The Archangel of War was busy re-examining the American election returns when Laurence came in.

"A waste of time, Michael. Neither side's acting with much Honor any more."

"Too true, but there's always their Electoral College. I don't suppose that we could…" Michael noted Laurence's face beginning to frown. "No. You're right. If we start interfering, so do they, and pretty soon there'll be rioting in the streets. We will have to double our observers, of course. No sense trusting to enlightened self-interest.

"Well: to business. Do I see two challenges there?"

"Actually, no: just one. It was forwarded to me by Blandine."

"Who's it from?"

"The envelope doesn't have my name on it, Michael."

"Subtle, Laurence. I apologize for the implied insult. Well, let's see who the latest challenger is…" Michael opened the heavy envelope and quickly scanned the contents: one eyebrow quirked. "Well. Well, well, well. This should prove interesting. I presume you've got a free hour or two?"

"The challenge is for right now?"

"Apparently, he's waiting in the Vale. On our side, no less. We’ll have to swing by the Savannah, first." Laurence's own eyebrow quirked. Michael chuckled. "I wouldn't dream of spoiling the surprise. Are you free?"

"If it has to happen right now, yes, I suppose so."

"Excellent. We mustn't keep my challenger waiting." The Archangel of War rose, idly sending a message to his Servitors to collect the necessary items for this challenge.

"Incidentally, Laurence: is that other item for me as well?" The Archangel of the Sword flushed slightly.

"No, Michael. It is … a personal matter."

"You're still getting those? Amazing." Michael's eyes narrowed. "That paper looks familiar. Doesn't the Hyena use it?"

"Yes." The statement was final.

"Don't tell me he's signed up…"

"NO! Not at all!"

"Really, Laurence, who else would have access to his personal parchment…" At that moment, Michael did remember who else had access to Dominic's personal parchment, and moreover, would feel free to borrow a page or two. "Ah. It's always the quiet ones. Oh, stop glowering at me, lad. It's your fault for not asking for advice first." Laurence still looked mutinous. Michael sighed. "Fine, fine, I won't bring it up again. And, yes, I apologize for calling you 'lad'.

"Now can we get to the challenge?"

Part II

The field was grassy, empty except for one figure, dressed in full plate mail and hunched in prayer before his sword, his graying hair rustling in the breeze. The sky was blue, the breeze was sweet, and in the distance one could hear birdsong. There actually weren't any birds, but birdsong fit the dreamscape, so birdsong there was. The two figures (both leading a war-horse) that appeared out of nowhere took a moment to take in the scene before they approached the praying knight.

It was surprisingly easy to get the horses, really, thought Michael. Of course, these were the two finest war-horses on Earth, ever. They were probably bored out of their minds by now: nothing to do but run around and eat grass. I would be. The Archangel of War and his companion stopped a respectful enough distance from the knight and waited until he crossed himself.

"Good morn, good knight."

Arthur, King of All Britain, leader of the Knights of the Round Table, opened his eyes, stood, and bowed. "Good morn, Saint Michael. Good morn, Commander Sir Laurence."

Michael looked at his ethereal opponent. Arthur had obviously weathered the machinations of the Media well enough, but there was a hint of pain in the brown eyes. But his hands were steady, and he moved within his armor as if it were made of air.

"Have you come then to accept my challenge?"

"With an offer so chivalrous, how could I refuse? At your request, I brought also the needed steeds. You wish a tourney, I presume?"

"That would be my desire, Saint Michael. For there is great honor to be found when two servants of God and His Son meet on the open field, to strive for their Lord and their love, and to trade blows without malice. I would joust with you, Archangel of War, and meet you sword to sword."

"And I you, King Arthur." Laurence looks likes he's about to sputter at my granting him the title. Respect costs nothing, kid, especially when it's to somebody with this much courage. "You have no retainers with you, to witness your efforts?"

"Alas, as you well know, me and mine are under the Ban. While you were gracious enough to grant me exemption, I did not wish to presume that others would be likewise permitted. At any rate…" - Arthur's lips quirked - "this field is made of dream-stuff. I will need no assistance to mount my steed."

"Very well, King Arthur. If you would choose your horse, we shall begin…" At this point, Laurence cleared his throat.

"Forgive me, but I must point out that neither has stated what boon they fight for." King Arthur's head cocked quizzically.

"Why, I presumed that it would be the traditional prize. The armor and arms of the vanquished would go to the victor, to use as he saw fit. What else would it be?"

What else, indeed. He's carrying Excalibur! Granted, a sword isn't my usual weapon, but wouldn't that look good on the wall… no. Unfair to keep a blade like that out of the service of God. Tough call: do I do the noble thing and give it back to him, or the practical thing and give it to Laurence? Michael internally frowned. There's something very, very odd going on here, and somehow I don't think that it really involves me at all. None of this internal musing showed on his face as he smiled his acceptance of the conditions.

"Laurence… it occurs to me that I only brought my axe. Would you be so good as to… thank you." You needn't look so peeved. I know you carry a backup, and it's not like the blessed thing's unique or anything. You only started using it two days ago. The two combatants retreated to opposite sides of the field, couched their lances, and waited for Laurence's command to begin their charge. He's looking more cheerful. Well, he enjoys this sort of thing, and it's mythic, if nothing else.

At Laurence's cry in medieval French, the two immediately galloped towards each other. The lances were padded, of course: this was a joust, not a fight to the death. Michael hadn't jousted in five hundred years, and hadn't been on a horse for nearly that long… which meant absolutely nothing, of course. The two met in the center. Arthur's lance shattered; Michael's did not. The familiar sound of metal clanging echoed across the field.

