#weapons for a squire

[epicallyepicepilogue]

⬆️🔊⚔️😂

Heavy weapons melee/war practice in the Outlands.

[kudzucataclysm]

individual medieval knights were kinda like mechas actually…or like an f-35. in a way

[silver---linings]

*gives galahad a gun*

(There were guns in the medieval era)

Galahad just stares at the gun in his hand. "What am I supposed to do with this thing?"

He accidentally pulls the trigger and shoots the wall. "GAH! FUCK!"

[sshbpodcast]

Character Spotlight: Nyota Uhura

By Ames

All channels open! We hope you’ve been enjoying our character-by-character spotlight series here on A Star to Steer Her By, because we’ve got a ways to go! This week, we’re shining the spotlight on the OG Enterprise’s communications officer, Lieutenant Uhura, whose mere presence on the bridge did more than people give credit for. I talked about this a bit when I covered Nichelle Nichols’s autobiography, but everything she did as a prominent Black woman character on this show was progressive, boldly representative, and kickass.

While we wish her character got more to do (that’s the understatement of the year), she also got some absolutely triumphant moments, and also a handful of moments that could have been handled better. So join us as we celebrate Nyota Uhura as you scroll on below or listen to the banter on this week’s podcast episode (coverage starts at 1:19:26). We hope you brought your dancin’ fronds.

[Images © CBS/Paramount]

Best Moments

Sorry, neither I’d say you can’t get much more badass than this, but I also know what else is on this list. When Sulu is swashbuckling around and wants to rescue the “fair maiden” in “The Naked Time,” Uhura’s response of “sorry, neither” drops so many mics it blows out the speaker. And Nichelle adding the line herself, especially this early in the series, is nothing short of awesome.

Now that’s what I call music, stardate 2126.1 This is just a fluffy moment from “The Squire of Gothos,” but when Uhura starts playing the harpsichord per Trelane’s request and she seemingly magically knows how, it’s super adorable. Watching the pleased look on her face as she rocks out on an unfamiliar instrument is a fun moment from a fun episode, even if Trelane did address her pretty tactlessly first.

I can think no one better equipped to handle it Throughout The Original Series, we see background characters sliding into other roles when needed, and we’ve seen Uhura or Rand at the front stations before for sure. But when Scotty’s away in “Who Mourns for Adonais?” and Uhura hops into a technician’s uniform to rig up a subspace bypass circuit AND get commended by Spock, it’s clear she knows her stuff!

The game has rules Uhura really gets to shine in “Mirror Mirror,” so much so it’s on this list twice. Even though she’s dropped into the deep end, Uhura adapts to the situation, blends in with the mirror crew enough to enact a plan, and uses mirror Sulu’s obvious lechery as a weapon against him in an act so convincing she has him eating out of the palm of her hand!

There’s not enough room on this pad for the both of us Later in “Mirror Mirror,” Uhura straight up overpowers Marlena Moreau, yoinking a phaser out of her hands and cooling off a tense situation in which the captain’s woman was demanding that she go with them back to the good (or at least better) universe. Sorry, toots, there’s only room for one femme fatale on this ship, and she just handed you your own ass.

Only the sweetest creature known to man Could you blame Uhura for naively succumbing to the cuteness of tribbles and bringing one aboard? I mean, you could, but you’d be wrong because Uhura’s inclination in “The Trouble with Tribbles” to accept the tribble as a gift from Cyrano Jones and to share her offspring with the crew comes from a place of generosity and kindness, and I’ll not hear otherwise.

It is not allowed to refuse selection Sorry for the whiplash because we’re going from a fun episode about tribbles, to watching a Black woman having to fight off a rapist in “The Gamesters of Triskelion” (this is what happens when I order lists chronologically). It’s an uncomfortable scene and you have to listen to Uhura brutally screaming offscreen and watch her battle off a giant brute in shadow, but holy shit, she beats him back.

The future feminists want Somehow, it takes until The Animated Series to finally see women in control of the Enterprise. We give so much kudos to Uhura and Nurse Chapel in “The Lorelei Signal” for showing that each and every one of them is capable of commanding the ship, rescuing the men, and saving the day, all while having to wear those really unfortunate skirts that don’t even cover their asses.

Fool! Human females are intelligent “The Slaver Weapon” is a fascinating episode because it doesn’t feature Kirk at all, giving other characters a chance to shine. We already covered that Sulu becomes the champion of the episode by virtue of being neither a female or a vegetarian (both shunned in Kzinti culture), but Uhura does get some moments herself, like when she escapes their police web, if only briefly.

Get in the closet What might be Uhura’s best highlight comes in The Search for Spock, because movies have more time for secondary characters to do stuff. So when Uhura locks Mr. Adventure in the closet, it is a triumph for her character. Not only does it help her and the crew save the day, but this guy was being a prick to her about her job assignment, and she shuts him the hell up. Hell yes.

Shakespeare is better in the original cetacean Spock may have figured out that the probe in The Voyage Home was trying to communicate with Earth’s whales, but Uhura is the one to clean up the probe’s signal to hear what it would sound like somewhere in the ocean underwater. How does one even know how to do that? Do they train all communication officers how to translate messages in and out of whale song?

I’ve always wanted to play to a captive audience Speaking of singing, there’s more singing to talk about (though some of that will come in the next section). Last on the highlight reel is Uhura singing “The Moon’s a Window to Heaven” and using her fan dance in The Final Frontier to distract a bunch of natives while the others steal their horses. Is it also a little cringey and sexist? Probably, but look at her go! As you’ll see, it’s also one of few instances in TOS that her singing didn’t end in calamity…

—

Worst Moments

Oh, on the Starship Enterprise, there’s someone who’s in Satan’s guise In contrast to recent episodes of Strange New Worlds, bad things always happen to Uhura whenever she sings in The Original Series. Her mocking songs about Spock and Charlie in “Charlie X” make Charlie jealous and perhaps a bit offended (rightly so; it’s hella rude of her!), so he takes her voice from her. And to add insult to injury, no one in the mess hall even notices!

Does she not have object permanence? This small moment always bugged me. In “Arena,” after the Metron have boinged Kirk down to the planet to fight the Gorn, Uhura lets out a piercing scream. It’s always struck me as out of place and out of character for someone who’s usually so level headed and cool as a cucumber to go ballistic over an action the Metron literally just told you they were about to do. Overreact much?

I'm sorry, Captain, I can't do that Okay, she may have been under the influence of mind-altering spores, but it still hurts a little to see Uhura sabotage the communications system in “This Side of Paradise.” And since we haven’t given other characters a pass when they were possessed by things or mirror universe equivalents of themselves or are just pod people, we’re going to do the same here.

No singing on the bridge Yet again, Uhura is singing and something bad happens! It’s like she didn’t learn from the “Charlie X” incident. The instance in “The Changeling” is particularly horrifying though because Nomad finds her singing illogical and wipes Uhura’s memories. All of them! And we’re left for the rest of the whole series to wonder if she was able to get them back and still be herself!!

Immortality and eternal beauty Every so often we get glimpses of Uhura’s vanity as well, which is probably just a little bit of latent misogyny on the parts of the writers. We certainly see Uhura almost get tempted by Harry Mudd in “I, Mudd” when he offers to put her in one of the robo-bodies of his androids and keep her young and beautiful. Lucky for us, she uses this offer to her advantage to turn the tables on the robots instead.

It’s not the sun up in the sky It was bad enough for us that “Bread and Circuses” focuses on another parallel-development planet. But Uhura revealing that the denizens aren’t sun worshippers but followers of the Son of God just makes us groan out loud. Not only did this planet somehow develop one of the same religions as Earth (the one that matters to the producers, for those keeping track), but it’s revealed in a terrible pun. Groan.

I see my death! Here’s another strange moment in which Uhura comes across as vain. Like Sulu’s hallucinating knives in space, Uhura suddenly sees herself as an old woman in her reflection in “And the Children Shall Lead.” Gorgan finds the one thing in her mind that would freak her out, and that’s getting old and wrinkly and infirm. Maybe she should have taken one of those android bodies after all.

I would hear your voice and my fears would fade As much as it’s extolled for featuring one of the first interracial kisses on television, the Uhura-Kirk scene in “Plato’s Stepchildren” is not okay. For one thing, it is nonconsensual as hell and played to be unwanted from both parties, but Uhura’s finding comfort in memories of the captain’s leadership gives the impression that she has found a way to get through it by rationalizing that it’s okay. It is seriously not. And it makes what could be a progressive moment in history into something gross.

We’ve learned not to fear words The writers of TOS had some outdated ideas about the utopian future. When Lincoln calls Uhura “a charming negress” in “The Savage Curtain,” for instance, and then apologizes because of how belittling a term that was in his time (and for viewers of the show), Uhura shrugs it off as if, because so much time has passed, the intention in old Abe’s words are just erased. It’s complicated and there are much better ways this scene could have gone than clean-slating centuries of history and context, is what I’m saying.

I refer to the sky machine which enslaves you Oh boy, here’s another complicated moment for Uhura that could have been handled better. The Shore Leave computer in “Once Upon a Planet” has kidnapped Uhura, spends a while explaining slavery to her (of all people!), and then only listens to reason when Kirk and Spock show up to save her. Come on! Uhura was in prime position to save herself, but the two white men have to bring us home?

Feelings we’ve always been afraid to express Sorry, shippers, but whatever the hell is happening between Uhura and Scotty in The Final Frontier just comes across as weird and forced to me. When Uhura is under Sybok’s influence and starts coming on to Scotty, I just find it uncomfortable, and I give Scotty credit for his line “I don't think I could take it in my present condition. ...Or yours.” Otherwise it’d just get gross.

