"Please, Ser Alfred. No one else can defeat this beast. Others have tried, many others, and all have failed. You alone can bring this conflict to an end."

"No," the old man replied. He lifted a poker and stoked the fire, choosing to look at it, rather than the man pleading before him. "I've told you twice now. I'll not tell you again. I am done."

"I- but-" the younger man began. "Very well, Ser Alfred. Thank you for your time."

"Aye." The old man felt the young diplomat hesitate before turning, as though contemplating whether he should plead his case just one more time. Ser Alfred soon felt the chill of the cold air outside of his cabin, and it wasn't until he heard the slam of his door before he looked away from the fire.

"Damn." Ser Alfred returned to the fire, stoking it once more with the poker before dropping the iron to the floor in frustration. He reached across the fire and retrieved from it the kettle, hardly feeling the flames on the skin of his bare hand, and poured the water over the leaves in his mug.

"Damn." Ser Alfred swore as he struggled with the buckles. He hadn't bothered with the peg leg in years; a boy from the village down the way brought whatever supplies he needed in exchange for a few copper pieces every other week, and he had long since modified his cabin to be able to get around with only his right leg. With only the thumb and index finger of his left hand, manipulating the buckles was quite the challenge. The damage to the muscles of his forearm meant most of his strength in that arm had waned. That he used the arm to support himself around the cabin was the one thing keeping the muscles of that arm from atrophy since his retirement.

Ser Alfred finally stood, on two legs for the first time in over a dozen seasons. "Damn," he muttered under his breath, the stub of his leg no longer accustomed to bearing his weight, as he took a few tentative steps around his cabin. After a brief walk around the cabin, he snatched his walking stick from its place by the door and stepped out into the cold.

Even with the walking stick, Ser Alfred struggled on his walk, muttering a curse here or there as a new ache or pain flared up. The walk took three times as long as the last time, he figured, but at long last, he came to the clearing where he knew he would find the flowers he sought. Despite the chill, he hoped he'd find what he was looking for.

"Damn." He finally found what he was looking for, but there were no flowers. The shrub had been eaten by foraging animals, and appeared to have been eaten to the stems. Ser Alfred rolled his eye and looked up briefly before closing his eye. "Damn." Ser Alfred winced as he kneeled before the shrub. He brought his hand before him and murmured a quiet prayer. As he prayed, a light emanated from within him and slowly enveloped the shrub. After a few seconds, the shrub, initially just a few sticks barely worth calling kindling, began to heal. It started with the branches, the bark healing where it was torn, new bark appearing where it was missing. New branches grew, thickening the shrub, and leaves began to sprout from old and new branches alike. Finally, flowers appeared and bloomed on the branches, and the light faded from the shrub.

At last, Ser Alfred opened his eye. He reached into the furs covering him and produced from his waist a thin blade, curved and with a razor's edge on the inside of the curve. He placed the edge of the blade at the base of one of the flowers and pulled, slicing the stem from the shrub. He did this three more times, allowing four flowers to fall to the ground before him. His job done, he secured the blade to his belt again before reaching out to the plant. "Thank you for your sacrifice," he said, touching the wound left by his blade. A small bit of the light from within him brightened his finger where it touched the plant, healing the wound. He repeated this once for each of the flowers he cut from the plant, and the light faded from within him.

After collecting the flowers, he pushed himself to standing, his back popping from the effort. The walk back to the cabin took half the time.

Mikhail was tending the chickens on his parents' farm when the raven landed. It wasn't so odd that a raven should land here; ravens weren't particularly uncommon in this land. What was odd was that it would be this particular raven, coming at this unusual time.

The young boy eyed the raven for a moment, then nodded before continuing his chores. As though it understood, the raven flew away. A short while later, the chickens fed and the coop cleaned, the boy entered his home.

"Mum, Ser Alfred has sent for me."

As Mikhail approached the old man's cabin, he noticed that the piles of rocks next to it had roses of winter on them, one on each. He paused at this; he knew at once this wasn't simply a request for supplies. Although he was too young to have seen the old man fight, he'd heard the tales, knew of the legends. He also knew of the danger threatening his village.

The boy shook his head; the answers to his questions were on the other side of that door. He reached up and knocked before reaching for the handle, but before he could open the door, it opened from within, and Ser Alfred greeted him. It was possibly the first time the boy saw the old knight properly groomed.

"You're here. Good. Come in." Ser Alfred stepped to the side to allow the boy in, and at once, Mikhail knew. Scattered around the one chair in the cabin lay the old knight's armor. Although it lay disused in a chest, there wasn't a sign of rot on the leather or rust on the plate.

"You're going to fight?" the boy asked, unable to take his eyes from the evidence before him.

"Aye." Ser Alfred stepped away from the door and approached the armor, stepping into the leather pants that would protect his legs from the hardened plates he would soon don, with the boy's help.

"But... why? I thought you'd stopped, I thought... I thought you were done," the boy said, finally looking at the old knight.

"Aye, so did I lad. So did I."

For each piece of armor the pair strapped to Ser Alfred, the old man could feel his strength returning to him. After a half hour's work, the boy looked in awe at the knight, having never seen him dressed for battle. In that moment, Ser Alfred looked ready for war. "I'll need you to prepare Elonzie for me. I know you've taken good care of her; I could always smell her on you when you brought supplies, before you left. Brush her well, say your peace, then saddle her. There is a quiver outside her stable, I'll need you to mount that on the saddle along side the scabbard. I have a few more things to attend to before I leave, so if you're quick, you might have time for a quick ride."

"O-of course, Ser Alfred, thank you, right away, sir!" The boy turned step out the door, but the old knight's voice halted him.

"Mikhail," the old knight called out, "thank you for helping all this time. I know I've been an insufferable bastard, so I'm... I'm sorry for that."

The boy struggled to think of a response, but before one could form, Ser Alfred threw open a trap door in the floor of his cabin and disappeared down a flight of stairs.

It wouldn't be quite fair to call the room Ser Alfred kept beneath his cabin an armory; there were quite a few weapons in it, but they were not well kept, and only a couple of them would actually see use. Ser Alfred threw open a chest and dug through, pulling from it a longbow and quiver, and slung both over his shoulder. He pulled a spare string from the chest as well, and tied it as best he could to the straps of the quiver. He stepped over to a wall, approaching the only two things displayed in this room, a sword and a shield. He slipped his left arm through the harness before placing the stump of his right arm into the straps and tightening them. He didn't tighten them all the way, not just yet. For now, he merely needed to carry the shield; when the time came to use it, he would tighten it again.

With the shield secured, he reached out for the sword, and as soon as his finger and thumb wrapped around the blade, he felt a power surge through him he hadn't felt in far too long. He leaned his head back and relished the feeling a moment before sheathing the blade at his side. Finally, the old knight sought three things he felt almost unlikely to find, at this point. Surprised to have found them, he dipped the quill into the inkpot and began writing.