[Suzerain of Sheol]

Pelles took in the quarters into which his Master had elected to summon him. Lavish. Exorbitant, even. He had once lived in such halls, framed by every luxury, but such thoughts were those of Adam as he gazed upon the burning portico of Eden, shivering upon the wasteland steppe, beset by the world's predations -- the reminiscence of the damned.

No, far more close to his wretched heart was the recollection of Carbonec's silent corridors, the dust of decades gathering upon its irrelevant throne, the incessant sigh of the sea and its indifference to the pathos of his shore-side laments.

The Fisher King took in all that surrounded him, and decided in an instant: this woman did not know what it was to suffer.

So be it. For nigh a century, he had borne the guilt of Camelot's collective sins; the weight of one more soul would be nothing new.

He unflexed the fingers of his left hand and called it to him, the weapon, the Dolorous Spear. The Godslayer. Gripped it tightly, and felt the familiar bite of the thorns. Yes. With it in his grasp, there was no Servant, no Heroic Spirit conjured from the dross of time, that could stand against him.

Pelles watched fresh blood run from his hand, down the haft, tumbling to floor. Saw the ears of the witch's creature prick at the scent of his perpetual dying.

"I bleed for the wounds of the land," he observed, lifting his one functioning eye to meet his Master's aghast gaze. "And it seemeth your brachez hath the taste for it. Such is the plight of Man, is it not? Abominations though we be unto nature, it shirketh not to consume us. Do you not, also, find this just?"