To The Sound of Clashing Swords (Story/Traveler)

[Story]

Ileana knew that he was younger than she; herself was inching closer to thirty years than twenty and while she still had her youth and beauty, he was still developing into his. That still did not take away from the fact that he was a man, even if he was a young man. The muscles that her fingers danced over as she settled into him for the evening was testament to that and her little hum of pleasure when he nuzzled her hair was a testament to her own enjoyment.

“You will stay with me while you are here?” There was no needling pressure in her voice, only bold curiosity at her invitation that he would return to her bed while they were both present on the grounds. After that, she expected nothing.

Though his further questioning of their mutual friend had her turning her face up to search his eyes, confusion lancing through her sultry good looks until understanding took root in her eyes. “Oh…. yes. Fritz, that is right. I must be mistaken, I am sorry. Please, let us sleep, yes?”

She curled back down, her roaming hand moving to settle on his hip where her arm splayed across his abdomen, head tucked back against his shoulder. She knew already that she had said too much about their friend, that the girl wished her secret to be kept. She had just assumed that Jacoby had known already.

~~~


Understanding soon etched itself into Locke’s features as the younger man spilled his story. Silvered eyes watched the younger man’s face turn and twist as he remembered from his own perspective. Locke waited before his soft reply came, probing the prince’s own morals with his questions, “Did you make her aware of your intent prior to delivering it, then? Words require a certain amount of perception and audience. You will do well to learn that, Syrus; your intent may not always translate to those that are in the room, so you must learn your audience before you craft your words. Do you understand? That is basic diplomacy. If you wish to learn, we can arrange someone to teach you these skills, if you feel that you are ready and…” He hesitated, looking over the prince’s knightly garments with pursed lips and a sinking heart. “Perhaps you are not ready. Is it your wish to be a knight first? It is your right, this you can be assured, but with your father…”

He trailed off, emotion sliding through his eyes, clenching his jaw as he turned away, hands moving to rest at the small of his back and sights wandering the shadows between tents.

“It is also your birthright to inherit these kingdoms, but I fear that it has been my own short fallings that, in place of my son-- your father-- I did a poor job preparing you for what that means and for that I must apologize.” He sighed, a heavy thing, as if shifting a heavier burden up onto his shoulders in such a way as to hide it from everyone else. “So, allow me to ask. As the Lady Maira was inconsiderate to you by not taking your own time, feelings, perspectives, and ideas into her own considerations … did you do the same for her? Or were you only considering yourself? As they say, two wrongs do not make a right, and from what I have observed, you are both young and inexperienced with the consideration of others.

“And that can be corrected, especially with experience, age,” he promised with a raised eyebrow.

His full attention was back on the Prince now, gauging the other man’s reaction, while also at a loss to how he was expected to act. Locke could admit that he had not been close with his grandson, and now wished that he was not too late to make amends.

“Do you think that it was your responsibility to attend to the Lady Maira? From where I stand, it sounds like you had taken this responsibility into your own hands… but have you asked yourself why? Ser Williams has his personal guard who could have escorted the Lady back to her tent, you know this.

I apologize for the questions, Syrus. I am only trying to understand and to have you work out for yourself why you are feeling this way.”

Locke took in a deep breath, closed his eyes while he did so, then turned a sterner look onto his grandson. “When you do take up responsibility for others -- when you do inherit this kingdom -- you will have to consider others’ feelings above your own. That is the first thing that I would hope you understood. You will have to put aside all selfishness and think of the prosperity and wellbeing of others, even if you do not feel that it is their right, their way, or is appropriate to do so. Being able to listen is the key to being a good leader. Everything else is just childish if you are affronted by the things others present to you, and you... discipline them for it as your first action. Do you wish to be a good leader, Syrus? Because if you do, I want you to ask yourself how you would make amends to this situation, regardless of your personal feelings on the matter and what your expectations are in return…” He trailed off, stopping them entirely again.

This time his hand reached out, landing on the other man’s arm, a coldness sliding into his eyes. “And Syrus? I do not want to hear that you have laid a hand on that girl again. Do you understand? That is absolutely not your place. Promise me that you will be a better man and dispose of your anger in ways that do not harm others.”

With that, Locke released the arm and dragged in a deep breath.

 

[Traveler]

The tanned, smooth skin beneath Jacoby’s hands warmed him as Illeana settled deeper into his embrace. Despite her curvaceous, tall stature, she still managed to make him feel as if he was a shelter from the night; a respite from her everyday concerns. And when she asked if he would stay with her while he was there at the tournament, his breath hitched in pleasure. “I would like to, yes,” he replied, turning to press his lips against her forehead and humming contently. The prospect of another night or two with this Romanian beauty made him smile more contently. It was certainly nicer than the thought of returning to the dim, grunge of The Pelican’s Bounty. Fritz’s suggestion that they stay with the nomadic people was the best idea he had had.

And as he settled into the plush pillows and let his mind drift into sleep, the pirate’s son smiled at the nickname that his newfound friend’s people called him: ‘Mountain Girl’. Perhaps they, like his own seafaring people, teased those they cared for with silly names and put-downs, figuring that the best way to toughen their own was to let the most damning words come from loved ones so they would hurt less. Though… Illeana insisted she was mistaken.

But all thoughts of Fritz and his whereabouts and condition faded, and soon the man was fast asleep, dreaming of silky tongues and clashing steel, and one day being known as something aside from simply his father’s son.

~ * ~​

King Locke’s perspective, shared gently through his words, was something that the young man beside him had longed for in his maturational years. He had yearned desperately for guidance, but had only seen his father growing more childlike as he, himself, had aged, and had watched his mother hide less and less her desire for a man to replace him. Unfortunately, seeing the princess consort pine uselessly for her husband’s father had distanced Syrus from seeking grandfatherly guidance, and now, as he listened to wisdom that had never before reached his ears, he regretted not coming to the king sooner.

He heard the king take responsibility for his own role in his absence. The humble and heartfelt words from so powerful a man struck the prince who would be a knight as a sign of his true strength and greatness, and made the younger man wish to emulate that in himself. He was seeing something of his ancestor that he never, in all his twenty-six years, thought to see; a man he wanted to follow.

Syrus watched his grandfather turn away and survey the shadows, as if seeking something that only his eyes could see. And then the king asked him if he had failed to take Lady Maira’s perspective into account and was only considering himself, and the young man felt his face flush with the realization that he had done just that.

“As they say, two wrongs do not make a right, and from what I have observed, you are both young and inexperienced with the consideration of others.

“And that can be corrected, especially with experience, age,” King Locke promised with a raised eyebrow.

Prince Syrus let out a breath, realizing he had been holding it tight in his chest as the truth of his own actions and motivations were laid bare. His softly closed fist rested across his stomach as his gaze dropped, a feeling of sick shame washing over him. “You’re right,” he admitted. “She just wanted a night of fun before she was sold off to be a stranger’s wife, and all I could think of was finding my cousin.” He drew a breath as he raised his eyes, meeting the seemingly immortal gaze of the king. “I thought my needs were more worthy than hers… yet… my purpose is to serve the kingdom and her people. And I forgot that she is part of the people I should serve.”

He had no idea why he felt he had to attend to the lady aside from her request and the feeling that the General Knight had seen them together. He had felt, at the time, that he was doing it as part of his knightly duties. And though he respected her father, his emotions were conflicted and confused. Was it for Ser Ricard’s sake that he wanted to see Lady Maira to her tent? Or was he merely exerting his power over her, keeping her confined to the whims of man? Did he simply want to press her to return to her tent to absolve himself of any mischief she might find herself involved in, or was there more?

The king continued. “I apologize for the questions, Syrus. I am only trying to understand and to have you work out for yourself why you are feeling this way.”

The prince shook his head. “I don’t know, grandfather, but I will think on it. Truly.” When he once again met the king’s eyes the returning gaze was more direct; the softness had dissolved into a look of authority.

The king spoke to him as he had never been spoken to, telling him that when he inherited the kingdom, not if, he would have to put aside all selfishness. He would have to place the needs of others above his own, and to put aside his childishness. The young man felt as if he was being schooled, for the first time, about what it meant to be a leader. And then he was asked to consider how he would make amends to Lady Maira. Syrus swallowed thickly, not knowing if there was a way he could – he had taken from her a night of revelry. He doubted she would wish to see him again, let alone receive any kind of apology. She had told him never to touch her again without her permission, and he swore to himself that he would respect that request, if nothing else.

Then a strong grip took his arm, and once again the king’s eyes changed. This time, Syrus saw something there that gripped his heart more firmly than the hand, and a chill crept into the back of his skull. “And Syrus? I do not want to hear that you have laid a hand on that girl again. Do you understand? That is absolutely not your place. Promise me that you will be a better man and dispose of your anger in ways that do not harm others.”

Once his arm was released, he had the ability to find his voice once more. It felt as if life and consciousness both rushed back into his body, and he had the strength to draw breath and form thoughts. “I promise,” he finally said. After a moment as he went over their conversation and the understanding he had been given, he chanced to continue. “I do want to learn diplomacy, and to one day be the man who would lead the country well. In honesty…” he frowned slightly, wondering how much of his assumptions were merely childish musings and how much had been based in fact, “I never considered that I would be asked to step into your role. I… assumed you would still be here, be our king, long after my own grandchildren had passed away.”

“I like my role as knight, and I thank you for it. Truly. Is there a way remain, yet still learn what needs to be learned? There’s… I…” he shook his head. “I have much to think on.”

He walked alongside his grandfather for a few more moments, before remembering the request. “Grandfather, I know that after what I’ve done and the lack of forethought I had tonight, I do not deserve a request, but I would still like to ask it.” He turned partially towards the taller man as they continued.

“Lady Maira – she does not want to be dangled before the people as a prize for the tournament. And many of the contestants are already married. I realize it could seem like the General Knight is breaking a promise to those who see her as a worthy reward, but… is there any way you would see fit to release her from that fate? Women have few enough options in this world; to be a second wife or to be merely a prize won is demeaning. Could we offer something else in exchange? More lands or gold?” Despite the fear he felt in seeing another cold gaze from the king, he met his eyes once more.

In truth, he would rather face an enemy army than feel his grandfather’s disapproval again. He had already failed to find his cousin; this request, after being made aware of how base his actions that night had been, made him fear that requesting the General Knight amend his announcement would be the final straw of condemnation from the king. But the prince could not forget the hurt he had seen in her eyes, nor the fact that he had been the cause of her pain. He had to try, despite the personal cost.

 

[Story]

Illeana was relieved that he did not ask anymore questions about Fritz and relaxed back into the curl of the young man’s arms now that she was assured that nothing more would come from that conversation. It was strange for one such as her to understand the ways of these kingdoms, their lack of freedoms, their strict rules. Ultimately -- their cruelty to one another. She much preferred the passions that the fire brought, the revelry of happiness, the ease of kindness over the complexities that followed those who craved coin over love. Gain over what, to her and her kind, really mattered.

And yet her people were judged so for their ways. She herself was thought to be a whore and would not have been surprised if even the little mountain sprite of a girl had led this young man to believe that Illeana herself was one of the sweet girls, who truly did peddle their flesh - freely - for monetary gain instead of the fire spinner that she was. In ignorance, not malice. The strange little thing had been nothing but sweet while traveling with her people.

He fell asleep before she did. She heard his breathing deepen, becoming even and in time with his heart that pulsed against her ear where she settled her head. Illeana was deeply relieved that he did not snore. So it was with a smile curling her lips that she allowed herself to relax a fraction more and drift off alongside him for the evening.