Dujvetlh 'oH nuq? rIn. Finally, and absolutely the worst of all, Uhura is made to look absolutely incompetent at her job in The Undiscovered Country. How, after all these years, does your communications officer seem to not know a damn word of Klingon? In what was meant to be a comic scene of the crew flipping through dictionaries in a panic, Uhura simply makes a fool of herself. In this final movie, it brings a character we loved down a couple pegs and that’s a crying shame.

—

Signal lost, folks. That’s it for this week, but we’ve still got some The Original Series characters to give their moments in the sun, so keep your eyes here. You can also battle with us through season one of Enterprise in our watchthrough over on SoundCloud or wherever you podcast, hail us on Facebook and Twitter, and maybe don’t sing in front of lifeforms we pick up in space.

[fr-familiar-bracket]

[msb-lair]

Familiars 1111-1120

[enchantedbat]

Let’s talk potential: the specialists. 

Why isn’t the potential of the boys explored and they go different routes? Surely, the Red Fountain doesn’t teach each the same and produces what we have now? Why are they different but end up doing mainly the same? The Specialists are not all the same guy with the same skills and aspirations. Let’s talk about some ideas I had.

Timmy. He is a technician, an inventor and a scientist. Among his skills are providing new technology, knowing enough about weaponry to easily build it and planning strategies for even the trickiest of situations. Mainly uses long-ranged weapons. 

While appreciative of magic and impressed by the instincts of the others, he is going with logic and technology. He is responsible for upgrading but is also a walking arsenal. A multi-tool able to be easily transformed into a weapon of choice.

Timmy usually mans the aircrafts or uses higher grounds to attack. He knows his weaknesses and has created a battlesuit, similar to D.va, Iron Man or the Brotherhood of Steel armors. 

Carries his multi-tool, a drone, a ranged weapon that can go from bow to rifle, special glasses to scan surrounding and a watch that activates his battlesuit. 

Brandon. From the beginning, we know that he is a squire. His goal is to be a knight. One day, perhaps even the champion of Eraklyon (or Solaria?). His path started at the age of 7 where he was made a page in the court of Eraklyon. He was quite promising leading to him being trained by the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Together with Sky, of course. At 14, he graduated to being a squire. His good grades, extraordinary skills and close relationship to Sky got him a place at Red Fountain. A man made for the battlefield, Brandon seeks to be an elite soldier. 

To win against every opponent and be prepared no matter what, he possesses a basic degree of familiarity with all weapons and fighting styles. However, he concentrates and specializes on one weapon as well as mastering one combat technique to perfection - staying loyal to his phantoblade and sticking with swords. 

While Brandon himself has no issues with magic, he had the goal to be a Knight of Eraklyon which means he uses non-magical weapons. (Perhaps Radius or Luna give him a legendary sword of Solaria with the power of the sun, stars and moon as an engagement gift) He is physically the strongest of the specialists (berserker-like strength) and resilient to certain kinds of magic using the force of his body. 

Sky. He is a future king. Therefore, he is taught the basic fighting skills and such, but the main focus of his curriculum is diplomacy and strategy. One day, he will be the highest commander of military and security in his land solely by being the leader of said country. Knows the strength of the boys inside and out. Versatile but not as powerful as the others. Regularly training how to handle situations such as kidnappings or assassinations attempts. He can’t be as strong as the boys, he missed out a lot of training due to his classes on Eraklyon and state visits. 

Sky is not useless. He is meant to lead this group and that’s what he does. Not by running first into action but knowing who is able to do what and when. Of course, he can defend himself but his girlfriend is literally the strongest fairy known and he is surrounded by the best of the best. Besides his sword, he has his hoverboard, his shield and his boomerang. 

Riven. A survivor who had to rely on being cunning and stealthy. Who analyzes the vulnerabilities of his enemies to hit them hard and hides his own well because of that. But he also adepts fast to his surroundings. Maybe not one with nature but knowledgeable enough to hide himself and find others. With the help of Nabu, he finds himself positively connected to magic and knows that it is the magic user, not the power itself. That said, Riven uses magical weapons. He prioritizes subtleness and rather strikes once but hard. Keeps using a scimitar, but has a bunch of daggers hidden. His belt is full of smoke bombs, his bolas, toxins and even some explosives (like Batman). Interpret it however you want, but he mainly uses shadow-based and darkness-based magical weapons. That makes him a tiny bit proficient in this type of magic. 

While Brandon knows the most fighting techniques, Riven has a broad range of skills. Picking locks, climbing, disarming traps, improvising weapons, detecting traps, becoming one with the shadows, tracking beings and such. 

Helia. Related to one of the greatest wizards, Helia has a strong connection to magic. He also spends a lot of time with himself and mediating. The harmony between his body and mind helps him channeling his magic into attacks and more importantly: defense techniques. He stays true to himself and will always choose defending himself and others above attacking. That includes restraining and disarming enemies. Helia is trained in all martial arts and only has basic knowledge of weapons. Replacing his glove with a magical rope which is like the lasso of truth (Wonder Woman) but also a dart rope and a whip of sorts, because it can sense his intentions and emotions transforming into what he needs. Furthermore, his knowledge of the energy in his own body helps him to strike beings in the most powerful way like Ty Lee’s Chi-blocking (Avatar). Hitting the right weak point of a magical being can block their magic for a while or stop spells/attacks/whatsoever. 

Nabu. He is alive and well. 

Like fairies and witches, wizards share a scholarly approach to magic. Depending what path they choose, they can focus on their own affinity or master as many spells as possible, that’s what Nabu does. Reading about abilities, he can practice them and later use them. Some are connected to artifacts, books or scrolls. While his staff amplifies his natural power, it can also help channel his magic. 

Simply said: He can do almost anything. However, he often needs a source for it. Nabu’s powers are illusion-based, which means the source for those abilities is literally him. If he wants to use a spell of another element, he has to find a magical source of it. Funnily enough, the Winx count. Often in fights, he will grab Bloom’s shoulder and scream “Fireball!”. His staff is a source too but I haven’t decided what type of power it carries - this  needs continuation (and he needs a revival). 

Specialists. They have their own dragons still but I would like them to have different dragons. We only see them with their own dragons at Red Fountain and I would like them to have these as practice and later tame their own - which should be different types! It doesn't need to be a dragon. It could be a griffin or even a hydra! It could differentiate specialists between magic and technology user.

(if you think, they are all very similar to DND classes: that’s what I based it on. Timmy is an artificer, Brandon is a fighter, Riven is a rogue/ranger, Helia is a monk and Nabu is still a wizard. Sky exists? I am sorry, Sky-fans. He is a king at least?)

[kiwianacat]

Was thinking of how the infamous itw fight scene would translate into a medieval setting, then got distracted thinking about Longtail and ended up making Longfire canon to the au whoops.

Their relationship would be incredibly slow-burn, in the background to Fireheart's relationships with Greystripe (unrequited) and Sandstorm (temporary) to the point where I don't even think they'd be "courting" until about Firestar's Prophecy.

I wrote them a background, which was meant to be brief context but ended up being really long whoops. I think i've missed writing rip

Young Rusty meets third-season squire Longpaw during the ceremonial event young pages attend to prove their ability and be chosen as squires by Warrior knights. Rusty was controversially allowed to compete by Bluestar, using his blacksmith apprenticeship experience in place of the required service as a page and Longpaw mocked him for his low-born status prompting their duel. Rusty’s win cement’s his worth to Bluestar and he becomes her squire; meanwhile Longpaw’s loss was an insult to his knight Darkstripe as well as causing a nameless, low-born to become squired to King Bluestar, earning him great dishonour. He became a bitter rival to Firepaw, even after he was knighted, frequently antagonising him as in canon.

They form a tentative partnership when Longtail rescues him from Tigerclaw dropping him in the river, as even he sees this as suspicious, although he’s afraid to directly confront his peers and hesitates to think of him as disloyal. He has gained Swiftpaw as a squire by this point, unknowingly transferring the same pressures and beliefs onto him. During Tigerclaw’s raid on camp, Fireheart turns to him for help, which helps result in Tigerclaw’s capture; Longtail is shocked and sickened when it’s revealed that he killed Redtail (his dad in the au) and offended that he wasn’t told (Fireheart, rightfully, couldn’t be sure of his loyalties). When Bluestar, turning against the stars and traditions in the wake of Tigerclaw’s escape (he was set to be executed, but escaped with the help of an unknown ally (Darkstripe obviously)) makes Fireheart the heir to the throne Longtail feels doubly betrayed. As if he’d been manipulated against his friends in a play for power; maybe Tigerclaw was right to have his doubts about Bluestar if she’s willing to break traditions as it suits her. 

Big fallout, rough time for Fireheart, as he also loses Greystripe around this time. He’s courting Sandstorm around this time and their relationship is also beginning to crack, although I’m not sure who ends it; they started courting largely due to social pressures (and to Spite Greystripe) and come to realise they have a stronger alliance platonically. Longtail also thinks that Fireheart’s helping delay Swiftpaw’s knighthood to spite him and he backslides into bitter, insecure thought patterns. 

It’s Swiftpaw’s horrific death to Tigerclaw’s hounds that’s a wake up call and Longtail finally can see the transfer of Tigerclaw’s destructive beliefs to Darkstripe, through him, taking his squire’s life. He begins to investigate the hounds and has a larger role than in canon in uncovering the plot, taking the evidence to Fireheart (who doesn’t believe him at first), which ends up being an olive branch of sorts, re-establishing their alliance. It’d take a long while to get over their shared history to the point of romance after this point, but I think Longtail sees his own feelings first as his crush would’ve been amplifying his bitterness. 

