambles through the city. He's spent so much time in this manner, yet still can't say he's used to seeing what he sees. Londinium's clouds are hanging low as ever—when did that start happening? He strains to recall, but can't come up with a definite answer. As if the last time he looked to the sky, the gloomy haze was never even there. Alexandrina Vina Victoria lies sleeping on the counter in the pub. Yesterday, she and her companions made an all-too-tough escape from the beat. It strikes Gawain that she especially resembles her grandmother in these moments—or was it her great-grandmother? The one named Mathilda, the girl with a head of gold curls, how exactly was she related to Vina here? Face after face flashes by, going from young to old, ultimately scattering with the sand on the wind. Some of those faces might not even actually exist, being simply products of vaguer parts of the mind. Gawain has to admit, his time spent by this family's side may be longer than he was anticipating at first. Far longer already. He doesn't make a habit of appearing before people. The interpretations of him as a symbol of power disgust him, and hardly fall in line with his original agreement. Still, their ups and downs have kept Gawain watching with interest all the same. There'll be times he can't help but reflect on history. Moments where shadows of similarity loom over them. Vina once asked him why her teacher would always be by her side, and at the time his answer was silence. Yes, he learned long ago not to meddle anymore, because farewell would always come eventually. He still dimly remembers how, once, he and Lugalszargus bounded about that battlefield they call the foehn hotlands these days. He carried that mettlesome man atop his back, and with the Nightzmoran Khagan by their side, they charged for the sandstorms of afar. Everyone died there—and that was the news he brought back to Lugalszargus's daughter. He remembers the feeling of his mane wet with tears. Those times proved... to pass in the twinkling of an eye. Humanity is far frailer than a master of the beasts, and the years have taught him that fact again and again. Some bygones aren't worth dredging up so often, and Gawain only recalls those periods very, very occasionally in his dreams. A meeting so old that history had not yet been written, a reckless boy upon the barrens who never feared him one bit. Their travels together, cheers and tears, song and wine, and then—his age, his death. That was the first time, not as a sovereign, but as a friend, that Gawain witnessed death. Warmth fading from flesh, breath stilling from mouth and nose. Before that, Gawain had never imagined that to witness death would be such torment. It was then that Gawain promised him, that he would aid his descendants in their continued survival, until they no longer needed him. The golden creature stops in his step, and narrows his eyes. He, that friend, that boy... what was his name? Gawain sighs. Fortunately, he still hasn't abandoned his vow.