~~~


Something shifted across Locke’s face as he listened to the younger man’s admissions. It was something he had not witnessed himself - the interaction between his grandson and the Knight General’s daughter, so he could only speculate based on what Syrus spoke of. “She wished to see the carnival, then? And you did not wish to? If you did not wish to escort her, why not simply have her take her personal escort? I am sure that Jonas would not be opposed to the girl seeing the sights whilst they are here; he has always been an indulgent man of the girl.”

He shook his head, letting the words die on his lips. It did not matter now what could have been done, only that the younger man was coming to his own realizations. But then he lifted his hand to stroke his chin, silver eyes glinting as he took in the young man with a sudden realization. “It also sounds to me that the girl may have taken a fancy to you,” he commented, musingly. “Though I imagine that you do not share those sentiments.”

They had wandered further away from the encampment of tents. Even though Locke’s guards could not be seen, they were still a presence at their backs. Away from the fire and the music and out towards open field where the moon shone high up in the sky and the stars twinkled across the expanse that stretched out before them. The grounds were on a high bluff and their hike had brought them on the very outskirts of where the tournament was taking place, so that they could look down at some of what was unfolding. Locke had turned his sights away from Syrus even though he still listened, something like regret honed on his face.

It was here that Locke’s shoulders slumped, but only slightly, as if he were releasing a burden with his quiet admission, “I do not wish to be a king forever, Syrus. It is a tragedy what happened to your father and I again am sorry I was not there through his decline. He was meant to succeed, and then you. I was never meant to be so long in these shoes; only a stepping stone which would lead the way for your generation and beyond. The way of man is a daunting thing. Our line was only meant to inherit one land, away from the rest of this, though my advisors had suggested before the downfall of the Kavnoak line that someone of my blood would marry into that family. You would be around the daughter’s age, now, if she were alive…”

He trailed off, his eyes unfocused on a pinpoint of nothing. After Marion Kavnoak had murdered his own father, his uncles, and anyone else that had come between himself and the throne, including his own mother and - presumably - his younger sister, though her body was never found - he had tried his hand at tyranny. The other Houses rebelled, and eventually, even the youngest Kavnoak was hung by his own people.

Locke, who sat upon the consul, had been voted to take up the mantle of King for all kingdoms. Not just Meridan.

“Good,” he finally said, blinking, as he turned to look at the younger man. “That you will curb your anger. Anger is what brought us in this position to begin with - anger, cruelty, greed. Be none of those things, Syrus; be fair. Kindness is easy if you allow it.

“And it is still your right to be a knight. I was a knight before I lead, but…” His brow arched, his mouth quirked in subtle amusement. “Why Edwain? Though I understand the wish to be thought of as someone else other than what you truly are. You wish to be treated the same as the others, and not with some reverence. But you do realise you will have to forego such things eventually, yes?”

There was actual amusement in the man’s face now, his lips pursed in thought. And, quietly, he mused to himself, “Perhaps it is my blood, then…”

His own daughter guised herself so that she would not be known. He himself had done much the same and, to some degree, still did. His hands shifted, thumbs hooking into his belt, looking far more relaxed than he had surrounded by people now that they were away from the crowds.

The next words from Syrus that dragged his attention out of his own thoughts was of a request. His head cocked sharply, attention again honing on the younger man. His answer was prompt, but also regretful. “It is the Knight General’s wish for her to marry. She is near twenty one now and her family wants her to have a husband.”

He was again starting to look bemused as he considered his grandson, “So if not a knight that has earned her hand, who would you have in mind to wed Lady Maira? I cannot go to Jonas and ask him not to act on his wishes for his own daughter, not without an alternative. So while I am prone to agree, Syrus, simply upping the existing prize is not a decision that I am comfortable making for my own friend. But I can speak with him, if you like.”

 

[Traveler]

How could Syrus explain what he wanted? He would have loved to deliver her to her personal escort but that wasn’t something that she wanted to allow. And maybe… maybe the prince had been too tied up in his personal concerns to think of Maira. When his grandfather suggested the girl took a fancy to him, the young man frowned. Then he realized his face had flushed, and he had to look away.

Despite the cool breeze he felt much too warm under his collar. Thankfully they moved away from the lights and away from the others, until the valley seemed laid out before them in the moonlight. Flaming lanterns and torches dotted the fields. The faint sounds of voices and the strains of music filtered up to them, and for a moment the world seemed at peace. Syrus stood near his grandfather and felt in that moment that all the possibilities of the world were reachable.

And then, as a meteor streaked overhead, King Locke revealed the reasons for his long reign. The younger man listened intently to a version of history that had never been explained to him in such plain terms, and slowly he began to nod, understanding blooming in his mind although he believed he still had much to learn.

Then he was asked ‘why Edwain?’, and the prince rolled his lower lip between his teeth as he considered the question. “Why the name, or why the identity?” He grinned. “I just wanted to earn it on my own, not based upon my birthright.” He paced the short distance around them as he worked out his thoughts. “If my commander knew who I was they’d give me special treatment. They wouldn’t let me take the risks the others did. I don’t want that. I wanted the others to respect me for me, you know? Because I earned it. Not because I was born to it.”

And then… thre was the matter of Maira. “I don’t understand – Ser Willams doesn’t need an heir. There’s no reason for her to marry, and I certainly wouldn’t want to be the one to decide who she marries for her.” He chuckled sardonically. “Some of us are born to it, grandfather. I know, for instance, that my choice will be made for me when the time comes; I’ve lived with that all my life. My marriage will be political. But… Lady Maira has dreams that exceed being someone’s trophy wife. And if there’s any way her father will agree…” he paused. His reasons were selfish, he knew. It would go a long way towards repairing the damage Syrus had done that night.

“I guess I feel guilty for my part in her pain.”

After a contemplative pause, in which another bright light streaked across the sky and disappeared, he turned to his king. “Thank you,” he said. “I needed someone to talk to tonight. I’m glad that I finally realized I could talk to you.” He had much to think on that night.

~ * ~​

He had never slept sounder. He felt completely at ease; joyfully spent and content. Jacoby rolled back into Illeana’s warm embrace, burrowing more deeply into her scent. Nothing could be more perfect then the night they had just enjoyed. Then the sound of the dawn chorus broke through the layer of sleep and his eyes opened wide. Their chirpings and twittering were musical. A pure cacophony of sound, welcoming the rising sun, and telling the young sailor that he needed to get moving.

Today. Today was day two – if he was late, he was out. And so was Fritz.

“Oh gods! I gotta… “ he pulled back the covers and slipped out of bed. The cold air washed over his warm skin, causing the fine hairs on his body to grow erect. He shivered slightly; whether from the cold or from excitement of the coming events remained to be seen. This second day would determine whether he moved ahead or fell back to his old life. It was his crossroads.

“I have to get going,” he said, then grinned wide as he looked at the beauty in the bed. She was every bit the siren he had remembered. “I’ll be back,” he promised as he began to pull on his clothing, eager strong hands rushing to pull the ties at his waist and tug his tunic over his head.

“Uhm… do you know where Fritz sleeps?”

~ * ~​

Ser Richard put the mug to his lips and felt the hot, bitter liquid warm his body. His night had been restless and full of confused dreams, resulting in a very irritated morning. His short, brown hair had been wet down and combed, but the morning sun was already drying it into curls around his head. He ran a hand across the scruff at his cheeks and finished the coffee before pulling on his chain mail and strapping on his sword.

He would have to see the irritable source of his evening frustration. Memories of those mischievous eyes and that dimpled grin, right before Fritz leaned up and kissed him… He shook his head and grunted. Perhaps the lad had had too much to drink and been dared. Perhaps the lad had been hit about the head and was simply out of his mind! The frustration boiled in the knight’s chest and he let out a snarl, before parting the canvas of his tent to walk to the tournament fields.

As he walked, he saw Ser Edwain ahead. As usual, the Golden Knight was perfectly coifed; his armor gleamed in the morning light, and he looked fresh-faced and clean shaven. In that brief initial moment Ser Ricard hated his friend. Unfortunately, it was difficult to ignore the wide, bright smile from the blond.

“You enjoyed your night with Lady Maira then?” The jealously in his voice dripped with sarcasm as they flanked each other and continued towards the fields.

For a few strides Edwain did not respond, then he inclined his head. “In truth, it would have been better had you escorted her,” he finally answered. “But I saw her to her tent, if that is what you mean.”

“And then?” Ricard’s eyes narrowed. He nodded to some other knights as they strolled past, and noticed the crowds already gathering and taking the seats that would be best shaded throughout the day.

“And then I went to my tent. And slept alone.” He smacked the other knight on the shoulder and peeled off to his end of the pavilion. He shot a glance back at his dark-haired friend and smiled. “Don’t worry Ricard; I have no designs on the lady.”

 

[Story]

Locke often wished he looked his years instead of the slow aging that showed what he truly was. He expected the same from his blood; it was already evident in his son that, while withered and wan as he had become with his sickness, he still looked the part of a much younger man. He expected that, at least in part, Syrus would be the same, though the young man had more human blood in him. He already knew that at least innately, Syrus used glamor; it was the only way he was able to pose as two men without eyebrows being raised, but Locke also wondered if he possessed any other gifts befitting of his second nature.

He would not delve into that now with him, however.

“You will not be able to keep up the facade for much longer, Syrus. You do realize that?” His brow quirked at the grin that the Prince wore on his face. While he understood, he knew that if he would be taking up the crown, he would not be able to traipse around under the guise of two for very much longer. Locke could give him ten more years of this, but then they would need to have a more candid discussion about succession.

If only because he himself was tired. But then he also had to consider the greater boon, though tonight may not be the best night to discuss politics with his grandson.

“Ser Williams has allowed Maira the option to choose her own husband. She has refused and this is how he sees fit to have her wed. She is also his only heir to his own lands; you may forget, but while the Knight General is a knight, he is also of noble blood, as is Maira,” he commented. Only he was smiling now, interested in how Syrus would react. “Would you change our customs then, if you were able? Would you allow everyone the ability to choose, regardless of birthright?” There was something in the question that was not rhetorical. Locke’s gaze became intent as he studied the other man’s face. “And how would you go about leading the hand of the men who follow you? Would you create a new system, or continue with a dynasty?” Then, finally, with his attention turning away from the prince and back out to the gathering that was starting to die down.

“If it was not decided for you, what would you do? If you had a choice to be who you wanted -- what do you want?”

Locke smiled, amused perhaps at some inward thought. Then inclining his head, he reached out and patted the younger man on the shoulder, the smile turning wistful as he nodded.