Eventually they marry, Sandstorm remains important as Firestar’s principal advisor and heir to the throne. She surrogates kits, which the three co-parent together. Longtail never takes on another squire but becomes the head of the education of young pages instead; after being blinded he maintains the role but gains a co-head (maybe Bracken, Thorn or Bright) who helps with combat/weapons instruction and has a reduced role during his recovery.

[rcvcgers]

Duty's Cruel Embrace, 3

Chapter Three: Past and Present

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18+ MINORS DNI

pairing ; prince!xavier x princess!reader

synopsis ; you and xavier journey to the port of tartus where your first betrothed awaits you.

word count ; 14.6k words

author's note ; hi everyone! i am so sorry about the delay in updates! i am trying my best to work on these chapters asap!! i hope you enjoy this chapter as much as i enjoyed writing it!

trigger warning ; mentions of death, alcohol use, weapons, xav and reader make out and he gets just a little handsy, light sexism, talks of political marriage, let me know if i missed anything!

my ladies in waiting ♛ °˖✧ @velaenam , @schwnapps , @massivenutkid , @celestialforce , @exitingmusic , @zeskyzed , @eve-ishu , @underfcvcked , @duffyinwonderland , @hiqhkey , @dooopiee , @awkward-stierle , @justpassingdontworry , @queenkymmie , @miffysoo , @kazbrkker , @applepi405 , @flamedancer13 , @prplbunny , @loreleis-world , @animecrazy76 , @emo4r , @crazygirl3001 , @creator-freak , @spacenott , @luckypup0506 , @wltneko9006 , @wonys-won , @sh4do3 , @witchbybirth

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please go check out @velaenam 's story domina of the east! there are light spoilers for her story in this chapter <3

The crown prince of Philos remained close to you after you left the king’s tent. He remained far away, always behind you, never slipping into your line of sight. He had to convince himself that you were not looking for him, that you were on your own mission in life, one that does not revolve around him. He detests the idea of you being loyal to another cause, one that does not belong to him.

You are to be his wife, are you not? You will be the woman he shares the throne with, the woman who will bear his children and provide heirs for his future and legacy. He should be allowed to claim you as his own. As his one and only.

You were now away from your kingdom, a day’s ride to be exact, and soon the two of you will be on a boat heading across the Mediterranean Sea back to his kingdom of Philos. He knows that in time, you will grow to love Philos as much as he does. All he can sit and wish is that the two of you fall into something like love, a way for you to live in harmony for the rest of your lives.

Will it be love? Or will it simply be a partnership that you two barely tolerate?

He knows, though, that you will not be won in war. Your game of cat and mouse, the constant push and pull, the game that has brought him so much more excitement than he could have ever imagined. It is the reason why he is drawn to you. It is the reason why Xavier hasn’t been able to keep you away from him while on your journey to the port of Tartus.

He watches you from afar. Just like how he keeps his distance from you, you keep your distance from the other men at camp, the disgusting soldiers who laugh and tell the tales from their skirmishes and battles in Nabira. He sees the look of disgust on your face. Your expression slightly twists into something fatal, devastating, mourning the loss of the soldiers from your kingdom. You even wince at a few of their motions, the way they describe slicing the necks of the men that they have encountered in the battlefield.

Whenever you pass by, too, the soldiers either remain silent and bow their heads with respect, or they throw taunts your way, calling you pet names as if you now belong to them.

But you belong to him. Xavier knows it…even you know it.

Xavier remains by your tent throughout the night. He had his squire bring him one of the wooden chairs from his father’s tent and he placed it beside the entrance to your tent. Men walked by, their drunken laughs being silenced from Xavier’s scowl. The tip of his blade remained beneath the earth, his hand remaining on the hilt. Soldiers partied in the distance while Xavier listened to the rustling of the thin blanket he provided for you — the one he brought from his bed chambers in Philos — and waited for the night to come to an end.

The bright blue moon was his only light in the night as the majority of torches were snuffed out. He looks up at the Heavenly body, focusing on the imperfections that shine brightly on its surface. Xavier wonders if you like the moon as much as he does. He loves watching the Heavenly bodies in the night sky, looking upon them as they twinkle from the depths of the darkness.

The prince wonders what lies beyond the sky. Are there other worlds like his own? Are the men on that distant and far planet forced into unnecessary wars that their fathers wish to wage? Do the men there get to freely choose their wives or are they forced to marry vipers in disguise from a kingdom across the known world?

A sigh leaves his lips. Xavier looks away from the sky and shakes his head, turning his attention towards the ground. There are shadows from the scattered patches as grass of the campsite. There is a mixture of sand and dirt and grass, the combination of two different kinds of ecosystems merging together.

A sense of longing and worry overwhelms his mind. Xavier closes his eyes and rolls his head back, cracking his tensed up joints and bones as a quiet groan escapes his lips. He knows that his journey and time in Nabira is coming to a close. He will finally be back in Philos, a place he knows like the back of his hand. He has dreamed of his kingdom almost every single night since he has reached the desert, sailing away from the green scenery into the abyss of the desert.

Back in Philos, Xavier remembers the endless rolling hills of green grass, the steady streams and rivers that run through his kingdom. He remembers each and every crevice and rock of the mountainside where the Philos castle sits. He remembers the dark gray stone bride that attaches the base of the mountain to the rest of the village. Xavier misses the sound of the roaring river that runs beneath the bridge, the perpetually cold water spraying over the edges when the winds are strong.

Nabira is a completely different environment than what he is used to. Getting used to the desert was harder than he imagined, his right hand man back in Philos, Jeremiah, telling him what he should prepare for. He thought that the hot temperature was comparable to the hottest summer day in Philos but after experiencing the coolest day in Nabira, he knows that he is not meant for this type of climate. He supposes that he misses the green scenery. He is tired of the constant tans and browns, the only green coming from fabrics and the scattered patches of shrubbery that lay somewhat near oases.

He thought that he would find his inevitable demise in Nabira because who can truly survive a war as destructive and brutal as his father’s campaign for Nabira. Who can survive in the endless stretches of desert with little to no water to live off of, his body aching and his skin turning rough and red under the blazing sun. Even the metal of his armor has made him feel so suffocated while traveling through the sand dunes. Perhaps his inevitable demise did not come in the form of death but rather in the form of a beautiful woman behind a black and gold veil, the woman who has infiltrated his every waking and unconscious thought ever since he met her.

You…you have proven to be an intoxicating potion that has been slipped into his drink, a spell that is your name that has taken control over his mind.

Xavier opens his eyes to the sun already above the horizon. His light blue blanket is draped over his body, the hand on his sword covered. A quiet groan vibrates his throat. He slowly sits up, back tense. Xavier’s blue eyes scan the immediate area, the morning sun warm against his skin. You slowly approach from afar, a silver cup in hand along with a plate with bread, nuts, and dried meat. Xavier hides the small smile that begins to form on his face, covering it up by clearing his throat and sitting up in his chair.

“I can ride the horse for us today,” you say to him, skipping the greeting. It amuses Xavier. “Here,” you mutter under your breath, “eat. Drink. Your father wishes for us to embark from this place as soon as possible. He thinks we can reach Tartus by sunset if we move fast enough.”

Xavier takes the plate and chalice from you, your fingers grazing against each other. You ignore the way the corner of his lips perk up, the way his cloth shirt exposes the top part of his chest. You clear your throat and tear your gaze away, looking at the soldiers who tear down the campsite. They scurry around as their king watches. The silver crown on his head reflects sharp flashes of light whenever he turns, the man’s squire and his noble attendant by his side as he quietly speaks his demands.

“When did you wake, princess?” Xavier asks.

You struggle to respond. Your gaze meets his and all of the words slip out of your mind. You have memorized and learned Xavier’s mother tongue when the Philos troops were first seen on the outskirts of Nabira’s borders. Countless books and endless nights studying their words, the way they speak. The teachers in Nabira helped you become fluent but sometimes the words slipped free from your mind, leaving you with a mouth and brain filled with an empty void.

Xavier tilts his head at you, perking up an eyebrow. He slowly chews the hardened bread, narrowing his blue eyes at you. He slowly stands. The light blue blanket slips off of his body, hanging over the top of his sword. Xavier places the chalice and plate down, turning his attention back to you.

“Take your time,” he whispers, “or, you can say it in thy own tongue.”

“I woke at dawn. The dogs’ barks woke me,” you speak with no hesitation.

Xavier picks up on your words. His year in Nabria allowed him to learn some of your language, not all of it because he has always been stubborn and, quite frankly, did not think that he would get a Nabiran wife out of the crusade. He watches you closely as you gesture to the pack of nearby dogs, their snouts red from blood from that morning’s hunt.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” you continue, finally turning back to wake him. Xavier’s. Your expression softens at the sight of his tousled hair, the way the silver strands poke out in every direction. You wave him down, which he immediately obeys, and you gently flatten the hair back against his head. “You looked so peaceful.”

“Peaceful,” Xavier quietly repeats the word in your tongue. You freeze and pull away from him, eyes slightly widened. Does he know your language? Has he learned during his time in Nabira just like you have with his? “What does that mean?”

“Peaceful,” you state after a moment’s hesitation, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“Peaceful…” he whispers with a slight nod. “I will ride for us today. Be ready soon. A solider will handle your tent for you.”

“Xavier,” you watch as he drapes the light blue blanket around your shoulders. With one hand, he picks up the plate and chalice, balancing the silver cup on the plate, his sword now resting in his free hand. He steps around you. You watch him as he leaves, disappearing into the chaos of the Philos camp.

