Siegfried is never not surprised by the asceticism of Faramund’s life, by his plain clothes, by the sparse, cramped house, by the single straw bed no better than that of a peasant, by the simple crucifix hanging above it, by the dirt floor and the rough-hewn stools without backs upon which Faramund sits with Petra beside him, wet, blood-stained rag still in his slender hand.

Everything about the chamberlain exudes unwavering youthfulness, though he himself is not much younger than Siegfried. His soft mouth forms an uncommitted frown, his pale brown hair unfurls in loose coils around his beardless chin. He peers up at Siegfried with wide, blue eyes. He is beautiful because he abstains from everything. From violence, from women, from meat, from drink, even from speech save for one day of the week, which is not this one.