“I would like you to think of these things. Your input is important. Times are changing, do you not agree? I will talk to Ser Williams,” he promised, then stepped away. “Get some sleep. You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”

And so did he. With one last incline of his head, he started back down the hill they had climbed, headed back to catch a few hours of sleep himself after the long day. As it would be an even longer tomorrow.

~~~

Illeana mumbled sleepily when the bedding shifted and the warmth of her new bed friend slid out of the bed. It caused her to burrow deeper into the blankets, not yet ready to face the new day with dawn just now breaking the surface of the world. She did not even bother to open her eyes even as his awakening roused her from the depths of her dreams.

Instead, she made a perturbed noise that he was disturbing her slumber and rolled, giving him a view of her back and tumble of hair, mussed with sleep.

Only he was persistent in his excitement. One dark eye finally opened, though she did not look at him. Instead, she replied in a lazy voice deep with sleep still. “Outskirts, to the west, nearest to where you hold your tournament.”

With that, the woman pulled the blankets tighter around her to keep out the chill of the morning and closed her eyes again to catch a couple more hours of sleep before she, too, would rise.

~~~

Sienna was up and anxious before the dawn struck. Nerves and a touch of regret at approaching Ser Ricard the night before. She didn’t want to see the look on his face on the field; rather, she didn’t want to see the disgust and anger on his face after presuming a lad had upped and kissed him in the middle of his tryst with another woman.

What she really needed to do was squash the crush she had on the knight. It was not her place to develop feelings of any sort, not when her purpose was to make a point by being in the tournament in the first place. She would be leaving soon after, finding it easier to live among the mountain folk and their ways. To have her own choices instead of being muddled by the restraints of political endeavors.

But it was the knight she was still thinking about, and so she did not hear the approach of feet outside her tent as she flicked the long plaited braid away and stripped her tunic off to begin the process of binding up her breasts so that her chest would appear more flat than it was and give the illusion that she had no curves, slender or otherwise, underneath her garments. Even if she grimaced in distaste at how uncomfortable it was to go through the motions of wrapping her torso tight. Thankfully, her back was to the tent flap, so she could not see either.

 

[Traveler]

Ser Ricard shot Edwain a crooked smile. “That does not mean she doesn’t have designs on you, my friend. I can tell when a woman has no interest in me, and after last night I can tell you – Lady Maira has a think for that bonny blond hair of yours.”

The other knight just smirked at him and continued to walk away. He leaned against a post in the shade and crossed his arms as he waited for his team. As he did, last night’s conversation came back to him. He hadn’t really paid attention to Lady Maira before, so the news that her father gave her the opportunity to pick her own husband, and that she had refused, was news to him. The knight could have kicked himself for forgetting Ser William’s noble blood, and the fact that Maira was his only child. She did need an heir; a rare burden for a woman.

When King Locke had asked if Syrus would have changed the customs, he had taken a few minutes before responding. “The marriages are arranged to protect people’s power. To protect their wealth, and to ensure their families continue to enjoy what their predecessors had worked so hard to gain. So marriage for advantage is something that we’ll probably always have, whether we want to or not. But…” he said, “it would be nice if they could choose someone who was both an advantage politically, and they liked each other.”

He had shrugged at the second part of the question, never having thought much about the fate that made him part of the royal family instead of a farmer. “You’ve done well with your dynasty. I suppose, unless I found a better way, I wouldn’t change it.” Then he had smiled. “As long as I surround yourself with wise people who care about the realm, I’d have good counsel, right? No one who thinks they can lead alone should be leading.”

The night seemed like the culmination of years of emptiness finally being filled. When his grandfather had asked him what he would do if his own marriage was his to choose, he nearly laughed at the absurdity. “I…” he chuckled. “I haven’t thought of it. It was never an option, and it will never be.” He smiled, though this time there was less mirth in his eyes. “It’s part of being who I am, and I’ve accepted it.”

But what if he had a choice? What if he really was the son of some distant nobleman from the north, the third born son who could be spared to join the Kingdom’s knights? He glanced across the field to where Ser Ricard was already walking the wall before the seats, chatting with pretty young women, both noble born and common, and putting all thoughts of Lady Maira behind him.

If only Edwain could do the same.

~ * ~​

They had just over an hour to make it to the field, and as he memorized the location that Illeana mentioned, he strapped his swordbelt around his waist. Enviously, he watched the dark-haired beauty curling back into the blankets, before he parted the tent entry and stepped out into the morning light.

Venders were slowly getting the curtains unfurled around their tables. The warm scent of woodsmoke wafted by, along with the remaining smell of spilled wine and other less savory liquids. He wound his way westward until he saw the last row of tents, and when he saw a smaller one with a stout stick leaning outside, he knew he’d found the one who belonged to Fritz.

He saw the outline of the small lad as he peered towards the sun; the morning rays perfectly silhouetted him. Grinning, he flipped the opening flap aside and went in. “You wouldn’t believe the amazing night I had!” Jacoby boasted. “I have to thank you, Fritz, for –“

And then he saw it. His throat clenched around the last of his sentence as the young seaman felt his face chill in shock. He’d already seen the Fritz’s hair the night before. Now it laid plaited against his back. But what he had not noticed yesterday was that Fritz had a very slim waist that tapered into womanly hips. Fritz’s shoulders and back, though strong, had a feminine line to them, and for a moment Jacoby thought he had walked into one of Fritz’s sisters’ tents, but… those eyes were unmistakable.

Jacoby stood mutely and swallowed, shaking his head slowly. “Oh… Fritz…”

 

[Story]

The morning was still early and those who were competing in the tournament were still filtering out from where they had been camping, or put up for the evening. The early birds were going through morning motions: young and old knights and knights to be stretching or sparring in the chill morning breeze. The pair of older knights, Ser Jonas and Ser Alun, were walking side by side, and only offered Ricard and Edwain a passing nod of greeting as they strolled ahead, lost in conversation.

“I heard your boy will be joining us, Alun,” Jonas commented, clapping his comrade on the back with a sharp slap. “Brendan, was it? You’ve had him and his command overseas on a mission, yes? Will he be participating in the final foray with the others?”

Alun hobbled along, his larger gait nevertheless not having any difficulty keeping up with Jonas’ longer stride. As they continued their stroll with Alun only smiling at his assent, Jonas carried on, “And it would seem that the King is in agreeance with a new proposal that we discussed late last night. My Maira will be wed to the Crown Prince. Is that not enthralling? We will be meeting with them both to share the news at the King’s pavilion before the tournament begins.”

Even though Jonas did feel a nag of guilt at having proposed that the winner of the tournament would have her hand. Locke had notified him of his son’s concerns and even proposed that the girl should have her pick of whom she would wed. That was when the Knight General had proposed that perhaps his daughter and Prince Syrus might make a good match.

He had taken Locke’s consideration as a form of agreement and planned on announcing the new arrangement later that day.

~~~

While the two men walked away, a runner stopped before Ser Edwain. The lad was somewhat out of breath as he handed over the briefly scrawled message on parchment, stamped with Locke’s crest. The boy smiled a lopsided grin up at the knight as he spoke the words he had memorized even if he did not know how to read them written on paper.

“King Tyrven would like to speak with you, Ser,” he said, pushing the parchment up at the blond man and stepping away with a bow. “As soon as you are able, at His royal pavilion.”

And he was off before any questions could be asked, disappearing into the growing crowd around them.

~~~




Seanna froze where she stood at the sound of Jacoby’s voice trilling excitedly on the other side of the tent. Too long she froze, shock stiffening her limbs and making her drop the roll of wrap she had been using to bind her chest. Her heart dropped right down to the pit of her stomach when the rustle of the tent flap opened and closed and she could feel the presence of the pirate’s son at her back.

That was what it took for her to break into motion, scrambling with the desperation of one who had just been caught doing something perverse. The tunic that she had laid out on the bedroll was picked up and dragged over her had, but the cloth wrappings spilled out from the bottom of the garment as she swirled to face the ginger, eyes as wide as saucers.

Her lips moved silently before a tiny squeak escaped.

A pair of breasts, though not large, could be seen outlined by the soft fabric of her garment despite the fact that she threw her arms across her upper torso in a casual attempt to cross them and hide the pair of offenders as her fear eclipsed the rest of her expression and she could only stare in horrified silence.

Finally, she cleared her throat, through her voice was trembling, “Oh, good morning, Jacoby. I am glad you had an amazing night. If you could give me a moment, I will meet you outside and we can walk to the field together…” Forced and wooden, her voice was strained and did not sound near as casual as she needed it to be.

 

[Traveler]

Gradually the knights began to take their places, and a few of the candidates were lining up. Ser Edwain noted the dark-skinned young man who was so good with the bow the day before. The Golden Knight pulled his name from his memory; Hans Johann. They nodded their greeting as other early risers began to file into the line.

There was no sign yet of the pirate’s son. Edwain counted those in his line, then swept the field with his gaze. ‘Where is he?’ Perhaps yesterday’s events had been enough to set the lad from his desire to be a knight. Or… perhaps he was laying in a ditch somewhere, drunk. Or worse.

Worry began to nag at the back of Edwain’s skull. He glanced over to Ser Ricard’s line and saw that the scrawny little contestant hadn’t arrived either, and his worry began to grow.

Just as he was about to go and speak with Ser Reuban at the gate, a runner approached the Golden Knight. The lad’s sudden appearance made him fear the worst. Though, if he were to think it through, there was no reason that the city guards would know to equate two victims in the alleys of the tent city with himself. Edwain took the parchment with and glanced at it as the lad recited the message. “Now?” he asked dumbly. But before he had an answer the runner was gone.

He looked over to the next knight beside him. Sir Vainte, the Arrow, who was still keeping his eyes on the curly-haired axe man. “Viante! Will you watch my line?” At the man’s curt nod, Ser Edwain jogged away and up the stairs towards the King’s pavilion.

The king’s personal guard stood at the front of the large tent, barring entry to all who were not permitted. Their armor glowed in the morning light, and the fabric of their cloaks seemed to glow red, reflecting the early sun. Though they wore no helms, they looked nearly identical with their heavy mustaches and similar short hair cuts. It seemed that they intentionally made their appearance uniform, even to their personal grooming, to create an indistinguishable feel to their ranks. This gave them a sense of anonymity that helped them to remember that their purpose was the same: to protect the king and his family. There was no place for personal glory in their duty. There was only their commitment to their vow.

The Golden Knight nodded his greeting to the guard and waited to be acknowledged before stating his reason for being there. “Ser Edwain Slayte, summoned by the king,” he informed them. The one who looked the oldest of the two nodded and stepped aside for him to proceed. The other held open the fabric door.

He had never set foot in the king’s personal pavilion before, and as he had a moment to catch his breath, he allowed himself a brief glance about the large make-shift room. As was appropriate, the knight stopped before the king and bowed his respect. “Good morning,” he said. He was still concerned about the missing contestants, and worried that he would set a bad example if he was late. But the king came first, and Edwain did not want to ruin the connection he had felt begin to grow between his grandfather and himself.

~ * ~​

Jacoby’s eyes followed the rolled wrap as it fell to the carpeted floor and rolled away from the other lad’s feet. The motion gave him a sweeping view of the outlined form before him, and though the young one pulled a tunic quickly overhead before turning around, there was very little to hide the feminine form beneath the thin fabric.

His mind raced with the implications of what he had seen. Slowly Illeana’s slip up the night before began to make sense. ‘Mountain Girl,’ she had called Fritz. Girl, not boy. The only mistake his lover had made had been in revealing the candidate’s secret.