You sigh. You hang your head low as you stare at the ground. The leather bag your father gave you sits beside his wooden chair. The chair looks so uncomfortable…why would he spend the night like that? Did he truly wish for you to see this act of service as one that shows you can trust him? Or is it a false sense of security that he will use against you in the near future?

Confusion infiltrates your mind. You allow yourself to gather your belongings, plucking the golden bow from the inside of your tent. It sits around your bodice, the golden point sticking up into the sky, the quiver of arrows attached around your hips. The black crow feathers absorb the heat of the day. You feel them between the pads of your fingers, fiddling with them. They help keep you company as you walk through the camp, looking around for the man you are forced to be allies with.

Whether you like it or not, you know that Prince Xavier is your only saving grace on the journey to Philos. Even then, once you reach his kingdom, he is still your only ally in the political world that is much different from Nabira.

You cannot help but question if Xavier will be there by your side like he vowed to do. You do not know if he will remain loyal to you and the aid you require. Your mind wanders across the many possibilities that you will encounter in the new world.

Does Xavier have a mistress? Is there another woman in his life that you will have to learn to tolerate during your political and arranged marriage? You do not know what waits for you in the near future. It feels as if you are willingly walking into a lion’s den.

You can try your best to hide behind the furs they will gift to you. You can try to hide behind the crown of thorns that they will place onto your head. At the end of the day, though, it is you and you alone that is in charge of your life. You will have to fight for your spot in the Philos court, to fight to show the nobles that you earned your position as the future Queen of their kingdom. They will try to bring you down but you must persevere. 

“Princess,” Xavier’s voice sounds from behind. You do not turn, simply continuing to stare at the ancient ruins from your ancestor’s empire.

After it fell hundreds of years ago, the Roman Empire lost its influence. Their colonies and cities fought back against Roman control all while the title of emperor was being fought about in the heart of Rome. You read about it in the books your father gifted to you as a child. Your brother did not particularly enjoy reading about the fall of an empire, but you enjoyed seeing how Emperor Caleb’s laws and provisions remained in place when it came to Nabira. He ruled far before the empire fell. His descendants, your ancestors, kept his vow alive. It is admirable, really.

There are broken statues and pillars in the distance. Another outpost that was once under Roman control. Now Mother Nature runs it with vines reclaiming the white and cracked stone. Xavier’s armor and chainmail sounds from behind you. His white horse whinnies. The scraping of metal rubbing against itself used to irk you, send chills down your spine, but now it is a welcoming sound of the man you will call your husband.

“Is thou ready?” he asks.

“How long do you think that has been there for?” you ask and gesture to the crumbling pillars. Xavier takes his place at your side, his eyes fixed on the landmark. His horse remains tethered to its reins. 

“I do not know,” he quietly responds. “Centuries, probably.”

“Centuries,” you muse with a chuckle. Xavier looks down at you, confusion written across his face. “Is there a centuries old outpost in Philos?”

Xavier remains quiet. He studies the side of your face, taking in the slenderness of your cheeks, the hollowness behind your eyes. You’re tired, yes, and he can tell that you have not been able to stop thinking since you woke up that morning. He clears his throat and tugs on the leather reins.

The white horse trots around and settles in the space in front of you. Your eyes flicker to Xavier and he avoids your gaze, simply sliding the reins into your hands. He grabs your waist and you place your foot into the stirrup. In one motion, Xavier helps you onto the horse, your leg kicking over the horse. You remove your foot and scoot forward. Xavier takes your bag and attaches it to the side of the horse, placing it beside his. You quickly reach inside and pluck out the diary your father gifted you, placing it in the small space in front of you and the pommel of the saddle.

Xavier quickly mounts the horse and takes his place behind you, his armored hands rest on your thighs for the briefest of moments. You lean back into him, already accustomed to his presence behind you. He leans in, his lips close to your ear. His breath is hot against your skin. It sends chills down your spine.

“You’ve been thinking,” he murmurs. He takes back the reins from you and gently kicks the horse’s side. It lets out a huff and turns on its hooves, moving back towards the camp. “Thinking of the past and history…tell me what is on your mind, princess.”

You look straight ahead. The camp has been broken down while you were lost in your thoughts. The soldiers have resume their marching positions, already beginning the journey to the Tartus port. You assume that Xavier’s father is at the helm, guiding his men through the last of the desert. The two of you assume a position towards the back, the soldiers and guards a part of Xavier’s future Kingsguard taking their place behind you.

“Shall I take your silence as your answer?” he quietly hums.

You roll your eyes and angle your face to look behind you. His eyes meet yours, a hint of amusement in his blue irises. It irritates you to see just how much fun he is having with this. All of the positive feelings you felt towards him begin to slowly dissipate, his sudden cockiness grating your nerves.

“I think of the future,” you finally respond, turning your head back towards the front. Your drop your gaze to the diary in your hands, the horse’s trot just stable enough for you to read.

“I thought you were lost in the past,” Xavier chuckles. You suck in a breath, shoulders tensing. “Now thy worries over the future?”

“Yes, your Highness, ’tis what I said,” your voice is sharp.

You open the diary with a huff, frowning at the tan pages. You flip through the entires, knowing that your ancestor’s words are completely foreign to the man who sits behind you. You stop at one entry whose words catch your attention. You see the old Emperor’s name, Caleb, and stop flicking through the pages.

“Do you wish to be alone?” Xavier quietly asks. He slightly leans forward and stares at the pages. The script is a mystery to him. He may be able to comprehend a few spoken words, but to read it? It is an entirely different story. Your silence is answer enough for him to nod to himself, tearing his gaze away from the diary and to focus on the environment around you.

You silently struggle with your feelings for the crown prince. He has been nothing but kind to you — besides your confrontation when your fathers’ decided on a marriage between the two of you — and he has been patient with your blunt questions. He even sat in front of your tent to make for sure that you were safe. His kind gestures make your heart flutter but your mind combats every single instinct that kicks in.

You do not know if you can trust him. You do not know if he is someone worth your love and attention or if he will have it in himself to return the positive afflictions. Will it even be possible for your heart to come to love a man like him? You know that you can tolerate him, that you will find a rhythm that the two of you can fall into if love does not blossom or come into fruition. There is just that hint of hesitation, though, the single insecure thought that lingers in your mind.

You are a woman. He is a man. He is able to get away with so much more than you ever will. He will be allowed to keep mistresses if he so desires and you will remain alone in your separate bedchambers with nothing but a book and the candlelight to keep you company. He is allowed to lose control, to show his anger while you must remain quiet and obedient, subservient to him and him alone.

Unfortunately, you live in a world dominated by men. For your entire life, you were surrounded by powerful men — even your brother as a boy employed more power than you — who could control the outcome of the Nabiran kingdom with a snap of their fingers. Oftentimes, your father’s male advisors would shut you out of political meetings. Whenever the Lemurians, or other diplomatic kingdoms, came to visit, you were told to entertain the women and girls who were brought along while the men drank wine from behind closed doors.

Always forced to watch, never allowed to participate.

The day has been long and hard. You sat in silence, only speaking in short whenever Xavier asks you a question or if you need anything. The sun begins to make its descent back towards the horizon and you can’t help but feel relieved. With the sight of trees and greenery now coming into view, you know that the port of Tartus is near. The sand dunes have turned into grasslands, the yellow and green grass replacing the golds and browns of the sand.

“Princess,” Xavier’s voice draws you out of your thoughts. You hum in response, eyes remaining closed as the horse continues on its way. “Why did thou remain silent before?”

“My mother taught me that if one does not have a kind thing to say, to not say it at all,” you play coy and dance around the meaning of your silence.

Xavier simply chuckles in response, shaking his head. He enjoys this game with you, whether you are aware of it or not. He rests his hand on his thigh, looking away and at the setting sun.

The Philos army travels across the bluffs of the new village. It is governed by Nabira but most of its soldiers come from Lemuria, an old alliance that formed between the kingdoms centuries ago. Two halves that operate in peace and harmony. Xavier looks away, thinking that it will take about an hour to reach the port. He feels your body relax against him once he notices you finally catch wind of the sight.

“Is there someone thou wishes to see there?” there is slight hint of jealousy to his voice and in the way his body slightly tenses up.

Xavier knows that you were originally betrothed to the Lemurian prince, a man by the name of Rafayel. He has only met the prince a handful of times and their interactions were short and brief. He has the most unusual appearance, his hair a vibrant purple color and his irises holding more than one color. Rafayel is extremely extroverted, the complete opposite of the prince himself. Xavier prefers to engage with parties from the outside whereas Rafayel loves to be in the middle of it all.

He does not wish to speak ill of your previous betrothed, simply following your mother’s advice that you bestowed upon him.

“And if there is?” a small smirk flashes across your face.

You hide it as you turn to face him, his hand finding itself on your side as you lean into it, getting the best look possible. His brows are slightly knitted, his jaw clenched. His eyes have lost all of their wonder and dare you say it — sparkle — that he once held towards you. There is a darkness behind his eyes and yet all you can feel amusement towards his sudden possessiveness towards you because, well…what else could it be?

“Will thou play the role of my knight in shining armor?” you lower your voice.

Xavier’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down. His grip on the leather reins tightens. His heart pounds on the inside of his chest. He unconsciously moves towards you, leaning in as his breathing grows heavier.

You truly are a viper, aren’t you?

You let out a quiet sigh. Leaning forward, you pluck the veil from your bag, placing it over your head and the diary. Xavier may not be able to understand the written form of your language, but you wish to have some kind of privacy from the outside world as you travel the last length of distance. The diary opens up with a soft crinkle sound, your finger acting as a bookmark. Sunlight breaks through the sheer veil but protects your eyes from the star, the veil providing slight shade for you.

