Building a snowman

You stand staring down at the pitiful, crumbled shape of your snowman. It wasn't finished before it was torn down, but it was coming along nicely. You've rolled three beautiful balls of snow and neatly stacked them one on top of the other. Then you took a step back to admire your handy work, swelling with pride that would soon be mercilessly squashed.

You've noticed Alina and her cronies from a distance and unease crept up on you like ice sliding down your spine the closer she got. You hoped against hope that she'd pass you by but no such luck. She strode through snow like a hungry predator catching a whiff of bleeding prey, confident of an easy lunch. It wasn't you who fell victim at her cruel hands, though, but your poor unfinished creation. She kicked and pushed and hurled, and all you could do was watch helplessly, waiting for their thirst to be satiated.

Now they're finally leaving, laughing and jeering on their way.

You drop down in the snow with a heavy sigh and tuck your legs to your chest, hiding your dismayed face. Now that they've wreaked havoc on you they can move on, sparing no more thought to you than a thunderstorm does on the lands it lays to waste. You could start from scratch again now that they're gone - and that's what you'd usually do, but like a frozen lake cracking with one wrong step, something in you breaks. And through the fissure seeps cold. Perhaps you should just stay like this, folded within yourself, and let the gently drifting snowflakes cover you till you become the snowman yourself.

"Stop right there!" 

Your head snaps up. Accolon's trotting through the snow, your knight in - well, not shinning armor, but cozy winter clothes - swooping in to save you. He flags down the noble kids; you push yourself up, plodding closer.

"This is cruel, abhorrent behaviour, Miss Solomon," Accolon says in a rare moment of sternness. He's always being endlessly patient and kind and understanding with you, even when you make mistakes or go against a rule. If he ever assumes seriousness, it's only when there's a matter of import he wishes to impress upon you.

He's tried to affect that same stance with Alina, reluctantly giving benefit of the doubt when she first said she'd merely applied too much force on accident during training. By the time it turned into not pushing you intentionally, but simply stumbling into you with too much impetus, Accolon knew very well he had a bully on his hands.

Alina shrugs, showing just how much she cares for the whole affair. "We were playing. The snowman was the foe, and we helped Mordred subdue it." A chorus of giggling follows her perfectly innocent words.

Accolon's furrow deepens - a canyon that brims with all his worry and frustration and pain. "We both know that's not the case. I shall have a talk with your mothers, and your mentor as well." He looks behind her, casting his grave, somber gaze towards the others. "I'll have a word with all of your parents." If it were you the subject of Accolon's ire, getting crumbled like your snowman would be the lesser punishment. These children, however, meet the warning with almost bored expressions. There's a couple remorseful faces that jump out at you, but it means little when just a few moments ago they stood aside, watching the others gleefully tear at your work.

Alina crosses her arms and flutters her eyes peevishly, but doesn't seem too bothered otherwise. It's as if she's merely been told she won't get any dessert for tonight's dinner - no matter. Tomorrow was another day, another treat. Any threats are like water on a duck - Alina's gaggle let any warning slide off of them, knowing very well nothing can truly touch them. If it did, they would have stopped a long time ago.

When they take their leave, no less merry than before, Accolon turns to you and places a comforting gloved hand on your shoulder. "Are you alright, Mordred?"

You offer a wan smile as reassurance. "I'm sort of used to it by now."

His mouth thins. "I wish you weren't. Children can be so cruel sometimes," he sighs, "because it's all they learn." He finds your gaze, and holds it steadfast and earnest. "Never let their cruelty change you, Mordred."  

Well, you're certainly trying your best. Meeting fire with fire would only stoke the flames rather than tame them, and it'll lead you nowhere. Yet if cruelty can mold one into such a vicious cast, you wish proffered kindness might too shape one in its gentle image. Perhaps it's simply slower, harder work.

"I've tried to be nice to her," you huff. "I've tried to be kind, but she still acts like I've spit in her face. The kids in Avalon liked playing with me," you add in a whisper.

The snow continues to fall all around you, settling over the already fluffy layers that blanket the Castle grounds.

The gloom that descended over Accolon's features clears to a bright smile - though it feels more bittersweet, like the sun appearing after a devastating storm. "One day you'll make great friends, Mordred, I'm sure of it. Ones that deserves you."