The sailor’s eyes couldn’t stop its tracing of the curves he saw in the low light. There was no denying this; Fritz… was a girl.

“Oh, good morning, Jacoby. I am glad you had an amazing night. If you could give me a moment, I will meet you outside and we can walk to the field together…” Her voice trembled and sounded forced. Jacoby took a step back, then paused. Lies would be the death of them.

“We don’t have time,” he said. “I’m your friend now – let me help you get ready. Your secret is my secret.” He let the flap close behind him. “Hand me the wrap and I’ll help you get ready, and then we have to run.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m not asking.”

 

[Story]

Locke was alone in the pavilion when Edwain - or, really, Prince Syrus - arrived. He had cleared out what company had been there prior. Judging by the stools that had been pulled up to current a wooden table set in the center of the pavilion, it had been a company of people. The guards he allowed to stay posted outside of the tent; they were upheld to the highest discretion.

The King sat on one side of the table with one leg folded atop the other, his fingers steepled. Today he wore dark breeches and a matching doublet with a silver trim and fine black boots with a cape worn close around his shoulders to keep out the chill of the morning. Still nothing garish in his attire, though the garments were made of the finest material. Only the circlet of his stature remained on his brow, matching the silver shot stare of his eyes as he watched his grandson approach.

Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes at the formality that Syrus used in his presence. Both feet dropped to the ground in front of him and he waved the guard back outside in the same motion that he implored the younger man forward. “Please, sit, Syrus,” he did not bother with the facade as his grandson did. Not now, anyhow, though the smile that quirked his lips suggested he still found it to be amusing.

“I called you in here today to let you know that I have spoken to Ser Jonas on the matters that you brought to my attention last night. Jonas has decided that his daughter ought to choose who she would marry, though given her temperament - and he did refer to her as too headstrong for her own good - her selection was limited,” he started, pausing to consider the Prince. Almost nervously, he leaned forward and drummed his fingers across the surface of the table, eyes looking elsewhere. That amused smile lingered on his face.

“Her choices, as given to her by her father, were to marry an eligible knight from this tournament or marry my grandson, Prince Syrus Tyrven. After some persuasions, she opted for Prince Syrus, albeit reluctantly -- if I might add.” He grinned. Likely the first time since Syrus had interacted with him in all these years. Silvered eyes returned to the younger man’s face, both brows raising as he waited for his reaction. “How does that sit with you, Syrus?”

But the man knew already. It was written in his face without having to be spoken. There was amusement, but also concern. And there was skepticism on his face as well as something that searched the face of his grandson - perhaps worry. Finally, he spoke again, “I did not wish to blindside you with the news, as Ser Jonas is excited about sharing it today. After that, there will be no changing minds; we cannot keep flopping about with decisions with such a large crowd, you understand?”

He cleared his throat, pulled his hand back from the table and quirked his brow. “Do you have any questions, grandson? Would you like to speak with your bride to be about who you truly are, or are you wanting to surprise her?” His lips drew into a thin like, as if the King did not think it was such a wise decision to keep his identity a secret from the girl. But he also would not say anything against the decision that the Golden Knight made.


~~~


Sienna could only stare her newfound friend as he stepped further into her small tent and closed himself inside with her. Swallowing around the lump in her throat, her eyes bobbed across his expression to determine if what he knew and what secret he would keep -- or if she would have to threaten him with violence to keep his mouth shut.

Or face was the same, in any case. Smooth as a baby’s bottom and too pretty to belong to a man.

Only she was not a babe, either. In fact, Sienna was older than the younger man by a few years. It dawned on her that she could rub that in his face, now, despite the fact that he still towered over her and was far bulkier than she would ever be.

“I kissed Ser Ricard last night,” was all she could say for herself as she turned her back on him again and picked up the fallen wrap. Grinning cheekily, she still did not remove her tunic again, even as she started tightening the cloth around her midsection and flattening her breasts down hard enough that her face cringed.

“Could you tighten this and tie it off?” She asked meekly, glancing over her shoulder at the ginger, as if still not expecting him to go along with this ploy. But not bringing attention to it, either. Not until he said something about it first.

 

[Traveler]

There was something about King Locke’s presence that made even the understated clothing he wore seem regal and fine. True, they were crafted expertly and fit him as if they had come into existence around his form, but something about the way Locke moved, even the way he filled the space when he was sitting completely still, echoed power into the universe. When Syrus was a young boy he had thought that his grandfather was something sent from the gods to show mankind what masculine perfection was; the perfect ruler who had to remain untouched by the filthy hands and concerns of mortal man.

As the prince grew, and then saw the downfall of his own father, he thought that Locke was cold and calculating; a being who did not have humanity in his heart. Last night the worshipful side of he young royal man resurfaced as he saw his grandfather as a thoughtful man who carried the weight of the kingdom on his broad shoulders, and just as he had when he was a lad, Syrus wanted his approval.

He yearned to see praise reflected in those steady eyes instead of disappointment. He did not realize it at the time, but he was beginning to measure his worthiness according to how he thought he was viewed by the king, instead of how he saw himself.

As the guard was waved out of the room, and Locke took on a more informal stance, Syrus’s shoulders relaxed as well. He let out a soft breath as he walked to the proffered seat. “Thank you,” he said, though he really wanted to ask why he was summoned. Perhaps his discussion the night before had sat poorly with his grandfather, or maybe the hours in between had made King Locke reconsider the lines of succession. Whatever the matter was, he would hear soon enough.

He just feared that his team would arrive to find him missing and believe it was permission for them to be tardy themselves. Optics were important for the knights of the realm; to deserve respect meant to be a man of his word, and no one respected a hypocrite.

At hearing Ser William’s assessment of his daughter as ‘too headstrong for her own good,’ he could only smile and drop his head, shaking it slightly in agreement. He let out a soft hum, though declined to comment further. Then, at the sound of drumming fingers, he looked up again and saw the king cast his glance away. It seemed, at that moment, that they shared a secret humor between them. Both understood Lady Maira’s father’s frustration, and neither could disagree with what he had found to be his solution.

Until, that was, the king continued. Syrus felt his face grow cold when his name was mentioned, and suddenly the humor dissipated like mist under a morning sun. His heart thudded soundly against the cage of his ribs, and his hearing felt like he was underwater. Drowning.

A blanked expression met the king’s grin. Syrus opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Open. Close. He swallowed. Then licked his lips as his gaze fell briefly to the table. Hearing his grandfather’s question, he inhaled as he did before spurring a horse into battle. How was he supposed to feel about this? He had never considered it. An outburst of ‘hell no!’ would serve no purpose, neither would protesting or asking who her second pick would be. It didn’t matter – he knew he had no free will in the matter, just the appearance of one. Even that was thin.

“If it aligns with the kingdom’s needs, then it sits well with me,” he finally responded as he returned his gaze to meet the ruler across from him. This was a negotiation, nothing more. A way to rescue a noble woman from feeling sold off like a prized cow at auction and to secure Ser Jonas Williams’ lands. As the prince, Syrus would be expected to marry and produce an heir with a noble-born woman. He wasn’t expected to like her, but he would treat her as Locke had said the night before; put her needs before his own, and respect her as one of his people.

Syrus felt the muscles between his shoulders tense. “I understand, grandfather. There is no changing minds or going back. We will be wed.” He felt the Fates laughing at him. One decision so small, led to another, and another, until he was bound by his own undoing.

And it was likely that Maira was not happy with it.

He was pulled back to the present by Locke’s question about questions, and then about his alter ego. “How long before we ha – “ he caught himself. ‘have to’ meant with resistance. Instead, he chose a better word. “Before we are to be wed?” He thought about the bad first impression he had given her the night before, and how his grandfather had restrained his disappointment at news the prince had seen fit to spank her.

If Syrus was her husband, would he then be within his rights to… he pressed his lips together and stilled the thought. This was not the time for hypotheticals. And likely, if he gave her no reason for throwing a fit, he would have no reason to treat her like an errant child. She would not need to be laid across his knee.

“I think it would be kinder to be honest with her,” he finally decided. “Do you require me to be present at the announcement, or would it be alright to speak to her afterwards?” He meant present as the prince, not as he was. Syrus didn’t want to leave his team without him, though he knew that another knight could easily step in. Still, he could feel the years he had anticipated as Ser Edwain Slayte slowly grow thin; it would not be long before his duties of the court outweighed his duties of the sword and shield.

He flexed his hands, feeling the numbness in his fingers and realizing that he had been pushing himself through the shock of Locke’s announcement. He rubbed his hands together, kneading the life back into them, as he looked across the table. “Did you know that this was going to come from our discussion last night, or is this all new to you as well?” Slowly a smile lifted his lips. “I should have seen this coming, shouldn’t have I?”

~ * ~​

He should have seen it earlier. That baby-smooth face sans the shadow of whiskers, that graceful neck, those slim hands. Jacoby could have kicked himself for believing the ‘lad’ was really a lad. And yet, the person before him was so unlike the Fritz from the day before, with his swagger and bravado.

Now she was just curves and soft wavy hair that she had somehow captured into a braid. The thought of cutting that hair was sacrosanct. He couldn’t do it.

Just as he was about to step closer and take the wrap, she dropped a pot full of fiery ash at his feet.

“I kissed Ser Ricard last night,” she said casually. Then she shot him her dimpled grin and began to wrap her chest with the cloth.

Jacoby stood mute. Wasn’t Ser Ricard the Dark Knight? The one who was known for breaking hearts and cutting off heads in battle? The one who set whole villages on fire if need be? That Ser Ricard? “You did what?” He heard his voice crack with disbelief at what he had just been told. “Are you crazy?” he asked, even as he moved behind her to tighten off the bindings. “I mean… did you kiss him as you are, or as Fritz? Because either way it’s going to be bad. But if you get caught out there doing… doing ‘this’, it’s going to be worse if he finds out that you were the one he was kissing last night.”

His assumption, of course, was that her meaning of ‘kiss’ was closer to Illeana’s meaning of ‘kiss’. And if this little faux lad was half the woman that Illeana had been… well it wasn’t going to be good.

“Damn it, what were you thinking?” His hands jerked on the bindings tightly as he used his sailor’s knowledge to securely fasten her in the cloth while allowing for escape when the day was done. Deft fingers moved without conscious thought, and when he was done the knot laid flat against her body. “For that matter, what exactly do you think you’re doing with this competition? Do you really want to be a knight?”

 

[Story]

The strange smile on Locke’s face turned into something more pensive as he soaked in Syrus’ reaction to the events that had unfolded. There was something telling from Locke’s face that suggested that the King had devised it this way, somehow. Leaning forward, he steepled his fingers together on top of the table and shook his head.

“This turn of events does not please you,” he observed after a while. “You don’t have to hide it, Syrus. I remember our conversation last night all too well. You wished that the Lady not be pawned off in the tournament, but yourself do not wish to be handed over either. I would rest easy for now, Syrus - we will not be rushing a wedding between the two of you. I would like you to use this opportunity to grow in your responsibility, so there will be a courtship. The Knight General agrees; it will give you both the opportunity to get to know one another so that you do not wed as strangers and will alleviate some of the stress that has been brought upon everyone for the duration of the tournament.”

The King leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight as he let these words sink in before he continued, “You will both have choices, Syrus, this I swear to you. It is why we are delaying an imminent wedding; there is no rush. Despite Ser Jonas wishing his daughter to be wed, you are both still young and have things that you both wish to explore…” Was that a twinkle in the man’s eye? The grin was back, calculating and a little mischievous. “So please do not look as if I’ve just signed your death sentence. You may be a knight still, if you wish. So. Speak with her after, at your own discretion. And be a good example, Syrus.”

He pushed himself fully away from the table now, moving to stand and gestured for the younger man to do the same. “You are dismissed, Ser Edwain. Return to your team of knights and finish this tournament. I must prepare for my speech and will see you on the field…” He left it at that, voice full of wist and memories, and led his grandson from his pavilion himself with a nod to the guards still standing stoic at attention just outside.