In the quiet of my chambers, the oil lamps flicker low… The weight of my crown feels most distant. I confess to these pages that I dare not speak aloud.

Caleb. My emperor.

Your ancestor’s silent plight calls to you. You see her words, feeling as they resonate throughout your body. The ink looks shaky as if her hands were trembling as she wrote these words. She has gone through the same conflict you feel inside of your heart and mind. Forced to be wed to a stranger, a man who holds power.

Yours is a mere prince, the weight of a newer yet large kingdom resting on your shoulders. Your ancestor, though? She married an emperor who ruled an empire that stretched from one side of the world to the other.

And yet your internal struggles remain as one, the same trouble of having to share the sheets with a man who is so foreign to you. Does she share the same worries of a mistress? Does she also feel the inexplicable urge to cross the distance, no matter how big or small it may be, and to unite with him as one?

Betrayal coated over a toad. But for some reason I find myself wanting to kiss him.

He stands atop marble steps now gilded in cracks and anger. But I can't help my feelings for him. Even when duty made a stranger of him.

Yet in the stillness that followed…Gideon emerged.

A quiet laugh leaves your lips before you can stop it. You continue to read through the passage, unable to contain the small gasps that leave your body from the revelations that she has confessed to the pages of the diary. The heat from the irony of the situation making the sun even more unbearable. You feel the warmth of Xavier’s armor push into your back. From the corner of your eye, you watch as he reaches to the side of you, picking up the corner of the veil before slowly lifting it up.

“Yes, Xavier?” you ask with a quiet voice, closing the diary. “Is there something thou wishes to say?”

“What…amuses you?” Xavier asks in a quiet voice. “Thine’s smile disappeared when she saw me…how may I see it again?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. Your gaze flickers to the sliver between his head and the fabric, the blue sky growing darker. Xavier simply leans to the side and effortlessly catches your gaze once again.

“Answer me,” his command is harsh while his tone reeks of slight desperation.

Perhaps you made your judgment on him too quick. Maybe Xavier truly does wish to make an effort to be your husband. Your future with him will now be one that is easy and complimentary, yes? You will both make an effort for things to be good. Maybe love will come out of it in due time.

“Are you asking me that as the future king or as Xavier?” you quietly ask. Xavier’s face flinches. Your eyes drop to his lips before moving back to his eyes.

He does not reply. You slightly tilt your head to the side, the sunset flashing into your eyes, illuminating your irises. Xavier’s breath hitches and he suddenly believes in his country’s religion again. He blinks at you, too flustered to focus. 

Suddenly, the sound of men’s snickering and cheers captures your attention. You draw away from Xavier, your posture straightening. You turn to the front, staring through the veil, noticing that the soldiers stare at the two of you. Embarrassment floods your body, your cheeks heating up. Xavier slips out of the veil, his sharp glare silencing the soldiers.

“Turn around,” Xavier commands them with such ease it sends chills down your spine.

He slows your horse, the soldiers passing by on their own animals or jogging around you. Xavier watches them as they go, your horse coming to a full stop. His hands slip under the fabric that pools at your hips, his gloved hand resting on your stomach, pulling you closer to him. You cannot move. You’re frozen as time and the soldiers pass you by, only able to fully breathe again once the sound of their horse’s and footsteps fade into nothing.

Xavier removes the veil from your body, holding it away from you as you try to snatch it back from him. The horse whinnies. You glare at him, turning back around to the front, watching as the soldiers march into the distance. Xavier’s grip on you tightens. The raised metal of his coat of arms pokes into your skin, leaving you breathless. He leans down, the tip of his nose grazing against the shell of your ear with closed eyes.

“Do you wish me to be?” Xavier whispers into your ear.

“Wish thou to be what?”

“To be yours, your knight in shining armor,” Xavier is breathless, his cheeks bright in color. You close your eyes, unable to think of an immediate response.

Is it not early to show such affections? Is Xavier showing his cards too easy? It feels like a trap. A sudden sweetness to win your favor before his alliance with Nabira can be severed when your Lemurian friend comes into the portrait. There is no way that he could possibly feel jealousy towards an old suitor. You were never going to leave Xavier even if you tried. You need Philos’ alliance for your father’s sake. You are unequivocally his despite your distaste towards the matter.

“Do what you want,” you breathe out, “it is no matter to me.”

“Truly you do not mean that,” he quickly follows up.

“Unburden yourself, Xavier,” his breath hitches at the sound of his name, “and take us to the port.”

Xavier follows your command. He kicks the horse into motion, tightly holding the reins to keep the horse in check. The horse shifts into a gallop, crossing the distance with ease and flipping up through the pack. The people part for his highness and you remain resigned in front of him, focusing your eyes on the port that lies ahead.

You wish that your childhood friend, a boy you haven’t seen in little over three years since the crusades were first brought to Nabira’s attention, is there to see you to your new home. Rafayel was the one who sailed the seas and rode on a horse with his father as soon as they saw Philos’ army. They did not hesitate to offer help, help which your father declined, and you had to say goodbye to the man you originally were ready to marry.

It will be nice to see him. You can silently plead for aid and protection with the Lemurian ladies in the Philos court — if they have any, that is. He is sure to help you. Maybe he will find himself at your wedding to the infamous Lumière, a man who was sure to have killed both Nabirans and Lemurians in battle. Xavier was a common enemy before he turned into your betrothed. Does that change things with your Lemurian prince now?

 After an hour, the Philos army reaches the lively port. The army stays on the outskirts of the port city while you, Xavier, the King, and a smaller portion of the army make your way through the decorated scene. You know that today is a Lemurian holiday, one where they take the night off and dance the night away. They are very free spirited people with art, music, and their navy being their priorities and greatest achievements. Even Rafayel is known to have a few masterpieces under his belt at his young age.

The smile returns to your face. Many of the Lemurian and Nabiran citizens bow their heads at you, stopping in their tracks to show their reverence for their domina. It was sure to be known by now that you are leaving for the rest of your life, that you will never return. Tonight will be as much about your release from the kingdom as much as it is their holiday.

Xavier keeps his eyes on you, watching as you gaze upon the Lemurian rich city with such wonder and awe. It is different from Philos’ much more mild mannered festivities. The city, even when it is an ocean away from their kingdom, is much more vibrant and colorful compared to Philos’ whites and grays color scheme. Much more lighter and monotone from the Lemurian’s bright blues and pinks and purples.

He knows that you will have much fun tonight. There is no reason for you to listen to him or keep you away from that friend of yours. He may accompany you, though, even if you disagree to it. He wants to see what his future bride likes to take part in. It is what every good husband should know, no? He should make for sure that man does not taint your honor or bring any stigmas onto yourself for the Philos court to hear about before your arrival.

It is the least he can do as your future husband.

The horses arrive at the Lemurian’s biggest ship, the Abysswalker, a ship that Rafayel is known to command, just as the sailors disembark from the wooden ship. As soon as Xavier’s horse comes to a slow, you swing your leg over the horse’s head and slide off of the animal, your feet colliding with the earth made dock that the Aysswalker is connected to.

“The domina has arrived,” Rafayel calls to his men as he walks down the wooden plank over the small gap between the ship and the dock, “make sure to behave.” A smile spreads across his face. Your eyes flicker to his hair, which is longer than you remember it being, the purple strands stopping right when they meet his shoulders.

“Is that a command for me or your men?” you smile at him, resting your hands on your hips just as he steps foot back onto land. He stops right in front of you and leans down, brushing your hair out of your face.

“I’d like to think it was one for you,” Rafayel’s smile is as bright as the rest of his face. He mimics your hands on the hips and rests back on one foot. “Did you get shorter?”

“One would think you are insufferable,” you retort back.

“Welcome to Tartus, my lady,” Rafayel takes a step forward, delicately taking your hand. He brings your knuckles to his mouth, his eyes meeting yours, and presses a sweet kiss to your hand like the true gentleman he is. You crack a smile at him, feeling even safer with him than you do with Xavier. Rafayel’s eyes flicker to Xavier, who has gotten off the horse and made himself at home in the space behind you. “Prince Xavier, we have been expecting thy’s arrival.”

“Is that so?” Xavier rests his hand on the hilt of his sword. You purse your lips in annoyance. “Will you be the one who escorts my queen and I to Philos?”

“Yes,” Rafayel’s posture stiffens at the mention of you being his so called queen. His eyes move to you, catching the annoyance that moves across your face. “My apologies if our banter has crossed a line with your…king.”

“I am not his queen yet,” you muse, feeling the tension begin to form between the three of you. You are simply weighing all of your options. You do not wish to marry a man who may be planning your death, making it look like the journey to Philos destroyed you. At least you know you are safe with the Lemurians around.

“Ah,” Rafayel nods his head, turning his attention back to Xavier, “allow me to show you to your quarters. Thou must have had a long day. Rest will do you well before we set sail.”

Xavier nods and steps around you, following the men that immediately move from behind Rafayel. The Philos soldiers set off, except for his father’s Kingsguard, for their own camp since they will be traveling back to Philos by foot. About three years journey across the land if Xavier’s father decides to not send any ships to pick them up and ease the distance. He hesitates when he notices that you and Rafayel do not move a muscle, your eyes never leaving each other’s.

“It’s been a long time,” you whisper to him over the sound of squawking birds, “you’ve grown into the role of Captain.”

“Admiral, actually,” Rafayel’s smile grows more smug by the second. You nod your head at him, keeping it coy and detached. “Do you wish to celebrate tonight, my lady? I remember you telling me that you would love to celebrate the holiday.”

