Or so he thinks.

It changes, of course, when he meets her.

She is on Bors's lap, settled there as if he means to keep her, and she's laughing. He watches her, memorizing the curve of her face. There is something of home in her, a warmth like the long grasses rustling against his legs in the too hot sun.

Bors claims that night that he's decided Vanora's to be his woman and is laughed at by all the other knights, telling him she has far better taste than his poor flesh.

Everyone laughs, save Dagonet, who somehow knows it's true.

The problem, of course, is Bors is Bors. And while that is a good thing on the field of battle, is not so good at the twisted intricacies of wooing a woman like Vanora. The rest of the knights, even with their teasing, now keep their distance - so long as one discounts Lancelot, who wants no woman who does not belong to someone else.

Bors comes to Dagonet, late and not half-drunk, stumbling and sprawling across Dagonet's bunk. "She'll never love me."

"Is there a reason for her to?" Dagonet continues rubbing the oiled rag carefully along his blade. "Simply bed her and be done."

"Can't do that," Bors moans. "Be that easy. It'd be over with. She wants more."

"If she wants more, she loves you." He knows the words are true as he speaks them, but tries to ignore it.

"You do it." Bors attempts to sit up, swaying slightly. "You talk to her for me."

"No."

"There. It's settled." Bors nods and Dagonet sighs and surrenders to the inevitable.

"You stay away now." She doesn't look up from where she's cleaning, but speaks before his shadow even grazes the floor. She finally glances up at him. "I notice."

"No need for drink lately."

"Then you're a better man than your friends." She pours him a large mug regardless and carries it to one of the tables. He watches her walk, her long skirts swaying. "Come and join me."

She sits and takes a sip from the mug, licking the thick foam from her lip. He swallows and moves over, sliding onto the bench across from her. His hand engulfs the mug and he lifts it, feeling her eyes following his movements.

"So. Have I don't something?"

"No." He swallows the thick, honeyed mead and shakes his head. "No."

"Bors then?"

"No." He smiles, the rare grin widening as a flush darkens her skin. "Here for Bors."

"Oh? He's been and gone, I'm afraid."

"I know."

She tilts her head and reaches out, sliding her hand between his and the mug and stealing it away from him. He wonders briefly at any move that can render him so easily defenseless, wonders further as her lips curve into a sly smile.

"So you're here for Bors. Who isn't here."

"I am."

She laughs then, her voice light and high, her eyes bright. "I've missed you, Dagonet."

"He loves you."

She huffs another laugh, this one less open and more doubting. "I'm well aware of all the things Bors says deep into his drink and at the top of his voice."

"He says it other times."

"When he is cursing the amount of drink inside him, slowing his swing while Lancelot slaps him with his sword?"

"No. Then he solely curses Lancelot and questions his parentage."

"Lancelot has parents? He didn't just spring fully formed from demons?"

"Touched by them, perhaps, but not pure demon."

She laughs again and takes another sip of drink. "You've not actually met him then."

Dagonet smiles and steals the mug back. "He does love you."

"It's not love," she assures him with a shake of her head. "Bors wants a wife and whelp."

"Many." She raises an eyebrow and he chuckles. "Whelps. Not wives. And not a wife. He wants you."

"And so you are here."

"It made sense when I was trying to get Bors to go away."

"Did it work?"

"No. He's passed out in my bunk."

"And so you're here."

"Have you heard him snore?"

The answering blush forces his gaze away. She reaches out for the mug again, fingers grazing his. He doesn't look at her until he realizes her fingers haven't moved, safe in the curve of his. "Did you think me so innocent as that, Dagonet?"

He shakes his head in response; though she seems to see a different answer in his eyes as her own gaze softens. She turns her hand, her palm up and open to him. He stares at it for a long moment before tracing his fingers across the soft skin.

He watches her eyes as they close, giving into the touch of his hand. He brushes her skin as he would a child's cheek or a sharpened blade, with a mixture of fear and reverence. Her lips part and he can hear the soft sigh of breath.

"Vanora…"

She opens her eyes and there is something dark and liquid in them, and it burns him even to see it. He lets his fingers trail up to her wrist, resting them against the frantic beat of her blood. She shudders and her lips quiver as she tries to smile. "D-Dagonet."

Her voice shakes nearly as much as the sudden tremble of his hand. He pulls it away quickly, catching his breath. "Bors loves you." The truth of the statement is no less for the lack of conviction in his voice, the unspoken pledge that lies beneath it. "You should accept him."

"And what if I do not love him?"

He hears the question she's truly asking and shakes his head. "Is that the truth?"

"No. Not entirely." She pulls her hand back and hides it in her lap, out of his sight. "But not quite a lie either." She gets to her feet, humor gone and practicality in place. It is just as much what attracted him as her laugh. "Tell Bors if he asks, I will accept."

"I will."

She nods sadly and touches his cheek for an instant that vanishes into nothing all too soon. "I know."

"And he will not ask."