~~~

Sienna still had her swagger and bravado. Indeed, if she knew what Jacoby was thinking, she would have called him out on looking at her as nothing but a pair of tits and as female. The whole purpose of her farce was the illusion of being on equal footing as the men, and as it was turning out, they were all blind until they saw what was beneath the masculine clothes she padded herself with.

Just the same, relief washed through her now that someone knew. She was glad that it was Jacoby and not Ricard, though. Or any of the other knights -- sexist of their sport as they were. Even more when he moved up behind her and took the wrappings in hand, tying her up tight, though she hated the feeling of having to flatten herself out. Tipping her head back, she let the tail of silky dark hair tickle his hands as his hands worked.

Eyes that weren’t quite green sparkled up at him, crinkled, following the grin on her face. In a way, the look was practically flirtatious, but not. “Are you jealous?” She teased him first, then puckered her lips and made a smacking noise. “Or are you satisfied with my friend Illeana, Jacoby?”

When he cinched her up a final time, she stepped away from him and began sorting the rest of her garments on her person. Making sure the belt around her waist gave the impression of narrowed hips, that the boots on her feet made her appear just a little taller, that the breeches that she wore were just loose enough to hide a figure, but not so loose that she could not move freely. Though she did reach up and toy with the braid, uncertain. “What do you think I should do with my hair?”

She still wanted to look as a lad would and feared that the longer hair would call her out quicker than she would have liked. Not to mention by the lowering of long lashes on an abashed expression, she was avoiding his question.

That is until the grin lit up her face again, shy and yet devious. “He believes that I am his little imp of a lad, of course. Perhaps I should kiss him again, do you think? I did not give him a chance to think about it over much.” Those words at least had her cheeks blooming with color, embarrassed that she had been so bold, then so cowardly. “The competition I intend to win, though. That I am truly serious about.”

Her eyes lit up again, lips parting like she wanted to say more. To reveal that her grandfather was the king. ...But she did not want to push that out right then. Not yet. Theirs was still a fledgling friendship and she did not wish to scare him so soon. “Don’t you want to be something that you were not born to be?” She jabbed him, just a little. “Now come on -- we are going to be late.”

She was already halfway around him and starting to duck out through the tent flap.

 

[Traveler]

A courtship. A courtship he could do. He’d read all the lessons, taken classes in etiquette and diplomacy (though not enough, apparently), and understood how a proper prince should act. He only had to find a way to overwrite the mistakes he had made the night before. And… perhaps, she had some things to do as well.

Syrus sighed. He knew that he was spoiled in many ways. He had the privilege of rank, and though he seemed to strive against it with his ploy to become a knight on his own merit, he knew that even that was partly because he had the training and equipment needed to be prepared when he presented himself to the trials. That, and the ability to have false papers drawn up, allowed him to do what common born men could not; forge a path that would give him a ‘better life’.

He found himself smiling back at his grandfather as the man promised that he wasn’t giving him a death sentence. “I will do my best to be that good example,” he promised. “I’ll be a better man.”

At the king’s dismissal, Edwain left the tent, feeling like his life had just taken a major turn. Then, hearing the first trumpets of the morning call, he broke out into a run.

~ * ~​

That hair was luxurious, and Sienna had a lot of it. As it brushed his hand, Jacoby was reminded of Illeana. The soft swish across his arm made him doubly wish not to cut it. Then she teased him about her friend, and a guilty grin broke out across his face. “I’m very satisfied with her, thank you. She invited me to stay until the tournament was over,” he confided. He felt the tips of his ears burn red.

“I don’t think you should cut it,” he said, watching her toy with her braid. “But… I did promise you. I think you should hide it,” he finally confessed. He knew he was now complicit in her deceit. By hiding her, by pretending that she was still a boy, he was just as guilty. Yet… she had fought so well yesterday. She had earned her place there today. Why shouldn’t she be allowed to compete?

He adjusted his belt on his hip and was ready to go when Sienna decided to tell him more about Ricard. “I don’t know, Fritz,” he said, still using her false name. “Kissing him again could get you punched. I think one time is funny, two times is stupid.” He frowned at the shorter contestant. “Besides, why would you be interested in him? He’s a scoundrel from what I’ve heard.

“You know I have wanted to be something that I wasn’t born to be. I was born at sea, remember? I’m not noble born. But this…” he shook his head. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.” He steeled his jaws as they ducked out of her tent. “Men are supposed to protect women, not the other way around,” he whispered harshly as they wove their way towards the field. Soon they had to trot to make up for lost time, and finally they were elbowing their way through the crowds to get to the gateway.

Once inside, Jacoby wished Fritz good luck and hurried to his team’s line, where Ser Edwain had just arrived, breathless. ‘Guess I’m not the only one running late,’ thought Jacoby. He fell in behind the others and waited for Ser Alun to call them to order. The seaman glanced over at Ser Ricard’s line, where the Dark Knight was scowling in the sun. His dark eyes seemed to avoid looking at Sienna’s direction, instead focusing on their herald and the gathering crowds in the stands.

 

[Story]

As Syrus left the tent behind, Locke took some time to himself to muse over the antics of his grandson. He even let a smile curl his lips, boyish in nature, as he shook his head and tidied up his space before he headed out the same way that the younger man had left, nodding to his guards on the way out. He led more than followed the men back to the great dais where he would again sit and watch the day’s events unfold from a throne he wanted to secede to someone else after so many years of sitting upon it.

He hoped that Syrus would be ready when the time came. As young as Locke looked, he was aging still. At least in his heart.

When he stepped up and glided over to take his seat, his daughter and law smiled succinctly at him and leaned in closer as he lowered himself down to sit, her fingers trailing absently over his arm while the Knight General was already looking down at the growing crowd that gathered for the today’s tournament events. On the far end, Lady Maira was already in place, sitting stiffly as she looked on, glassy eyed and frowning. While she would no longer be a prize to a knight, she had been pawned off in a different way.