“I would love to if you are the one who keeps me company,” perhaps you are a little too polite in your response. It is all in good faith and all at the expense of your soon to be husband. You like the way his face darkens when another man offers you his gaze, the way he grows jealous at even the slightest thought of you plotting against him or simply when you entertain someone who isn’t him.

“I shall join too, then,” Xavier steps back. His eyes move to yours then your lips. “I shall accompany you.”

“Three is considered to be a crowd,” Rafayel tries to interject.

“Who is to say that he may last through the night?” you challenge. Xavier’s nostrils flare. “My prince, perchance you have spare clothes for me to wear.”

“It can be arranged, princess,” your head snaps in his direction at the title. Rafayel smirks and steps away, walking towards the nearby building by the dock.

You let out an amused huff of air. Xavier steps in front of you. He tightly grips his sword, looking down at you with intense eyes. You attempt to step around him but Xavier blocks the path, his armored hand digging into your flesh. You let out a quiet gasp, feeling a stinging sensation as he yanks you towards him.

“Am I to be worried, princess?” Xavier asks, his voice low and dangerous.

“We speak of clothes,” you say.

“Do you think me a fool?” Xavier counters. You catch the sharpness in his tone. 

“You know I am to be yours,” you match his tone, “he means no harm.”

“He is mad.”

“Just as you are?” you lift your connected hands to his eye line.

Xavier immediately releases his grip. He takes a step back, the scrapes of his armor quiet, and diverts his gaze. You purse your lips and walk around him, following in the direction that Rafayel walked in.

The purple haired prince approaches a tall sandstone building. It is much taller than the rest of the seaside village, a landmark for those watching from afar but also a place for nobles and diplomats to stay. You have never been here but your brother has and he told you all about how lively the village is, the way the candles are never snuffed out, acting like golden stars in the night sky.

You pick up the extra fabric that pools near your feet as you walk. You slice through the crowd, the people dispersing as soon as they notice you, and watch as Rafayel waves his hands at the guards by the door. The wooden doors creak to life as you reach the top of the stairs. The prince offers you his arm and you immediately take it.

Xavier scoffs from behind, glaring at the sight of your connected bodies. A scowl overtakes his face as he steps through the doors, entering inside of the brightly lit noble-run home. Servants scurry past, holding sheets and plates of food, bowing their heads at Xavier as they pass. He approaches his father’s side, his eyes never leaving you and Rafayel as you laugh about some comment he makes. Xavier does not see the humor you do in the prince. Do you not know that he is known to be a rake? Xavier and his hand, Jeremiah, have watched as Rafayel passed himself around the ballroom, never taking the time to act like a proper human being.

“Do you know of the festivities, father?” Xavier has to pull his gaze away from you and Rafayel, turning to look at the king that stands beside him. “Will they be…worthwhile?”

“You should partake,” the king responds. He barely even looks at Xavier as he speaks with one of the captains in his army, “unwind. Get to know your wife. Be a prince.”

“Be a prince?” Xavier repeats the words with a slight scoff. “Am I not the man you molded me to be?”

“Tonight,” Xavier’s father sighs and dismisses his man. From over his son’s shoulder, he watches as you and Rafayel disappear up the stairs with a governess close behind, a role that you will soon grow used to once you reach Philos. “Drop thy sword and shed yourself of thine armor. Indulge yourself. Be ready to leave it behind as soon as the sun rises.”

“Yes, sir,” Xavier mutters to himself.

He bows his head to his father and turns away, one of the servants beckoning for him to follow to his temporary bed chambers. The prince allows himself to relax on the journey up through stairs, the metal armor on his body finally beginning to weigh him down. He reaches the top of the stairs. The sound of your laughter stops him in his path. He abandons the servant and walks down the hallway, the clicks of his metal boots echoing down the corridor.

You sit in a room with Rafayel, along with a handful of other nobles who reside in the seaside village, and hold a glass of wine in your hand, swirling around the dark liquid before bringing it up to your lips. The language has changed from the one from Philos to a picture between Nabiran and Lemurian. Neither you nor Rafayel could stick with just one. You watch Rafayel from over the rim of the gold chalice, his drunken friends lounged on the couch as they twiddle with the strings of a lute, the dull notes filling the calmed atmosphere.

“Tell me, domina,” Rafayel begins. He takes a sip from his chalice before lowering it to the table, crossing the distance, and placing himself in the open space beside you, “what do you think of life outside of Nabira’s castle walls?”

“Tis different,” you cooly respond. You place your goblet beside his. “I never thought I would have left so soon.”

“Right,” Rafayel leans down, his eyes fixated on yours, “one did not think your father would ever let you leave the palace. He barely let anyone in for that matter.”

“And yet here I am,” you muse, slightly narrowing your eyes at the purple haired man, “outside of the walls, about to set sail on your ship towards my new fate.”

“I knew I would have the honor of sailing with you,” the prince begins. He slowly leans in some more, your noses a dangerous distance from one another. He tilts his head to the side, taking in the floral scent of your perfume, the way you hold yourself strong against his sudden closeness. Rafayel lowers his voice, his eyes slightly darkening. “I always thought the destination would be Lemuria rather than...Philos.”

You hesitate to respond. You watch Rafayel carefully, observing the way his eyes are all over your face, taking you in from a short distance. He smells like the sea, the hint of salty water and his sweat, his musk, mixes in with the scent. His eyes are vibrant and yet you can see the overprotective nature of your friend begin to seep out.

When Rafayel and his aunt, the Princess Talia, visited Nabira when he was just a boy, he would refuse to let you leave his sight. The two of you would always sit next to each other during meals and he would make you show him all of your favorite places in the Nabiran palace. You showed him the statues of your ancestors, the painted images that you quietly prayed to. He watched as you shot your arrows and in turn you watched him as he fought your brother with wooden swords — although you remember him favoring a trident instead.

“Are you disappointed in the outcome, my prince?” you quietly ask.

“Do not call me that,” Rafayel whispers. “I know the game thou dost engage in.”

“Call thou what?” you play the role of an innocent damsel much to his dismay.

“My prince.”

“Why not?” you tilt your head to the side, eyes never leaving his. It feels as if you can barely breathe with him so close to you, the tension bubbling in the air. “It is thy’s title, is it not?”

“Yes but,” Rafayel sucks in a breath, his voice neither rising nor falling, “I am no longer yours.”

“Thou art my friend,” you whisper, “art thou not?”

“I should be glad that you are his vixen to deal with,” Rafayel pulls away. With the distance, you are able to breathe again. “You are his princess—”

“Domina,” you sharply correct him, your gaze narrowing, “I am not married to him yet.”

“You aren’t,” Rafayel shifts his weight to his back foot, watching you closely, “but thou will be soon enough.”

Your body runs cold. There is truth to his words, you know it to be true. Denial runs through your thoughts. You have accepted your fate and yet here you are, spiraling over someone else pointing out the less than ideal circumstances you find yourself in.

A small smile breaks Rafayel’s serious demeanor. He reaches for your chalice, taking it from its place, and brings it to his lips, sipping the dark red wine that sits inside the cup. You tear your gaze away from him, clearing your throat, and notice a silver figure move into the darkness of the hallway, the wooden door closing shut.

“That prince of yours is trouble,” the Lemurian says from behind you. You do not turn to look at him, simply wishing that you will see Xavier soon. “I do not trust him.”

“Is that so?” you hum, finally turning to look at Rafayel. He simply nods in response.

You look back to the door, pushing off of the table you stand beside, and walk towards it, pushing the wooden panel open. You take a step out. The corridor is much more dark than the inside of the parlor room. Lit candles hang from chandeliers, the wax spilling over the dark metal. The light is warm, a deep orange to cut through the darkness of the night, and you look at Rafayel from over your shoulder.

“Fetch me when you are ready to embark,” you offer him a small smile. Rafayel simply nods in response, turning away from you and to the nobles inside of the parlor.

You disappear down the corridor, following the sound of footsteps up the next flight of stairs. The figure escapes you as soon as you reach the top and you let out an annoyed huff of air. You take a glance around and let out a quiet sigh, walking down the stone hallway. The sounds of your sandals swiping against the floor fills in the silent hallway. You can hear the faint crashing of distant waves, the ocean restless as ever, while you navigate your way towards your bedchambers. As soon as the door comes into sight, you disappear behind it.

Your leather bag and bow sit on your bed, a welcome sight for sore eyes. You approach the bed and sit on the edge, a small frown forming on your face. Rafayel’s words of warning sit with you. They leave you no comfort nor do they make you feel secure in your silent alliance with him. Xavier has given you no signal that he wishes to betray you — quite the opposite, actually, with his sudden posessiveness over you — nor has there been any signs from his father that he wishes to make you a martyr to the people of Nabira.

The sudden competition between Xavier and Rafayel is nothing you could have ever expected for yourself. You always thought that the other men in your life would respect the choices made for you. You are forced to remain passive when it comes to your marital status while the men around you are actively dictating who you will fall asleep beside for the rest of your days. This is, unless your husband were to die. Then you would be forced off to wed yet another man in power whose only mission in life is to secure his throne and provide his kingdom with an heir.

The leather bound diary stares at you. It sits beside the leather bag, its gold accents and jewels beckoning you towards it. You reach out and grasp the small book, bringing it towards your chest. Perhaps your ancestor’s words will bring you some semblance of peace. The pages welcome you as soon as you open the diary, her handwriting already calming down your rapidly beating heart.

Caleb was the sun. Gideon is the moon.

