#and MnMovDoom for giving me insight in knighthood

[coffee-in-veins]

Day 19: Decoration

an entry for darkest prompts promptober 2022  

previous days: 1, 2, 3,  4, 5, 6,  7,  8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18

now available on ao3 too

Decoration NOUN - a thing that serves as an ornament; a medal or an award conferred as an honour.

In the life of any man who became a knight were major things that decided his knighthood, to a degree. Some more than others, but those were all an important part of the knight's identity, of his dignity.

And Reynauld thought himself a knight.

He had a horse – the best stallion he had ever seen, a beast of anger and well-deserved pride, fiery-tempered and quick-witted. With his pelt of blackened silver and a mane so lush many ladies should’ve been envious, Chernush was the black pearl of any stable he stayed in. Rey dotted over the beast. The knight was ashamed to admit it, but the tenderness the stallion received probably outweighed the care he had shown his son in the brief time he had seen him.

Then again, the steed he actually wanted…

Still, the horse truly deserved all the extra care and love he could spare. Not only because he had won the gorgeous steed at the annual jousting tournament from an old scumbag Lord Gregory of Kerakstead who was belittling him for years for being removed from the family bloodline, and thus could rub his victory in by demanding the destrier as his prize – although, the crusader had to admit, that also was part of Chernush’s charm and significance. No, there was more to the stallion. His courage in battle, his gait, his speed and his stamina. Not to mention that Reynauld could spend hours, combing and braiding his mane and tail in the most fashionable way, showing off Chernush’s beauty.

The steed was a continuation of his knighthood, after all, knight’s ultimate symbol.

Then there was his armour. Trusty and well cared for, it had always been polished and its straps were constantly checked for any signs of leather cracks. There was some humiliation in having to take care of his own set of armour, without any help from a squire, but Reynauld learned to see it as a lesson in humility and an exercise in diligence, both of which were favoured by the Light. Not to mention that there was something remarkably soothing in the repeated motions of polishing the metal. The hard work at the moment meant his life would be saved later, so he could continue carrying out his duties.

Rey wouldn’t admit it out loud, but the most likely cared for the armoured plates far better than he cared for his own ageing and battered body. Both could withstand much punishment, but the people around him saw the armour, not the scars underneath. Thus, taking care of it took priority for someone of his social standing.

Then again, the flesh was weak, unlike the sacred steel.

The crusader cared for his sword even more than he did for his armour. After all, The Long Crusade and a family crest were all that reminded him of the life he so foolishly lost, and of the bloodline that disowned him. If he was to forget his biggest mistake, how could he avoid similar ones in the future? The knight ought to always strive to be better, to improve. The strife of perfection and Light’s approval was just as much part of his knighthood as the steed, the armour, the sword and the crest.

So where did it leave him now?

His beloved steed fell on the road, diminished to the pile of hurting, trashing flesh by a bunch of blackguards. The prized destrier was reduced to a broken crying heap in front of Reynauld’s very eyes. When the frenzy of righteous anger faded, he was left with the gruesome task of giving final mercy to his mutilated companion.

His armour, so cared for and invaluable, was torn and dented in the last expedition to the cursed Estate. Although it saved his life against the crushing grip of carrion devourers, it paid a hefty price for that. The cuirass was torn beyond repair and half of the tassets were lost in the battle. This caused the crusader to be stranded worse than fish out of water, shell-less, useless, and lacking his usual calming point.

Not to mention that he lost his family crest! He took the trinket with him, hoping to find solace in the memories, but instead found only depths of despair when he regained consciousness and realized it wasn’t there.

Could anyone blame him for doting over the Long Crusade, now? The sword was the last remaining strand of his sanity, the only blessed thing that still, somehow, allowed Reynauld not to lose his knightly identity. His Knighthood. Himself.

Everyone understood and gave him time and space to grieve. Maybe they couldn’t understand what he was grieving over, chalking it to frugality and having to spend a small fortune on the new armour, but they gave him peace nonetheless.

“Yer obsessing o’er that sword worse than a newlywed over his wife’s tits, tin man.”

Of course, then there was Dismas.

He couldn’t understand, Rey reminded himself, resorting to the politest grumble he was capable of:

“Not now, Dis.”

Usually, that was enough. Apparently, not today, as the rogue soundlessly stepped to him and plopped on the cot nearby, poking the jars of oils, rugs and the assortment of whetstones with curiosity.

“Ain’t it better done, y’know, somewhere which is not a bed?”

Rey pinched the bridge of his nose and forced out curt:

“Dis.”

“Ye start t’ worry me, tin man, bringing an iron poker instead of a woman t’ yer cot…”

“Dismas.”

The rogue’s eyes were too dark and too understanding for just some ex-brigand.

“Ah, not in the mood, are ye? What ‘bout that Light-y thing later, with candles n’ lanterns n’ those fancy pictures?”

“Icons,” the crusader corrected without thinking. “The All Saints’ procession.”

“Yeah, that.”

The knight – was he even one, after all he had lost? – had the decency to look away, grip on the sword tightening.

“I’m not going.”

“Oh? Why’s that? I saw ye washed yer black surcoat.”

Forcing the words out, true as they were, was far harder than the crusader thought.

“I’m not worthy.”

“Aw, shite. That’s a shame, y’know?” Dismas drawled, leaning back. “This ornament would’ve looked amazing on black.”

There was a rustle, and when he looked at the highwayman, his dark eyes were squinted in a way that meant an obvious grin. He was offering him something, Rey realized and looked back to see…

Party per pale Or and Sable, a lion rampant counterchanged, bordure Argent. Eared top shield, French base. On top of it, affronted Argent knight’s helm crested with horsehair plume Gules, and behind it, two swords saltire, Argent.

Reynauld looked up, all words lost in awe and affection, and the caring, insufferable bastard grinned openly, black eyes filled with mirth.

“Happy All Saints’ day, Rey.”