Jonas would need to make that announcement, Locke thought.

~~~

Sienna paused before she was fully out the door and glanced over her shoulder at the redhead, then snatched her cap off the low table that also held what was left of her breakfast of an apple and wedge of cheese as well as an oil lamp that had been snuffed out. Tucking the braid in a coil around her head, she shoved the hat back on her head so that only a few tendrils snuck free. Making a face at the younger man, she then dropped a wink and let the flap close behind her.

Not that Jacoby was not at her side soon after, and that lifted the grin on Sienna’s face. “You are being surprisingly calm about this ordeal,” she commented, voice still low even as they made their brisk way through the dewed grass to where they were to meet the rest of the knights and get on with this tournament. “You will not say anything? I hope you do not mind, I will continue to go as Fritz… just in case.”

Then she laughed, a noise that was both tinkling and hearty. “I was not sure the first time he was kissed if he was going to punch me or dip me down for a better kiss. I… ran away faster than he could react,” she admitted, cheeks coloring a little at the memory. It dampened her good spirit and cramped her stomach in a reminder that she would have to come face to face with the knight.

That she was a part of his team, in fact. Suddenly, she looked far more nervous than when they had first set out. “And sometimes women have to protect men,” she shot back when he started on about how women needed to be protected. “A lioness in the wild does all of the hunting and fighting for the male lion,” she educated him. “And the mountain folk train their women as well as men to fight from a young age, so I learned just as well as any of these fools how to wield a weapon or three when I was barely out of nappies. I am a bastard of a bastard, so my place is my own to make, and I choose… this. Though knowing how utterly sexist my grandfather’s lands are, perhaps it was a mistake.”

She rolled her eyes. The clan she had been, for the most part, raised in had a matriarch that led them. But Sheena also wore an entranced wolf pelt across her shoulders that could transform her into the beast that the clan stood for, passed down to her for her prowess in both her shamanic abilities and skills as a warrior. Sienna had made a promise of integrity to herself that she would not use any skill other than her fighting skill that she had learned amongst the mountain folk to win the tournament.

She was glad that she did not have to explain more of her past, though, once they hit the wall of men lining up. Sheepish, Sienna tossed a glance to Ser Ricard as she slipped into place in the back of his line. Unlike he, though, her eyes kept returning to his silhouette, to his face to see if he would look at her. Just to see if she could gauge his thoughts. Or if he had simply brushed her off and returned to the gypsy to spend his pleasure.

And for some reason, that still brought a stab of useless jealousy in her belly. Hard enough that she let her own gaze wander out to the field, raised up to the dais to see if she could catch a glimpse of the King.

 

[Traveler]

The sight of Fritz’s apple and cheese reminded Jacoby harshly that he hadn’t eaten since the prior evening, and then it was the food at the seaside dock. ‘The hunger will sharpen my wits,’ he told himself, though the shock of his companion’s news was already enough to dissuade any lingering sleepiness that might have stolen his focus for the day’s events. Briskly he followed her, grunting softly when she commented about his calmness regarding her news.

“Pirate, remember?” he asked, gesturing to himself. “Intrigue is our middle name.” He pulled out a couple of worn-down coppers and quickly bartered for a loaf of yesterday’s bread from a vendor who was just opening his cart, before hurrying to catch up with Fritz. As the smaller lad asked if he would say anything, Jacoby tore the bread in half and offered her a part of it, before biting off a huge hunk and chewing thoughtfully.

“Why would I say anything?” he asked around a mouthful of bread. And then she began describing her kiss with Ricard… Jacoby rolled his eyes. “You are absolutely insane,” he declared. And it wasn’t clear if he meant that as a good thing or not.

But her fervent defense of women being able to fight wasn’t an empty one. He had seen her fight. Heck, he’d been on the other side of her as she pretended to fight, and even then he knew that his opponent had skills. Then she referred to her grandfather’s lands, and Jacoby raised his brows. Did she mean that these were the lands her grandfather came from, or was she alluding to the king?

They had scant time to discuss more once they passed into the gates and made the final mad dash to the tournament field. “You’d best hurry,” Ser Rueban had growled as he ticked their names off the list. “Cutting it awfully short,” he snapped, watching their backs as they sprinted for the field.

Jacoby smacked Fritz’s shoulder as they parted ways, much as he would have any other peer in friendly competition. Then he regretted it, worrying that he might have hurt the hidden woman beneath the boyish costume. Soon, though, as he lined up behind the Golden Knight, he forgot about her, and his attention was drawn to the day’s events.

Ser Ricard caught the flash of Fritz’s cap as the lad fell in behind the others, and quickly averted his eyes. He turned towards the dais as the trumpets were sounded to signal the beginning of the tournament. Banners waved in the morning breeze, and a cool hint of the ocean wafted over the field.

He didn’t think the boy would show up, not after last night’s tomfoolery. But no, like an annoying gnat who wouldn’t leave you to sleep in peace, the tow-haired, mischievous nuisance had returned for another chance to be brained or have his limbs broken by the much stronger, much larger, other competitors. As Ricard’s dark eyes watched the Knight General cross towards the king and bow, before turning to address the crowd, he couldn’t stop thinking of that quick jolt of electricity he had felt when Fritz stole his kiss.

It was utterly annoying.

The Master of the Tournament joined Ser Williams, and it was he who first spoke. “Welcome to Day Two of the Tournament of Six, honoring Ser Jonah William’s sixtieth birthday!” Cheers rose from the crowd, and much stomping of feet as the audience expressed their delight. He raised his hands and waited for the ruckus to subside, before continuing. “Before we go over the events of the day, Ser Williams would like to make an announcement.”

The old knight stepped forward. He still looked regal in his armor, and had not developed the widening girth so often associated with other men of the same advanced years.

“Good morning!” He was well-liked, and the sight of him at the rail brought more cheers and clapping, though the stomping remained at a minimum.

“It has been brought to our attention that some of the contestants in the tournament are already married.” He paused, letting the audience mull over the reason for his words. “As such,” he said, grinning, “offering my beautiful daughter, Lady Maira’s, hand in marriage might cause a few wars in certain households,” this was followed by laughter from the crowds as they began to catch on, “and perhaps encourage some of our contestants to not do their best, in fear of what might wait for them when they go to sleep at night!” This brought more laughter.

“As such, and to maintain peace throughout the lands, we have amended the prize for the best contender at the final joust. The winner will receive the standard land and title as befits a knight, but will also be given his choice of the six duchies available for award, as well as a seat as a junior member in the Counsel of Advisors to the king for the first three years of his appointment.”

This was a huge award; the Counsel of Advisors were ten elected members consisting of dukes and earls who advised the king on major kingdom decisions. A junior member did not have a vote, but they could speak on matters. Being able to hear firsthand of events that affected the kingdom, and possibly add to the discussion, would be a huge boon towards building the new knight’s influence in their realm.

Once the audience’s clapping had subsided, Ser Williams continued. “I would also like to announce one more thing,” he turned to the king for confirmation that it was still acceptable to continue. At King Locke’s subtle nod, he turned back to the crowds. “Please share in my joy as I announce that my daughter, Lady Maira, and Prince Syrus are engaged to be married!” At first it seemed the audience was too stunned to react, then the clapping continued as people explored the idea of the fiery noblewoman marrying their crown prince.

In the field, Ser Ricard found his feelings about the situation in a turmoil. On one hand he had once entertained the idea of marrying, and subsequently bedding, the elusive, red fae who had been presented as a prize. Her abrupt dismissal of his attention the previous night had put him off, and he had then wanted to win her to impose himself upon her sultry, superior self.

But this was something that he could not expect. He eyed the dais suspiciously, then chanced a glance at his peer. Ser Edwain had been still the entire time and had not shown any reaction to the announcement. ‘Had he known all this time that the woman was unobtainable?’ Ser Ricard had overheard the young messenger’s recanting of the message earlier and seen Ser Edwain rush off. Perhaps he had been questioned to ensure that his rendezvous with the lady had not resulted in her being deflowered, and thus unfit to marry the future king.

As these thoughts flitted across his mind, Ricard turned to review the line of men behind him. In doing so, his dark gaze found Fritz, and the memory of the previous night’s misadventure caused him to scowl more fiercely. He studied the lad. The dimples, the gangly, small form, and the way those lips quirked into a grin at the most inappropriate of times – it was maddening. It would serve the scoundrel right to find himself sprawled out in the dust once he met an opponent who was better than he; it would be better for him to lose in the field than to die, forever unburied, in some battlefield one day.

The call to line up for the first event; hand-to-hand fighting, came from Silverbeard and drew Ser Ricard’s attention back to the field. Once again, they needed to line up by size to make the competition more fair, though by the end of the day it was likely that the smallest competitor might be paired with the most burly of the bunch.

“All right,” Ricard said as he turned back to his line. “Line up! Smallest to tallest!” He held his hand up to get his team’s attention and tried not to let the appearance of Fritz at the front of the line rattle him. As the remaining six of the eight original contestants lined up, Ricard inclined his head to look down at the diminutive lad with the floppy cap upon his unruly hair. “Your opponent must remain down for a count of six,” he said, trying to act as if the kiss were completely forgotten. “Try not to embarrass yourself and cry if you get knocked out in the first event.”

 

[Story]

Through the announcement high up on the dais, the Lady Maira Williams sat in uncomfortable silence next to her mother whilst her father announced her engagement to a man that she had never set eyes on. It had been a choice given to her that day -- wed one of the eligible knights or wed the crown prince. After arguing her points on why it should be neither, she had finally conceded to the latter, thinking that perhaps the elusive prince would leave her to her own devices more than one of the knights would. That perhaps they would remain strangers and she could live her life in relative solitude since he himself could not be bothered to be present during the announcement. When she had asked the King himself, the man had only smiled and assured her that the Prince would introduce himself at some point before the tournament was over.

It had not sat well with the flame-haired young woman whose features pinched up even more as the crowd showed their approval, even if it had changed from one day to the next. They were sheep, all, applauding just because there was a show and it was a reprieve from the rest of their lives.

It was all just a show. She did not have to be happy about it, but she was at least deflated enough that she was no longer arguing with her father when he returned to sit next to her, beaming as his larger hand clasped hers. Maira did not even try to force a smile on her face, only stared at her father’s delighted face with a look that showed she was resigned to this decision, but not so pleased by it.

Eventually, her eyes turned down to the field below as the day’s events began, though her mind was swimming too much of what was to be, making it hard for her to focus on the men fighting below.

Once the announcement was finished, the girl in the disguise of a boy named Fritz stepped up with some hesitation when Ricard called for them to line up. Her stomach twisted into a knot in her stomach as she stood closest to the man and a sudden blush heated her cheeks. While she had been nearly cheeky on her way here, now that she was so close to the man, she tried her best to avert her gaze from him, though her attention kept slipping up to watch his face from underneath her lashes.

It seemed that the knight had the same idea, for even though he would occasionally slip an awkward glance in her direction, he was just as put off - or more like disgusted - as she was. Only when he spoke about what they were to do did he look at her, and that look alone caught her breath in her lungs and froze her where she stood. Eyes that were neither green or brown, but a metallic mixture of both, grew wide as she was caught in his stare.

She wanted to crawl underneath a rock and die. Or, she wanted to lean up and move closer and plant another kiss on his grim mouth. Instead, with her cheeks and ears burning with embarrassment when her attention dropped to the orifice on her mind, she bobbed her head spastically and shifted her attention out to the field.

Once the announcer called for the first contestants to approach one another, Sienna was all too eager to move away from the dark haired knight and his scrutiny, though her steps were wooden as she approached the center of the field, and her mind swam rather than allow her eyes to see the scrawny lad that she had been paired with.

The announcer called for them to begin and it was only the battle shout that came from the dark haired teen that shook Sienna out of her reverie and had her dig her heels into the soft dirt, her stance widening as the young man charged her like he was to tackle her. Grunting, she sidestepped out of the way so that he had to stumble and lurch back around to face her, which was all the momentum she needed to push her shoulder down and catch him in a vaulted throw over her shoulder.

Her own strength had not been needed for the effect; it was his own momentum that threw him, though she had to roll forward and back onto her feet or else risk hurting her own self while still maintaining a grip on the young man’s arm, now twisted about awkwardly.

“Yield,” she demanded, her foot raising to press into the tender area between his shoulder and arm, pushing hard enough that the boy cried out and tried to squirm away, which resulted in her twisting his arm even further into an awkward position. “Yield,” she insisted, brow raising, while he stilled and panted on the ground.