How could she have had the same predicament as you? Feeling affection towards two men. Your familiarity with Rafayel, the bright spirited man whom you have held affection towards for so long.

Then there is Xavier. A man whom you have been forced to share horseback with, forever tied to his reins, unable to make an escape from his intense eyes and wandering hands. In the time you have spent together, little has been said. You originally thought that silence was the best way to show your rebellion towards him and the arranged marriage.

You move to the next passage of the diary entry.

He speaks little, but in his silence, I find refuge. I see the burden he carries. The way his eyes linger too long when he thinks I do not notice. The protection he offers in more ways than one.

Could you too find refuge in his silence? You know he watches you every chance he gets. You are sure that he will never be too far from you if he is to attend the Lemurian festivities tonight. He is sure to drown in the crowd, to fade into the background while you take center stage with your would have been husband, the man you always imagined standing beside instead of the fair headed man your father sold you off to.

Will this be a test for him to show his worth to you? A way to win your heart over in the political game of intrigue that you have found yourself in? He has been in it for his entire life, surely he knows how to win the heart of his chosen princess…your heart.

I should be ashamed, but I am only tired. Tired of pretending the ache in my chest is loyalty alone… If the gods hear me, let them judge gently. My heart is torn between crown comfort and love. Let this ink keep my secret.

You never believed in the gods. Sure, your mother held an expectation of religion upon you, but you knew the truth. You knew that the gods abandoned the earth a long time ago, around the fall of Rome, when magic and Evols have left world. They took all of the splendor with them. The magic that you wished so desperately to see.

Tales told during the fall of Rome have left the world wondering what happened to people who held magic. Did they die with the Emperor and his bloodline? Were they hunted for sport and killed in gladiator battles like martyrs? Or has the magic the world once held in its people slowly vanish throughout the years?

Your mother always liked to joke that you hold the same power like your ancestor, arguably one of the greatest Emperors that Rome has had, but more in the way of him being able to connect and unite his empire together. You have always had the charm of an angel and people naturally gravitated towards you. According to your mother, you also hold a special connection to the past, something that nobody has ever seen before.

You like to call it empathy but your mother thinks your ancestors have chosen you to be their voice.

You close the diary and let out a slow exhale. The pads of your fingers run along the cover, feeling the warm metal against your touch. It grounds you as your mind wanders away from itself. You stand from the bed and take a quick peek into a nearby trunk, pulling out a blue silk dress, one made in a Lemurian fashion. You hold the dress in your hands. It feels devastatingly heavy despite the thinness to it. Your thoughts turn into the future, what it holds for you. You have accepted the fact that you are stuck between two men.

Both of whom wish to see you by their side, whether they have said it aloud or not is neither here nor there. Both men wish to see you thrive but to thrive under their control, a queen that will serve them the best for them and their reign. You do not know if you should feel flattered by this revelation or if you should pack your things, steal a horse, and run back to the safety of the Nabiran border.

A knock at the door. Your posture straightens. You wipe away a tear that you did not know even fell. The door pushes open and you narrow your eyes in the darkness, seeing a pale head of hair enter your chambers. You quickly stand, hands folded in front of your stomach. Xavier is quick to close the door, making sure that it does not make too much noise to alert any of the guards who stand down the hall. He wears a white cotton shirt, the small strings of fabric remaining untied, exposing the top part of his muscular build. The sleeves are slightly puffy. One glance down shows that he wears leather pants and matching boots. He is a prime example of what a peasant in Philos would look like. Well, that is what the books you have read told you. He turns around, his eyes finally landing on yours.

He is silent. He slowly takes in your appearance, his sword remaining attached to his side. His blue eyes drop from your face and to your body. Suddenly you feel small under his gaze. You swallow the lump that forms in your throat, hands growing clammy. You fidget with your fingers as Xavier takes slow and calculated steps towards you. The air thins with every step. You tilt your head to look up at him, the silk gentle against your skin, moving with your body. You take a step backwards. The back of your knees hit the bed frame, the slightly splintered wood pushing into your flesh.

“You look…beautiful,” Xavier breathes out.

His hand moves towards your face, gently cupping your cheek. You do not move. His touch sends chills down your spine and your mouth goes dry. Xavier’s eyes drop from your face, the tips of his fingers grazing against your skin. You suck in a sharp breath. The tips of his fingers move from your cheek to the exposed skin on your shoulder. There is a strip of blue and white silk with a layer of sheer and pearls covering it. It hangs from your shoulder, acting like a loose sleeve. Xavier’s calloused finger hooks around the sleeve, giving it a gentle tug.

“Thou is silent again,” Xavier quietly remarks. 

“I have nothing to say,” you murmur. His eyes flit to yours. Your heart skips a beat, cheeks slowly heating. He leans in, trapping you against the bed

“Is it polite to not give thanks?” Xavier matches your volume. You try to look away but he tilts his head to meet your eyes once again. “Answer me.”

“Pray tell, why dost thou concern himself?” you whisper. The candle flickers in the background. You try to use it to steady yourself but Xavier’s proximity makes you feel uneasy.

“Thou is my wife,” Xavier murmurs. He reaches up and pushes the dark hair out of your face, his eyes focusing on yours once again. “My bride’s concerns shall be mine.”

“I am not thy bride,” you breathe the words out and close your eyes just as he leans in.

Your foreheads meet and his hands find themselves on your waist. He pulls you close to him, your body flush against his. Your hands rest on his chest, pushing against his defined muscles through the thin fabric of his shirt. He keeps you close, though, his breathing mixing in with yours, growing heavier by the second. His hand moves from your waist to the back of your head, his lips now hovering beside your ear.

“Why must you deny me the pleasure that is you?” Xavier sighs. “Must thou remain difficult?”

“I am not a heart to be won, just to be forgotten,” you respond. You unconsciously move your hands from his chest and place them around his neck, hooking around him. He pulls you closer. “I am not won through chivalrous gestures nor will I be swayed with grand romance.”

“Then tell me,” the prince pulls away. His hand slips from the back of your head and to your cheek. His touch is fire against your skin. It burns. Your stomach flips in on itself. You catch yourself before you can lean into it. “Tell me how I shall win thy heart.”

“Tis not my heart to be won,” you loosen your grip on him, “tis respect and honor. Duty.”

“Duty?” his face flickers with confusion. You slip away from him but the tips of his fingers graze along the bare skin of your arm. He captures your hand, not allowing you to escape him quite yet.

“Love will grace thine hearts in time. Tis a truth we must embrace. I seek a noble soul, a steadfast protector, who shall remain at my side, undaunted by the whispers and tales woven by thy’s court,” your whisper grows louder. Xavier loosens his grip on your hand, allowing it to fall back to your side. “Thus shall you win my favor and heart’s desire.”

The village streets are as lively as Rafayel described to you as a child. Tonight’s celebration is one from Lemurian tradition, a Festival of the Sea. It is a way for the Lemurians, who originated in coastal towns in the early days of the Roman Empire, to give back to the sea, to give the oceans their thanks and praises for providing them with the means necessary to survive. Lemruians are servants to the sea and they bow to no man.

You consider yourself lucky to have an alliance with them, especially with their prince. An alliance with a Lemurian is almost always a guaranteed victory, especially when the battles take place on the sea or in royal courts across the continent.

Your arm is wrapped with Rafayel’s, his long purple hair getting caught with the wind. The two of you laugh as you reach the center of the seaside village, smiles plastered on your faces as Xavier plays the role of chaperone, remaining just a few seconds behind.

The three of you are a couple drinks in. You have passed through the stalls passing out desserts from your home kingdom and Rafayel’s as well. At one point in time, you passed off your favorite treats for Xavier to try. He finished them all with no questions or refusals, the loose crumbs from the sweet bread seasoned with saffron remains along the outline of his lips. You fought the urge to reach out and wipe the specks away.

Temptation is a slippery slope, though.

The sun has finally lowered below the horizon. Candle light and torches illuminate the night as people pass by each other with practiced ease. You miss the mixture of blues and oranges but appreciate the sight of the stars in the sky, their light and twinkling appearance putting you at ease.

You turn and look at Xavier from over your shoulder. He trails behind you and Rafayel, having remained silent for the majority of the night. You had hoped that tonight would have brought him out of his shell but you learned to appreciate his respect and openness to new traditions and cultures that are laid before him.

Xavier watches as the mixture of Lemruains and Nabrians flows throughout the village. It is unusual for him to see. The only time that Xavier has such two kingdoms get along so well — tried to, at least — was at his cousin’s wedding. One of Philos’ daughters was wed off to a king to the northwest of them, located on a smaller island.

Xavier’s mind wanders to his cousin’s wedding. He wonders what it felt like to be married to a stranger. Did her husband feel as intoxicated with her like he feels with you? Did his cousin’s husband fall in love the moment she tried to put him in his place?

He remembers his cousin’s tears the morning of her wedding. She did not get in a choice in the matter, much like  you, but unlike your circumstance with Xavier, the first time she met her king was at the wedding altar. She did not have the liberty of meeting him beforehand, they did not receive the chance to get to know each other like Xavier has with you. It is not like you talked much, though. You have remained silent while you rode across the small stretch of desert.

“What does he think of?” you turn back around, looking towards the tile ground. Rafayel looks down at you, barely sparing the fair headed prince a glance before he stops walking, stopping you with him.

“Your Highness,” Rafayel waves his hand in front of Xavier’s face. He wears a smug smirk on his face, his arm still linked with yours. He stands slightly in front of you, his face not in your eye line. “Your domina asked a question of you.”

“You did?” Xavier turns his attention to you, his once hardened expression softening.

