Over the dusty cobbled causeway there flew a single chirping sparrow speckled gorgeously with brown red feathering. Sang a tune so pure, so pervasively joyed, nearly it lightened the dampened mood which; in the most somatic manifestation conjurable; had suspended itself upon their talkings in episodic format. But fulfillment fell futile, miracles too owing their debts to naturalized disorder.

In respite of the two vagabonds the guard emanated threats fouler than deigned by mean mouthed men. "Back, back! Before your shoulders feel the levity of a missing head!" A crackling glass sharp delivery, swinging about his halberd as to miss. "And if I valued that head at all I'd leave altogether and return to whatever shadowy hole you done crawled from. Be that the bowels of Hell or crypts fogged and cursed, I insinuate not." he finished an angered stomp, blast of hot steamed air punctuating, nostrils flaring in and out a bull readying to butt.

Bœlru came too far to scarper off. Travelled distances so great for so long a measure remembered nix who he was hitherto their journey's inception, that two hundred eighty three million eight hundred twenty four thousand trudge of divisible units, forthwith aches of regression countermand unto conviction recanting incorporeal insurgencies in which the bumbler finds a dig to do a day then regress to the state the bumbler finds freest in enactment, facile in precedence, carrying widths of imaged eras stooped on ledges a Calthourke homage proceeding and receding molecular itinerants conscious of the host body its essence inhabits, conscious of the transitional hyperfine states and of the clueless courtesans from the sea doing cheap to the terrestrial landlubbers barking premium prices, mumming annals and their gloomed foretellings of what cometh in glacial impact, that sad mummers mask made sadder by the wearer's refusal to look the mirror in the mirror's face, palliated by that hum-strumming Bobtail Curtis, by workaholic Kings and Lords of the swarth, by contradictions walking on songs of bubblegum, mantlepiece paintings and framed figures of family intrigue plaintive of better licks taken by life than the hands that planned to fold them anon.

In revere for the pretentiousness that was Human humility, the man known to be called Bœlru, loin girder of Dogleg Green, the Pathfinder, Fifth Fnether of Bi-Castle toffs, grievously pardoned in prior time coming delays afore its happening, every accountable instance wreaking of divine treachery. Harken he well to that frequently dismissed, offed approach since the onset of Edermic's Outing. Nine years later Selvinar's disciple, unalloyed in dedication, found no room in his hoarding heart to forgive anyone who dare stand in opposition to what he deemed the pinnacle of his purpose.

Advanced in the upper-parts of age figured that this was indeed the much desired conclusion; finally revealing to those privileged un-privy a dangerously forgotten truth. And he would reveal this truth regardless of what should become of him put aside. Bœlru was a firm believer in this destiny, convinced that the outcome of their conversation would dictate the lives of not just everyone in Thelinor but in the whole of the World.

No longer containing his tongue, loosed in a frenzy, "Aye I value my head, it is true. I also value your head, and the heads of those fixated atop the shoulders of mine enemies. As well the heads of every man, woman, and child from Sul Satago to the sloping edges of the Earth if you can believe it! Catch my meaning, as I hope you do, but you are a snake! Your words and manner constrict me so. I feel alit with a rage thus bright the sun should be blinded because of it! For your superiors, be they granted the misfortune of hearing of you turning away weary wander-bys, I fear the clean cut of a guillotine should be alleviating your poor poor shoulders here very soon and short!"

"Is that a threat, pensioner?" asked the guard, proceeding forward the look of nefarious intent.

"Is that a stupid question, little boy?"

Edermic chimed in, grabbing Bœlru by the rim of his woolen white coat collar, saying in a tone remarkably calm, "Goodness me, appears subtlety is going out of fashion these days. Young lad, when we were to settle a dispute per way of the word merely implied contempt. On the other catching drift responded politely! No need for conflict. No need for such words as were used by yourself moments ago. Me and my friend committed no wrong to warrant it. Assured of that, I am."