"You think so?"

"Of course. How could you not? You're such a sweet child-" before you can protest that's never helped here in Lothia, he goes on, "and others will truly, genuinely appreciate you. People who see past stupid hearsay and fear-mongering and misplaced fault and see you for who you are."

You appreciate his attempt to buoy your trampled spirits, and at least for that you manage to summon a smile of your own. 

"Now," Accolon pats your back. "Let's make that snowman again. This time bigger and better."

So you set to work. With Accolon to help - and, most importantly, cheer you up - it goes smoothly. You alternate between rolling snow with your own gloved hands and employing your magic to aid you, testing the boundaries of the control you can exert. Accolon applauds your each successful attempt, and encourages you to try again whenever you fail.

"You said you used to have a lot of friends when you were a squire," you say as Accolon pats some more snow atop the middle snowball. The base reaches as tall as his knees; your snowman is definitely shaping up to be bigger than before.

"I did," Accolon smiles. "I was good friends with all my fellow squires around my age. Every winter we'd go sledding - race each other down the hill from the Castle - and start snowball fights. Your mother used to join us too." He leans in with a mischievous smile. "Your mother is vicious. And cheats, too. Uses her magic as advantage. You've seen her in action, after all."

You have, and you aspire to replicate the same mastery she has over magically-made snow projectiles. 

"Morgana could really let loose when we were just playing and fooling around, not needing to put on an act as much as she did around Lot. The Duke never joined us." The last sentence sounds unusually tight, edged with a distaste that, coming from Accolon, is still far softer than the poison in Morgana's voice. Yet his aversion towards the man is plain in the taut line of his lips.

You stack the second snowball atop the first and give the snowman a torso, bringing its height to Accolon's waist. Then you diligently move on to his head. 

"You're no longer friends with most of them now, though," you remark somewhat hesitantly, not wishing to upset Accolon by broaching a possibly sensitive subject.

Accolon simply smiles, a tinge rueful. "No, we aren't."

You fix your gaze upon the faceless, detached head of your snowman as a stab of pain shoots through you. "Is it because of me?" you whisper, your voice barely audible over the thump of your gloves against the snowball.

A yellow glove stills your hands, resting gently over them. You peek a glance at Accolon from under your furred hood. 

"Don't you ever say that or think that again, Mordred. It could never be your fault. They made their choice to stand by Lot's side, just like I made mine to be by yours and Morgana's. And I'm very happy with my decision."

You break into a wide smile that lingers as you continue crafting your creation. Once all three sections of its body have been completed and assembled, it's time to give it some much needed limbs and features. You've brought buttons to shape its lips into a smile and press into its face as eyes, black and shiny.

"Nose?" Accolon asks and you promptly supply him with a carrot. You then wrap a colorfully embroidered scarf around its thick neck and the man nods sagely. "Good. It'll stay warm now."

From the bundle of branches you've gathered, you stick two in its middle, as arms; and tow atop its head, as antlers.

"Making a snow-faerie, then?"

You nod. "Uh-huh. Like the Deer King." Well, your snow-faerie looks far from him. The black eyes and antlers - the ones provided by you awfully simple - may only vaguely put you in mind of him, like a drop of water claiming similarity to an ocean. Your creation is far from the beautifully rendered picture you saw of the King in one of your books, yet you are proud of it nonetheless.

As Accolon considers it, his gaze turns faraway and hazy, dipping into some distant recollection. "I remember once when we all went into the forest, trying to catch a glimpse of the fae. Morgana joined us - Lot felt secure to let her since there were knights among us, too, though they had just gained that title," he chuckles. "We didn't see any faeries, but we did get separated from the rest. No matter - we didn't mind. We talked and wondered around for hours before returning to a worried Lot. Morgana made it out that I had bravely guided us back to the castle."

He shakes his head and turns to you. "Well then, now that we're done with the snow-faerie, what would you like to do?"

You spin around, take a few leisured steps away from Accolon and scoop up a handful of snow. "I was thinking we could maybe..." you slowly turn towards him as you fashion your weapon, "have a snowball fight?" 

Accolon grins and prepares a projectile of his own. "You're on."