“I yield,” he finally gasped out, and she released him and stepped away, bowing, before turning back to join the line with a stiff expression on her face and a pointed look up to Ser Ricard.

“They should pair me with someone a little more challenging,” she insisted suddenly, boldly, eyeing the dark knight with a little more confidence than before.

 

[Traveler]

Ser Edwain tried not to show any reactions to the announcement, but he felt eyes upon him and turned to find Ser Ricard looking in his direction. ‘Does he know?’ the hidden royal thought. He nodded once at his companion as if only acknowledging the news, but inside he began to doubt the thoroughness of his disguise. Perhaps it was time to let his best friend in on his little secret…

He looked up to the dais once more, his eyes brushing over the faces of his mother and grandfather, then over to the scarlet-haired lady with whom he had just been aligned. Her face was screwed into what could be called a scowl, and Edwain was grateful that it was probably because of the engagement and not her memories of the previous night. He still did not know how he would approach her… sighing, he decided that such matters could wait until they needed to be addressed.

The Golden Knight turned around and looked over his line of men as the first event was called. The smallest man came to the front. He was a bony lad, tow-haired and freckle-faced, and likely to be injured or disqualified in the day’s events. Edwain looked over at the other seven lines of men, seeing that most had similarly scrawny young men at their fore, including the one who had caught his eye from the stands yesterday. The one who had been sparring with Jacoby the day before.

He pursed his lips, considering the look of pure horror on the dark-haired lad standing next to Ser Ricard, and then turned his attention to his own contestant. The freckle-faced boy was frowning, and as he was called forward, he spat on the ground, barely missing Ser Edwain’s boot.

‘Bastard,’ thought the knight, and as he watched the spitter line up with the dimpled lad from Ricard’s line, Edwain found himself rooting for the dark-haired youth instead of the man from his own line.

Ser Ricard watched Fritz’s rigid steps as the lad walked into the field and wondered if he should have stayed silent. The diminutive lad had shown impressive skill the previous day, despite his small stature. And despite that unexpected misstep last night, Ricard liked the confident little shit.

He needn’t have worried. Withing a few seconds of the call to engage, Fritz had successfully overcome his opponent. Ricard grinned over his crossed arms, feeling a sense of euphoria over seeing the efficiency of the dimpled lad’s movements. Fritz was quick. Ruthless. And cocky.

Ser Ricard smirked at the lad’s boastful reply as he strode by and reached out with his left hand to stop the lad, placing a hand flat across his chest. He lowered his dark gaze to meet the boy’s. “Never underestimate your opponent. Your confidence will get you killed.” With that, he smacked his chest lightly and turned his attention to the next man in line.

A few contestants later, Jacoby stepped forward. He was paired with a sturdy man whose shirt seemed ready to burst around his muscled arms. The larger man sported a scar across his cheek, hidden somewhat by a scruffy red beard that climbed up his cheeks, hovering just a finger’s breadth below his eyes. He had a rather wolfish look about him. The man grinned at Jacoby and ran a tongue across the top row of his teeth. “Shouldn’t you be at home with yer Ma?” he growled. “This is a contest for men, not boys.”

Jacoby did not respond, instead taking a moment to consider the way his opponent moved. The call to engage was made, and the burly man opposite him immediately balled his fists and took a defensive position.

“Come on!” the bearded man shouted. “Show me what you got!”

Jacoby tilted his head slightly, and then with a rushing clash the two were embroiled in a violent exchange of blows. The stronger man seemed to have the advantage; his brute strength only held back by Jacoby’s quick reaction. But as they drew apart, a quick stomp by the sailor with the edge of his foot against the side of the bearded man’s knee sent him to the ground in a scream of pain. The ~snap!~ resounded in the field despite the on-going sound of the crowd’s cheers and jeers, and Jacoby’s face paled instantly at the realization of the damage he had done.

Medics ran out from the pavilion to haul the injured fighter off the field, but Jacoby could just stand there in shock. He had fought with true enemies at sea and done far worse. But the thought of permanently injuring a fellow contestant made him feel sick. The edge of his vision swam, and the sounds around him seemed distant.

A firm hand landed on his shoulder and then the sailor was turned around by the knight who led his team. “Don’t worry,” Ser Edwain said as he looped an arm around the boy’s shoulders and guided him back to the line. “It happens,” he said, noting the shallow breaths coming from the contestant’s lips. “We all know the risks,” he continued, “it was a fair fight.” He walked with the lad to the back of the line and bade him to sit on the ground with his head between his knees until he felt more stable, then trotted back to the front of the line to encourage the next contestant.

Once the contestants had two turns, they broke for lunch in the shaded pavilion at the back of the field. After their meal the names of those continuing would be called, with the rest thanked for their participation and dismissed. A long table overflowing with sandwiches and fruit was laid out for the men, with sweetened lemon water and diluted ale offered from large tapped casks at the far end of the buffet. Men milled about and chatted about their fights companionably or hovered on the edges with eyes that seemed to judge every other contestant as their mortal enemy.

Ser Ricard broke off from his team to seek out Ser Edwain, and Jacoby found himself sitting on a straw bale, still reliving the sound of his first opponent’s broken knee. He had held back on his second fight and nearly lost, but at the last moment had been able to step forward and land a solid blow on his opponent’s nose, ending the fight when the tall, dark man crumpled to the ground.

He looked up and spotted Fritz. Needing to hear a friendly voice, Jacoby stood and waved the ‘lad’ over.

 

[Story]

Fritz froze as Ricard’s hand landed across her chest, just shy of the tightly wound wrappings around her torso. He hit her right above her breasts, then flattened his hand enough that her breath caught in her throat and her neck flushed hot enough that the color crawled up to her cheeks and burned there while her eyes froze on his face.

Why was it that she froze around this man, struck dumb like her tongue was made of rope and could not work properly.

It wasn’t until he gave her a playful slap across the chest that her shock melted into mischief, “Then perhaps you should not underestimate me either, Ser Ricard.” The words came out more like a purr than a jibe, and more like she was flirting with the poor man instead of friendly banter between men in a competition. With her eyes dropping down to his mouth pointedly, she turned away just as he started to turn his attention to another would be knight to be and, with her feet feeling like jelly, she walked away from him stiffly until it was her turn to fight again.

Though not before she caught sight of her friend and his sheet white complexion being led away by the blond knight that was the head of his team. She was about to approach the pirate, brow knitting with concern, when Fritz was announced again.

And she was announced various other times, as well. Unlike the first fight, the following fights did not always go as smoothly. She was small and despite her agile approach that was almost like a dance to her opponents, she was not perfect in her execution. There was one large man, burly and quick despite his size, that clocked her hard enough on the side of the head with his meaty fist that she stumbled right down to her knees with the world spinning and ringing at the same time. There was blood in her mouth and she couldn’t see straight.

He really should have won that one, but she had flopped to the side at the last minute, rolling with a sluggish groan, and kicked both her feet up into his ballsack hard enough that he came down hard onto his knees yelling and clutching his injured dignity. Still without her usual grace, Sienna dragged herself back up and wrapped her arms around his neck while he was down, pushing hard on his windpipe until his lips turned blue and he was floundering for breath.

She released him as he dropped out and then dropped herself, crawling on the ground before struggling to her feet and stumbling outside of the crowd’s muted screams and out of the spectator’s eye. No doubt her face would be black and blue after such a thing, but she didn’t care. What she cared about was that she had won.

She still looked out of sorts when they took a break for a midday meal, though she nevertheless piled a plate high with food and chugged enough water that she would be pissing like a racehorse in a few minutes. She found Jacoby soon after and grunted a weak greeting before she fell down onto the bale of hay that he had been occupying.

“You look like shit,” she commented, offering her plate up to him. “Eat. Or puke. You look like you could do both.” She had dried blood on her face from a bloodied nose and dried blood on her lip where it had split. The beginnings of a bruise on one side of her face was starting to form, but she doubted that it would black her eye. “Think we’ll get to fight after this, Jacoby?” She tried to lighten the mood by grinning lopsidedly at the young man.

 

[Traveler]

Fritz commented that Jacoby looked like shit, and all he could think was that he felt like it too. He could not get the injured man out of his thoughts, and a couple of times he had held back so much he had almost lost his bouts. It was only when Ser Edwain had told him to stop acting like he was afraid to win and go into it as if he was fighting for his life (for he was, in many ways), that the young pirate was able to focus on the matter at hand and keep his name on the lists.

He took a proffered biscuit from Fritz and bit into it. The pastry felt like dried sawdust in his mouth. “You don’t look so good yourself,” he said around a full mouthful of food. He quickly began to choke at her question about getting to fight each other after this.

“Gods! I hope not!” he sputtered. “I quite like my balls attached to my body, thank you very much!” He squeezed his knees together as if they were in immediate peril and looked at her sideways. “I saw what you did to your last contestant. Good job on the win, by the way, but egads – you have no mercy, Fritz. None.” Then he reached out with a hand and gingerly touched the large bruise on her brow. “You might want to have that treated before we go back out. It’s going to look… fancy.”

He raised a brow, feeling much better now that he had a friend at his side. “If we do fight, I’m not going to go easy on you, just because you’re my friend.” He gave her a sly wink as he said that. “But I would think that you’d spare my manhood for Illeana’s sake, if nothing else.”

At the knights’ table, Ser Ricard had found Edwain, who was filling up a wooden mug with water from the barrel. “So,” the Dark Knight began, “did you know last night that Lady Maira was no longer going to be awarded to the victor?”

“Awarded?” Blue eyes sought out the other man’s deep brown gaze. “You make it sound as if Lady Maira’s hand was a thing to be won,” he began. “A person is not a ‘thing’, Ricard.”

“So you did know.”

“As a matter of fact, I had no idea. I found out this morning, just as everyone had.” He drank half the water and considered his friend. “Were you of a mind to marry her, then?”

Ricard picked up a plate and began to add a few items to it: dried meat, cheese, a few slices of apple. “She was pretty enough. Her title would be nice, and I’ve heard she’s not a simpering, rag doll of a woman like most of those with noble blood?”

“Oh?” Edwain’s smile grew wider, and he followed the movements of his friend’s hand as more items were placed upon the platter. He picked up a whole apple and took a bite, considering why his companion might have wanted that prize. “So,” he said, still chewing, “you wanted a title? Isn’t being an Earl enough? She wouldn’t have increased that by much.”

Ricard shot him a dark scowl, though it didn’t seem to deter the Golden Knight’s perspective.

Ser Edwain continued. “Plus, now the victor will be given his choice of the duchies, and I happen to know that two of them adjoin lands you already own. Plus, you’d get a seat as a junior member in the Counsel of Advisors for three years, which would definitely give you opportunity to advance your ranking among the others.”

“That’s not the point,” Ricard retorted. “Last night I could barely get her to acknowledge me, let alone show any interest in my advances. Had she still been attainable through the tournament…” he let the thought fade as he moved away from the table and the other knights, save Edwain.

“I see. Had she been a prize in the tournament, you could have married her, and then she would be forced to acknowledge your advances.” Edwain surveyed the remaining contestants resting in the shade of the large pavilion. His eyes rested on Jacoby and the lad’s small companion, a dimpled youth who looked much to young and carefree to be doing as well as he was. The kid’s face was battered and bruised; a real mess that would surely look worse in the morning. “What of that little runt on your team?”

“What?” Ricard nearly dropped his plate. He whirled to look at who Edwain was watching, and saw Fritz sitting next to the ginger who he had arrived with. “Fritz?”

“Is that his name? He’s scrappy,” Edwain said as he took a sip of water, “and seems to be doing alright, despite my fears he would get himself snapped in two the first day.”

The other man nodded as he studied the two contestants. “Yes, he is scrappy. And a real pain in the ass,” he said, his mouth breaking out into a grin. “That little bastard surprised me last night and kissed me, if you can believe it! I think he had been dared to do that. I would have beaten his ass for such a thing if I wasn’t entwined in the arms of a most delectable Romani wench at the time.”

“No shit?” It wasn’t apparent if the comment was aimed at the realization that Fritz had kissed his knight, or that Ricard was, once again, entwined in the arms of a strange woman. “Bold little twerp…”

Ricard grunted, then pushed his plate into the other man’s chest so that Edwain had no choice but to take it. “I’m going to check on his face. It’s possible that last blow left him half-addled.”

“You worried about a contestant? That’s new.”

Ricard grinned back at the other knight. “I like the underdogs, what can I say? Besides, did you see the way he took out his last opponent?”

“It was dirty,” Edwain argued.

“It worked. That’s the kind of ingenuity I want next to me on the battlefield.”

“I thought you said it was better for that runt to die on the tournament field than in battle.”

