Searching in the chamber mirror. Eyebrows knotted on his forehead. Dark clouds gather. Unexpected visitor today. The Master, almost sneaking, making excuses. Talking of experiments. Then, huffing and stuttering, talking of love. The Apprentice nodding evasive replies.

Master turning eager. Talking at length. Suddenly quiet, mutely eyeing his apprentice. Confessing. Doesn't know what to do about Her. Does She truly love him? She was made for it but still. He thinks She loves him. Not enough, only knowing counts. Proof.

What is proof? Words? Deeds? They are there. Can be pretence. How does one know? How do commoners?

Shrugging with a sigh. Commoners do not know. They feel. Yet feelings verily are capricious. Thus love is not knowable. There is faith or there is not. No answer beyond that. No plain words to explain that mystery.

Silence. The Master leaving the chamber, stopping on the threshold. One last glance at the Apprentice, hesitating, opening his mouth. Then leaving without a word.

He couldn't tell the Master that. Would never understand. The Master understands only power, not love. He wants to possess but love cannot be possessed. Ought he to have told him after all? The Master, so desperate to love and be loved. Too far gone. Even for Her. She mustn't be his but Her own for love to be true. True love means being freely bound, not forcibly.

No use telling him that anymore, the deed already done, bridge burnt. Should have listened before.

Walking over to his drawing pulpit. Quill and inkhorn, right there. Deep in thought. Time to create his very first own rune. Probably the last too. Must get it right. Will be needed. Seeing it clearly, as in a crystal ball. Reaching for the quill, wetting it with ink.

Drawing.