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too late when I noted my error.  I abandoned him to the king’s guard, and his loss is my shame.”  As the full import of his history dawned, Demetrius scowled.  “Mayhap it is fitting that I am required to marry.”
    With an expression of astonishment, Arucard sputtered.  “Thou dost equate matrimony with hell?”
    “Wilt thou argue otherwise?” Demetrius mumbled.
    “Well, in truth, it can at times be an abyss of suffering unique unto itself.”  Arucard laughed aloud and slapped his thigh.  “But if thou dost ever repeat that to Isolde, I will send thee to the glorious hereafter, posthaste.”
    “Dost thou find sport in my misery?”
    “I find sport in the absurdity of thy logic.”  Arucard rose and came to stand before Demetrius.  “Guilt is a powerful emotion, brother.  It numbs thy senses and impairs thy vision, shrouding thy reality in a dense cloud of regret, which further impedes thy capacity to reap the rewards of life.  Thou mayest as well be dead, as thou hast one foot in the grave, and Randulf, God rest him, would never wish that on thee.”
    “What would thou have of me?  Am I to marry Athelyna and spend my days in connubial bliss?”  With fists resting on hips, Demetrius inclined his head, as the situation was far more grave than Arucard realized.  “And what sort of name is that?  Sounds like a rather nasty infection.  Canst thou not hear the boys?  ‘Poor bastard caught the Athelyna, and his most prized protuberance shriveled and fell off.’”
    “By God’s bones, I will grant thee that.”  Arucard surrendered to boisterous guffaws.  “Wherefore dost thou not call the poor lass by a term of affection—one known only to her?”
    Demetrius shifted his weight.  “And wherefore would I do that?”
    “To foster a true and lasting bond with thy mate.”
    “And wherefore would I want to do that?”  Demetrius shuffled his feet.
    “Well, if for no other reason than to hasten conception of thy heirs.”
    With a look of sheer terror, Demetrius turned white as a sheet and splayed his arms as he teetered precariously.
    “Whoa, brother.”  Arucard steadied his fellow Nautionnier Knight.  “Have a seat before thou dost fall flat on thy face, and the fair maiden refuses to marry thee .”
    “Babes—I forgot about that.”  Demetrius cradled his head in his hands.  “Back up, else I will ruin the shine on thy boots, as I fear I am going to vomit.”
    “Is it safe to assume thou didst not avail thyself of a whore, as Morgan suggested?”  Arucard grimaced, and Demetrius was tempted to remind his friend that he had rejected the same notion prior to marrying Isolde.  “It might have put thy mind at ease for tonight.”
    “No, it would not.  Call me a lunatic, but if I am to risk everlasting condemnation, then I would join my body only with whom I have spoken the vows, per the sacrament.”  Yet the prospect terrified him.  Mustering a stance of unfailing determination, Demetrius compressed his lips.  “I will have no other.”
    “Then let us be done with it.”  With arms crossed, Arucard retreated a step.  “So thou mayest beget thy heir, as the King commands.”
    “Am I to breed as a prized stallion put to pasture?” Demetrius grumbled with unveiled irritation.  “Art we naught more than means to produce the next generation of mariners insane enough to undertake His Majesty’s bidding?”
    “Thou dost make procreation sound so romantic, brother.”  Arucard blanched.  “Believe me, it is not a chore, though it doth require some effort to master from the start, but the work is good.”
    “That is precisely what it is to me—drudgery.”  Demetrius thrust his chin.  “And I suspect we have merely exchanged one hangman’s noose for another.  In short, it is naught more than the trappings of duty owed to an oath ill-pledged that I shall endeavor to persevere.”
    “Oh, come now.”  To Demetrius’s agitation, Arucard succumbed to a full-blown