Edermic lifted a brow in question upon finishing his statement, attempting to perceive whether he impacted the general conversation at hand in any consoling way. Peering thoughtfully into the face of his time stricken companion, and too the guardsman with whom trouble was stirred, saw that to his plea no interruption would come. Hence continued speaking.

"We were given clear permission 'long the portcullises from here down to the entranceway. Guards heard our case open eared, and by our plead given the rightful approbation to enter; approbation that can be denied only by the King and Queen themselves! Yea, at this moment our Regents are currently predisposed, and whilst I respect the games these fine folk here hold so high in acclaim, urgent matters, as the phrase suggests, cannot wait. We need to hold them as audience and meet soon as can be possible."

"In favor of a bleedin' schmooze, you'd have me cancel—"

"After the conclusion of their so-called Tourney must this meeting be set, fettled guarder. But we've waited nine years, so at the least another nine hours could not hurt. That much I figure. That much I know. Yet nine days at the most, tolerate it, we most certainly cannot."

The guard stared at Edermic, a daring twinkle amongst the fiery blue of his left eye; the right a puffy purple knob of black green vein, punched in by a "no-goodin' rapscallion trouble-starter" as was filed in the transcript. A realization then split the tensing anxiety so apparent within him. A more subversive perspicuity that filled in those soporific wrinkles like women's blusher. 'The sign of a hatching plan.' thought the Librarians, flummoxed by his benumbed reproach—wherefore a menacing smile appeared equidistant to two emotion perfused cheeks.

His fiery blue evermore anchored to Edermic's barley brown, "Master Mikìco! Master Shaylint! Master Mikìco! Master Shaylint! Someone fetch me the Masters!" Voice was a whiny taunt, how an immature child tattles on their sibling despite them being in the wrong.

"No wonder a stout fellow found another so willin' to shine that eye of yours. I'd shine ye a brighter bulge too if I weren't so pressed on graver matters. Don't be mistaken neither. I am old, very old, yes indeed I am, but my hooks can catch fish big or small, unaware and off their guard, if you understand me."

The guard did understand, and shifted his footing in a declaration of uneasiness—battling Bœlru with suppressive gawks here and there to ensure that he did not make bodily suggestions to execute a flee, or, he worried, attempt to "shine" him. Amid the dull few minutes of this intermission the guard periodically stroked his halberd's shaft striving to be relieved of the situation's growing tension. When that went phut he used the steel toe end of his sabaton to poke at the cobbled street.

The strangling heat above laid bare Bœlru's woes. At first was took aback; slowly descending into a contented hypnotic drowsiness where the impatience of his anger dissipated as lone drops of rain into a vast sinking ocean; and he was calmed. He took a seat then on an upturned cobweb coated tallow bucket, fearing it'd cave but surprisingly held firm. As for Edermic he chose to be seated on a pair of sandstone steps that ended at a heavy wooden door, leading somewhere he figured into the barracked office-spaces the current serving garrison dedicated for study. There were four to six of these doors per interval of portcullises, an equal number of so on both sides.

Atop the gatehouse barbican; being the final entry point into the twelve thousand acre property where surrounded by its hills and gardens was located the widely famed Pala Et Âva Oligarchia; scrambled a multitude of men in bright silver armor, rifles pocketed, banners most decadent, inquiring on the Masters' whereabouts whose permission was required for persons to lawfully pass the last checkpoint unscathed. Whether scathing be by scrutiny or the skew of a spear mattered little.

The heat must've medicated the guard of his anger by the same token for with a bedeviled sigh confessed, "Jus' know we rarely get City dwellers coming up the Ramp 'round this late in the year; Family being immoderately occupied to receive or deal appointments until after the conclusion of the White Night, its climaxing junctions needing to be completely ceased beforehand, on top of accompanying festivities that too need tending. We could, so as to be punctual, schedule a reservation afterwar—"

"There's no time! I've made it plain to you that waiting longer past that date is no option! The news we carry affects us all and needs hearing NOW! For if not, there will be no White Night or its accompanying festivities again!" Bœlru snapped, wanting to lurch from his station but restricting.