“That runt isn’t one to get himself killed. He’s a survivor.” Ricard’s eyes narrowed. “As a matter of fact, I think he’ll make it all the way to knighthood.”

Edwain laughed at that notion. “Not a chance! He’ll be lucky if he makes it to the end of the day!”

“Are you willing to put money on that? A hundred crowns says my runt will be knighted.”

“You really are insane.” Edwain set his mug on the edge of the platter and picked up a piece of cheese. “That’s too much to put on a street urchin’s shoulders. That’s more than most of these people will see in a year.” He could see it in his friend’s eyes, though. The man was convinced there was something about that twiggy, short lad that he was willing to be a small fortune over. Either that or he was just so upset over losing his chance with Lady Maira that he needed something else to fasten onto.

“A hundred,” he offered the Golden Knight a hand to seal the wager. “Deal?”

Edwain shook his head, but he smiled as he took the other man’s hand. “I hate to take your money, my friend, but it’s a deal.” As the other man began to walk away he called out to him, “where are you going?”

“To check on my winner’s face,” Ricard called back. “Can’t have him passing out before he wins me your money!” He turned and began to walk directly towards Fritz, a predatory smile still curving his lips.

 

[Story]

All Sienna could do was grin when Jacoby mentioned how she looked, only to flinch as her skin pulled over her skin that was already turning mottled shades of dark as it bruised from the blow. The rest of her ached as well, whether she would admit it or not, and the thrashings she had received in turn for her wins out on the field had given her more of a challenge than that first day fighting with weapons. The men were larger, stronger, and though she had the advantage of agility, cunning, speed -- if her footing had been off or she made a mishap, then it would have been she on the ground pleading mercy than her competition.

“There are some tribes up in the mountains where I grew up where it is custom, if a foe is caught, to cut off a person’s scalp and watch them bleed out from the injury. I’ve heard from a survivor of such an act that it is the most unpleasant sensation, so the key is to be better,” she said blandly. “Not more honorable than your opponent. If you suddenly find yourself caught by the hair with a knife buried in your scalp, you’d go for a cheap blow to the gonads as well, I promise.”

She flinched again to exaggerate her point, but then flinched again in truth as pain lanced through her face and she took a drink of the lemon beverage, only to lean back and away from his fingers brushing the bruise with an indolent whine. “Do not touch it!”

Only to reach up and touch it herself, probing it tenderly with a scowl on her face. “At least I do not have to worry so much with a bruise on my face about someone thinking that I am too fair to be a lad,” she acknowledged solemnly. Then blushed despite herself as her gaze slanted across the way to spot Ser Ricard chatting with his blond friend. “Not that I have been having trouble thus far. It seems wearing a cap, binding my chest, and wearing a boy’s loose clothing is enough of a disguise. You were too dense to see,” she turned back to Jacoby with a grin, nose scrunching on her face to make her look even more like an imp.

She had gone back to watching the knights at their table for a time, taking special note again of Ricard, and was confident enough in her abilities to watch him without being noticed, content to just watch the man converse from afar with his fellow knight.

Then he rose with a look in her direction.

Sienna shifted her attention away from him in haste, focusing her attention back on Jacoby as she fumbled for a slice of apple. “Ricard is coming over here,” she hissed out between bites, eyes growing wide.

They remained wide as the man approached, though she managed to force a smile on her face and wondered if the predatory look on his face had anything to do with her snatching him away from the voluptuous Romani and planting one on him last night. With that thought in mind, she kept her smile as innocent as possible while also peeking up at him from beneath her lashes.

“Good day, Ser Ricard,” she said, the imp in her voice. She offered him an apple slice, the innocent smile growing wider. “What brings you over here to our humble picnic while we break from the tournament?”

 

[Traveler]

Jacoby took a bite of his meal, thinking about the way she had described the scalping of tribal enemies, and shivered. The vehemence people faced in battle was worse than any made-up story people might create. People could be demonic.

Then the smaller knight-candidate hissed out that Ser Ricard was heading their way. Jacoby glanced up and caught the look on the Dark Knight’s face. Sure enough, the man was focused on his companion, and the look in his eyes made the ex-pirate flinch.

Ser Ricard barely gave note of the ginger at Fritz’s side. “What brings me here?” He squinted as he looked over the injuries that were visible on the young lad’s face. “Firstly, you shouldn’t be eating before you see the medic,” he chastised, “secondly, you and I need to talk.”

Jacoby almost choked on his food. ‘Need to talk’ was code for ‘you’re about to be chucked over the rails,’ among a ship’s crew. He coughed briskly, thumping his chest with a closed fist and reaching for a wooden mug of water.

Ricard shot a look of irritation at Jacoby, then turned his attention back to Fritz. “Come with me,” he commanded, turning to lead them to the medic’s tent. “You’re not going to win if you get yourself killed before the final bought.”

 

[Story]

It was Jacoby’s look that nearly wiped the smug innocence from Fritz’s own face as nerves struck a chord in the made up lad’s belly and had her swallowing several more mouthfuls of the lemony water they drank. Or perhaps it was just the knight’s expression, one which she could not decipher.

They needed to talk?

About what she had done last night? Swallowing the lump in her throat, she placed down her snack with wooden efficiently and tried to keep her expression smooth so that he would not know that whatever deviances had been playing around in her mind, it was replaced with uncertainty.

Had he figured her out? Did he know that she was not a lad? Was she to be turned away from the remaining tournament?

“It is naught but a little bruise,” Fritz assured the knight, unable to keep the little trill of fear from her voice as she got to her feet and patted herself down to make sure all her parts were still tucked away inside the guise of a lad before she set off after him, limbs rubbery as they trailed after his long strides. “What did you need to speak with me about, Ser?”

 

[Traveler]

As Ser Ricard moved, his wide shoulders parted the crowd and formed an easy path for Fritz to follow. He easily dodged the errant hands, feet, and bodies of tired and jovial contestants who were enjoying their hour-long break and spent most of it boasting to each other of their exploits, and when they broke away from the shaded, crowded overhang, the sun glistened off his sun-kissed skin and made his dark, wavy hair look almost red. A shadow covered his jaw and chin where the close shave from the morning was already beginning to reclaim its place on his face.

He turned and scowled at Fritz’s protest that it was just a little bruise on their face. When they approached the medic’s tent he finally stopped when Fritz asked what it was that he wanted to speak to them about.

“You.” He said. His eyes roamed over the small fighter before him, noting the cuts and bruises that surely hurt as badly as they looked. Another contestant walked by with a folded piece of bread housing a slice of cheese and meat. Ser Ricard reached out, snatched the meal, and told the confused contested to get another, before shoving the food at Fritz. “You need to be knighted,” he said as his eyes narrowed. “But you won’t if you continue the way you are going. You’re small. Strong, but too cocky, and that’s going to get you smacked around and beaten before you can get in the winning shots.”

He raised his chin slightly as a medic began to make his way over to the pair. “I’m going to give you a few pointers to help you win this thing.”

 

[Story]

Fritz tried to swallow her nerves and loosen her gait as she sped up her own shorter strides to try and keep pace with the knight, but unlike the casual coyness she had demonstrated before Jacoby, now that she was alone with his presence looming over her - despite the crowds that surrounded them, of course - she couldn’t help but feel like a wide eyed doe too scared to bolt, so she followed him to their destination.

It irritated her to no end that she was reduced to the gawking teen she no doubt appeared to him as.

Though there was that sinking feeling in the pit of her gut that worried that she had been found out, that his darkened look was not concern for the aching bruise on her cheek, but because he knew the truth. That she had been too bold last night.

Last night. A new trill of fear ran up her spine, turning the acid in her gut to sloshing ice that scared away any worry that the man might have found out her little secret. No doubt he was going to berate her for the kiss, or worse. After all, she had ruined his night - at least temporarily - with a preferable bedtime companion.

So when they finally paused before the medic’s tent, Fritz wavered on legs that felt like they were flimsy stilts and feet that felt like hard stones stuck to the ground. Eyes gone dark with worry about her fate and insulting the man that had the power to knock her out of this tournament forced themselves to meet his stare when he said that one simple word.

You.

“Me,” Fritz echoed, her words hollow in her own ears even if they resonated with coyness at the man. Her hands rose, taking the meat and cheese of their own volition, then held onto them as the man’s next words were processed by entering one ear and filtering out the other, her mouth repeating the words back to him, “I need to be knighted.”

Ah.

It finally registered. With a shuddering breath as the words struck home, Fritz relaxed her shoulders and let the smile bloom on her face, matched by the impish light in her eye. She shifted closer to the knight finally, winked, and nudged him with her elbow.

“Oh, I see, Ser Ricard. It seems that you’ve a fondness for me after all. Fine. Tell me how I should win this thing.”

 

[Traveler]

That smart-assed smirk was back on Fritz’s face, irking Ser Richard beyond belief. He could have smacked the recruit upside the head. Had Fritz not already been banged up, the knight would have. “Wipe that incessant smile off your face,” Ser Ricard growled. “You need to focus.”

“Now first, eat that,” he motioned to the makeshift sandwich before waving a gangly medic over. “Patch him up and wrap his wrist for support,” he told the medic. “This one’s going to need more than just speed to win the tournament.” At that last bit he eyed Fritz. “You have to stop smiling, kid. They think you’re crazy, so they expect crazy. You gotta make them think that you’re less of a threat than you are, but now they all know you’re good.” He shook his head. “So the last part of this is going to be harder because everyone out there has been evaluating you. They know how much you can take before you get tired. Weak.”

He poked a hard finger twice into Fritz’s chest, right at the sternum. “Do you know what the strongest muscle is that a knight has to develop, Fritz? Do you?”

~ * ~

Jacoby looked up, surprised, as Ser Edwain’s body blocked the sun. The glare on the knight’s face made the sailor think he had done something wrong. He stood up and nearly knocked his lunch off his lap in doing so.

“You and I need to talk,” the golden knight said, leading the pirate away by his arm.

Jacoby kept a hand wrapped around his lunch as he was led away. “What did I do?” he asked. His eyes darted from side to side as he tried to figure out where he had gone wrong.

Edwain thrust Jacoby towards a straw bale, sending the young man sprawling into a seated position. “That friend of yours,” he began. “What do you know about him?”

Jacoby’s brown eyes snapped wide. “What? Which friend?”

“Don’t ‘which friend’ me! That little twerp you hang out with.” Ser Edwain paced in front of the sailor. “He fights dirty. He’s quick, and aside from that little sparing match you had the first day, you haven’t really fought him.” He stopped and faced the younger man. “Sound about right?”

“Yes Ser,” he said, feeling intense relief that the knight hadn’t asked about the knight who was not a boy. “That sounds, uh… right.”

“Good.” He put a hand on the lad’s shoulder and squeezed him. “Now I don’t care how much you think this kid’s your friend. He’s not. At least, not right now. When you go against him you don’t let up. It doesn’t matter if you can spare the points, you understand? It doesn’t matter if it means you both get in or just you gets in – you beat him, you understand?” He released the lad’s shoulder and stood straight above him. “You beat him. No matter what. Got that?”

Jacoby nodded. “Yes… yes Ser. I understand.”

 

[Story]

Despite the knight’s words, the grin remained on “Fritz’s” face now that she realized that she was not in trouble. More, the man had enough faith in her abilities to help her win this tournament. That by itself was enough to cause the smile to stretched out wider across her face, contrary to his telling her that she needed to stop.

Absently, Fritz took the sandwich, but only nibbled at it. There was too much adrenaline pumping through her veins for her to want to eat. Whatever appetite that she’d developed when they had taken a reprieve from the tournament had fled as soon as they had entered the tent. Along with excitement, however, there was the thrill of fear still at what she would do at the end of this game. What if she won? She could not keep this charade forever.

Something to think about later, not now.

Her attention wavered from Ricard as the medic hustled forward, invading her vision with his dour face as his flint set eyes met her own, then dropped down to her wrist. With only a grunt of affirmation, he began wrapping her wrist, tight, secure while Fritz tried to swivel enough to keep the knight in her line of sight.

“Muscles are not everything, Ser Ricard,” she pointed out in a low voice. “And on the battlefield, your enemy will most likely not take honour into consideration. When you are in a fight, it pays to fight dirty. No?

The grin was starting to fade now, the luster wearing off the more serious the conversation, brief as it was, carried on. The medic ignored them, moving from wrist to prodding the tender bruise on her face, his scowling face and sour breath too close for comfort. It made Fritz scowl right back, head turning to mimic the glower that the knight had on his face.

It meant she missed the finger that jabbed at her. Almost. She jerked her head forward hard enough that the medic’s fingers plowed her flesh hard enough to make her flinch and whimper, but did manage to suck in her breath as Ricard’s finger stabbed right between her bound breasts.

For several heartbeats, she was frozen in place with his hand so close to realizing her lie. Dark eyes watched him in panicked shock, mouth practically hanging open, to see if he noticed anything off. Felt the bandages. The side of her breast. Anything.

“Brain?” She managed out, then shut her gaping mouth by stuffing bread and meat into it.