Arthur lay still for a moment, shook himself, and stood. Drawing sword, he declaimed the pro forma statement, "The son of a mare hath failed me" - Arthur's horse looked insulted at that statement; the ethereal took the time to pat its flanks in apology - "but I wot well that my father's sword never shall." Michael nodded and dismounted. Catch me doing this in an actual battle. Well, the rules are different. Besides, I'd like to see how well he fights. Michael noted that Arthur had raised his visor in order to kiss his lady's favor. Catch me doing that now. The kid would have a fit.

However, Michael did briefly touch the rose etched in gold silk on his own favor.

When both combatants had composed themselves, they saluted each other. Michael stood his ground, letting his opponent come to him: Arthur charged, bellowing war cries as he came. The Archangel had enough time to be particularly bemused at hearing "For God and Saint Michael!" - Sorry, I've got a conflict of interest here - before the fight began in earnest.

The fight was confusing. Arthur was good, no question about it, but he wasn't that good. Michael knew as much about this style of fighting as he did about every other: that is, everything worth knowing and most of the things that weren't. His major problem was keeping from accidentally striking hard enough to rip off Arthur's arm or head. Michael wasn't exactly toying with the ethereal: his actions were designed to more give a practical lesson or two before he ended it. The poor guy will need some more expertise, if he's going to lose Excalibur, assuming that I just don't give it back to him. What on earth is going on here? He knows he can't beat me, so why wager the most precious material possession he has? The Archangel thought about it as he beat off a sudden flurry of blows. For that matter, he's not even the best fighter of his bunch. The Arthur of the legends was known more for his political acumen…

Of course. My, my, my: that's a move worthy of me. The kid will be fairly annoyed at me if I let him get away with it, of course. A shifting of perception showed that the Archangel of the Sword was rapt at the battle. Big deal: it's a stupid policy, anyway.

Time to end this. Michael shifted into full combat mode. A swift beating down of Arthur's upraised sword, followed by a twitch of the shield, and suddenly Arthur's side was exposed. The flat of Michael's sword descended in a blow to the waist that sent the ethereal sprawling. As he began to rise, the point of his opponent's sword lightly tapped Arthur's helm.

"Yield, Arthur. Yield with honor."

"Well struck, good Saint. Well struck. I yield me. My life and my possessions are in your hands."

"Then I give back the life of an honorable fighter of God. As for the possessions, well…" Michael picked up Excalibur. "I am not the leader of the Host. It is not my decision whether or not to deprive it of such a potent weapon." Arthur nodded as Michael presented the sword to a surprised Laurence. "Here, Commander of the Host. This is legitimate prize of battle, to be disposed of at your command." A mild hum - much softer than usual - sounded as the Archangel of the Sword took Excalibur in hand.

Michael could tell that Laurence was tempted beyond belief: however, the Archangel's honor wouldn't permit him to violate the conventions. The conventions said nothing about holding on to it for a moment, however, so he took the opportunity to get a good feel for how it fit into his hand. At last, of course, he extended the blade back to Arthur.

"Take back thy sword. You have suffered defeat, but not dishonor." Arthur rose to one knee.

"I gladly take thy sword, Archangel, and freely pledge it, and that of my vassals, to the service that it represents.

"My liege."

It was all Michael could do to keep from laughing aloud. Laurence's face had frozen as he mentally reviewed the symbolism of presenting a sword to a defeated foe. Searching for an out, he managed to reply,

"Ah… but this is not my Sword, King Arthur. I merely confirm the decision of Michael…"

"Your vassal." Michael murmured quietly. Laurence shot him a grateful look.

"Yes, my vassal, who has determined to return a noble weapon to its owner. It is ultimately his hands that present it to you, not mine." Michael cleared his throat.

"Not to dispute your wisdom, my liege," - Laurence's look was not grateful this time - "but I'm afraid that that is not precisely True. When you took Excalibur, did you not imbue it with a bit of your Word? I did sense that something of the sort happened." At Laurence's eloquent silence, Michael continued.

"Thus, in a very real sense, the Sword stopped being Arthur's and became yours at that moment. And, seeing as you returned it to him, and seeing as I am your vassal (dare I say, your Champion?), and seeing as your actions show striking similarities to your usual induction of new Servitors to your service…

"Well, I don't think that Sir Arthur can be much blamed for assuming that you were offering to let him swear fealty. And who would not serve such a noble knight and War leader, if given the opportunity to accept that boon?" A little butter never hurts. A shame it's wasted.

"Of course, if you personally wish to refuse it…" he enters my service in a heartbeat. This is one prize I take with both hands. Think about it, Laurence: do you want him working for you, or for me? Because he's working for one of us, whether you like it or not.

What Laurence might have said next would never be known, for at that moment a Wheel of the Wind chose to suddenly blast into the scene and skid down half the length of the field. When the smoke cleared, the Wheel had taken on a mortal form - in a page's outfit, no less. Her breath was ragged as she spoke.

"Bro… Commander Laurence, Lord Michael, you're needed at the Council! Lord Janus says it's urgent!"

Lily's being formal. This could be bad. Michael opened his mouth, remembered that he was supposed to be a loyal vassal, and let Laurence speak first.

"What is it, Lady Lily? Has there been an attack, or a disaster?" The Ofanite shook her head.

"No, Commander. It's the Ladder. Someone's descended from it!" Both Archangels blinked at the news. "What's more, I don't know who it is, but… They have the GRAIL!"

"Ah." The sound interrupted the three celestials. Arthur had not moved from his position of submission - and strength - but his eyes were bright.

"That would be Galahad."