"Fools! I've made it plain, I have, that there is a reservation that a citizen must make before the Monarchy can agree to meet. It is Law! And considering five thousand or so have already claimed slots, you will have to wait until three months after the White Night to have the slimmest chance of meeting. Is that perfectly clear!?" the guard snapped back, drivel ejecting.

A hopelessness befell the two wandering old men, slumped from where they sat. Bœlru was done attempting to resolve the issue with words, and considering himself too weak to stand, retreated into the innermost workings of his mind where ideas and wishes were all his own and no resort too outlandish to consider.

Whispers of lofty promise danced upon the wind, streaming into ear and soul; the power of its caress alike in form to a gust of bouncing feathers that on the tide of a wafting seaside fragrance seemed to penetrate the densest of odors. Its sound was serenading and redemptive—cooling and restorative—and grew a stirring thought.

"Ay boy! I digress from complacency and for your sake I admit it must be a burden. But ought you consider a rescheduling of the others? What if so I carry more value than the sum of the others combined! ... What existing proof is there that exempts you, or enwreathing idle miscreants now watching, from being at part responsible for the hindering of this valuableness!? Surely to debar important news from reaching Royal obtainment much sooner if at all is reckoned an act of treason! What shall the King and Queen think of that, eh? How could you know the importance we carry. The salvation to elucidate a damning and forlorn prophecy. What is it I carry you must be asking. If so I would not doubt. But it is not your place to ask these questions in person or otherwise now is it? No. You are a guard, not an interrogator. I understand that. Send us one and we can settle the matter we seem to find unsettleable! Simple solution to a simple problem, wouldn't you agree?"

"Bœlru, be silent! Can't you see that is exactly what we're being detained for!?"

"Should listen to your buddy, crank." said the guard. "Wise as he is old. And you? Violent as you are dimwitted and crude."

"Do not speak to me of violence as you casually perpetrate the sanctity of peace! You speak of violence, your actions are of violence, and Hell, your appearance is violent!"

"As your friend I command you obey your reasoning and divulge from this feckless spar!"

"I shall hush Edermic but I do not silence. To you, sentinel, I say fetch your friends. They'll have the sense to punish you accordingly. Be assured of that. Be afraid."

Guard sniffed the warmed air. "Afraid?" in a kiddish snicker he scoffed, irritating Bœlru further. "I fear many a thing. You? I do not."

Edermic ignored the berating of the guard and began gazing wishfully, almost stubbornly, into the sprawl of Heavenly kissed sky above—a void empty of cloud yet brimming in a teem of beauty nonetheless, like a pool without bottom—then attentively directed himself toward Bœlru who was nearing tears; face painted tomato red in a fluster, weakened hands shivering and loose laid over his mouth so as to not heave from the influx of salted air carried South by the current's wind. With a tap of his sandals and a hum in his throat, Edermic sang a song recounted from long ago told to him by some sanguine gentleman who worked a botanical nursery on Tillday and a lumber mill on Mournday.

"The Whistle Man, a wistful man, who sings a tune so true. A blissful man, a whistling man, a'comin' to cure my blue.

Whoa ho-ho, a trifling woe. What are you to do? Lo-dee-dee-doh-dee-dee-ho! Doh-do-dee-dee-dee-do.

There's a humble man, a modest man, who kindly sings his songs. Atop the hill, in the mill, milling with the saws.

Prance, and shout, and run about! He'll ramble on down the hall. Come on bound to the merry town, you'll surely hear his song!

Oh whoa ho-ho! And what a show. Do-doh-dee-doh-o-hee! Come on bound to the merry town, you'll find yourself with glee.

Ya-diddle-ba-diddle-la-diddle-ya-hoo! He's a'comin' to fiddle with you! Oh, that's right. Oh, that's right. He's a'comin' to fiddle with you.

Who?

You!

Who?

You!

Doo-doo-da-diddly-doo."