“Twas wondering what you think of,” you state, looking straight into his eyes. You can still feel the burning sensation of his skin against yours, the way the fire and spark lingers on your body, gifting you no release. The corners of Xavier’s lips perk up in a moment of happiness but it disappears as soon as he opens his mouth to speak.

“The future,” he responds, beginning to use your own words against you.

“The future?” you tilt your head to the side, feeling seen with the way he speaks.

“Tis what I stated.”

Rafayel’s eyes flicker between the two of you. The purple haired prince does not particularly enjoy the sudden familiarity between you and your prince. He slips your hand free from his arm, catching your attention, but he quickly laces your fingers with his. You look up at him just as the heart of the village, the city square whose floor is covered in beautiful and vibrant tiles that are laid in a design of a lotus flower, begins to play its next song.

“Dance with me, domina,” Rafayel requests of you. You begin to shake your head, not remembering the last time you have danced was, especially in the carefree and energetic Lemurian fashion.

“I do not know if it is a good idea!” you laugh. From the corner of your eye, you watch as Xavier slips free from your vision.

“As long as it is a choice we make,” Rafayel draws you close to him, your hands resting upon his chest, as your combined laughter floats into the air.

The city square is flooded with people. You and Rafayel take to the center of the dance floor, assuming your beginning position together, his hand massive in comparison to yours. There are a few other couples lined up around you, their smiles as big as yours. Xavier remains in the background. One of Rafayel’s soldiers places a chalice filled with wine into his hand. He immediately begins to drink as the music swells, the string instruments and makeshift drums filling the night air.

Rafayel remains in place as you circle around him once you listen for the note to move. Your body is loose as you step around the Lemurian. Your eyes meet his blue and pink ones, feeling as the man’s hands attach themselves to yours. You memorize the sharpness of the gold and red lines on his face, admiring the way they make him look more mature. He spins you around with ease. The crowd that surrounds the dance floor is a blur.

You do not catch the scowl on Xavier’s face as he passes off the chalice to the Lemurian soldier. The wine burns down his throat. His body tingles and feels so light yet so heavy at the same time. His blue eyes remain on you and you alone. The blue silk of your dress catches in the wind while Rafayel spins you around. He wishes it was him in the Lemruian’s place.

“Thou remembers the steps,” Rafayel speaks once he brings your body back to his. The two of you dance with ease, the steps to the routine coming back to you through muscle memory.

“Tis back like a faded memory!” your laugh is breathless, the wine from before finally taking an effect on your body. You close your eyes, your smile big across your face, Rafayel’s hands guiding you through the moves. His hands attach to your waist and he lifts you up in the air, your silk dress flowing in the wind, before your feet connect with the ground again. You look up at him from over your shoulder once the music comes to an end, slightly out of breath. “I need wine!”

“Aye!” Rafayel cheers from over the sound of applause. He claps his hands together before taking your hand into his, leading you away from the dance floor.

Xavier’s head perks up as soon as he catches a glimpse of your blue dress leaving the dance floor. He pushes through the crowd as people file onto the mosaic tiled floor. He bumps into a few peasants, offering a quiet apology as his vision blurs. He spots your skirt and follows it like it is his North Star. The prince does not lose sight of it, watching as you sit at a nearby table where Rafayel takes the spot by your side. The man stumbles up to the table and sits on the wooden bench, making for sure that he is in front of you.

“Xavier,” there is a hint of concern in your voice. You lean forward just as a woman places glasses of wine and mead onto the table. “Art thou—”

“The prince will be okay, my domina,” Rafayel interrupts. He reaches over you and places the glass of mead in front of Xavier, placing one of wine front of you. You turn and look at him, beginning to shake your head. “Aye, calm, domina. He can take care of himself.”

“Tis not why I worry,” you mutter under your breath.

You look at Xavier. His cheeks are light pink in color, his eyes disoriented as he looks directly at you. It sends chills down your spine. you look him up and down, noticing the beads of sweat that roll down his neck. The man is clearly not used to the heat, thankfully, he will be back in his kingdom and you with him. There is enough space for him on the bench beside you. You gesture to it and the man’s eyes grow wide. He stands and rounds the table, taking the place by your side.

“Necessary?” Rafayel asks in his mother tongue. The sound is sweet on your ears. You welcome it with open arms.

“His men are watching,” you return your words in his language while covering your action with an excuse, nodding your head to the Philos dressed soldiers who stand not too far away. “Does thou wish for my image to be tainted?”

“If it means I get to thou mine, it would have been worth it,” Rafayel’s voice is genuine.

You pause in your moment, feeling Xavier lean into your side. You meet Rafayel’s gaze but he is quick to look away. A frown forms across your face, your stomach erupting with butterflies. Rafayel finally turns to look back at you, his face void of his charade, one that he kept on to ensure that your prince felt safe in enemy territory.

“Might I take a quick leave? The night is not over and I wish to break bread with thou one last time before we sail the sea,” Rafayel stands from the bench and leaves before you can even respond.

You face forward, staring at the group of people who dance and sing in the Lemurian tongue. The chalice of wine in your hand grows lighter as you sip on the alcohol, your body slipping into a more relaxed state. Xavier groans from beside you, his blue eyes desperately wanting to meet yours but you are too to notice him. He sits up, holding all of his weight to himself now, and stares at the lively scene before him.

Philos is not like this. Their celebrations are much more tame in comparison to the Lemurians. They dance in organized rows and their desserts are are frivolous as their clothes. Many woman in Philos dress their best every single day. Their fashion is to catch the eyes of possible suitors — or perhaps the eye of a prince — and to show off their wealth. It is materialistic now that he thinks about it. Xavier never paid too much attention to it, his head always in a book or sparring with other soldiers at the base of the mountain. His time, much like yours, has been dedicated to the betterment of his kingdom, not to learn dances for celebrations or worry if he wears the most expensive fabrics.

Although, Xavier will spend the kingdom’s treasury if you asked him to. He will buy you all of the silks and jewels that you could ever ask for. He will hand you gold coins for exotic animals and perfumes if it meant he got to see the same smile you wore on your face while dancing.

“Princess,” Xavier slightly slurs the word, his rationality finally catching up to him.

“Prince,” you return his greeting, turning your head to look at the man.

“I wish to leave this place,” he informs you. You raise your eyebrows, slight dejection morphing across your face. “I wish to leave while thou wishes to remain. Pray tell, when I depart, dost thou intend to spend the eve with Prince Rafayel?”

“What hath befallen thee?” your voice is loud enough to listen to over the sound of the string and wind instruments. The banging of the drum is noticeably absent as a slower song plays. “Why worry oneself with trivial matters?”

“It matters,” Xavier reassures you. His eyes move away and he spots Rafayel approaching with a plate of desserts and Lemurian delicacies. He notices, though, that the plate lacks any food from Nabira. He scoffs and turns back to you. “I do not wish to see thee with a man of his stature.”

“He is an Admiral,” you comment, a small smile tugging the corners of your lips up.

“And I a prince. One who commands his own vassal!”

“You are both princes,” you correct him, “and yet you are the one who wishes to conquer.”

“I do not wish to conquer,” Xavier shakes his head, “I follow my King’s command but he? That vile villain, wishes to conquer.”

“Lemuria holds no dream of conquest,” it is your turn to scoff and look away. Xavier quickly cups your cheek and brings your gaze back to him. There is desperation and anger in his eyes, a hunger that slowly begins to overtake him.

“Lemuria may not,” Xavier whispers, “but he does. He doth desire to conquer thee as his own.”

Silence falls upon you. Your posture straightens and you turn away from Xavier, a chill running down your spine despite it being a hot night. Rafayel approaches the table and sits across from you, placing the plate in the center. His blue and pink eyes focus on Xavier, who remains effortlessly devoted to you, while you stare at the party that unfolds from afar, a look of confusion and calculation written all over your face.

“What? What concerns thee?” Rafayel asks with a quiet snort. He glares at Xavier before his expression softens as soon as you turn to face him.

“I wish to take my leave back to my chambers,” you stand and Xavier follows suit. “My betrothed will ensure I am safe.”

“No,” Rafayel stands and is quick to walk around the table. He takes your hands in his own before you even realize it, a quiet gasp escaping your lips. “Allow me, my lady.”

Xavier reaches to the connected hands, breaking them apart. He gently pushes you behind him, his tired and reddened eyes narrowed at the sailor. Rafayel clenches his jaw, his hands returning to his sides, before his eyes flicker back to you. He lets out a stiff chuckle. He bows his head and steps to the side. His eyes remain tied to Xavier’s, blissfully unaware as you reach for the sweet saffron bread from the plate, tucking it behind your back and out of sight.

“Fair night be unto thee, my domina,” Rafayel bows his head as Xavier guides you away, “we shall meet upon morrow’s dawn to take you home.”

You pause. Xavier looks down at you, noticing the strain that flashes across your face.

Home. Is that not the place you were plucked from? It is now a two day ride away from Nabira’s borders and after your journey across the sea, you will be months away, years if you travel by foot.

Xavier places his hand on the low of your back. He glares at Rafayel and gently pushes you forward. You walk through the crowd, bowing your head back at people who pay you the respect first.

Tonight, you were barely seen as a domina, as a political and heavenly figure that must have respect gifted towards. You were as normal as the servants who passed you by, their smiles as big as yours as you danced with Rafayel. Your feet hurt. Xavier remains close to your side, waving away any of his soldiers that step forward to help. The two of you find yourselves walking along the dock where the Abysswalker floats which sits beside your inn for the night.

Xavier remains a small distance from you, watching as you walk the line along the dock where the ocean water sprays you whenever a wave comes crashing in. There are no more lanterns around to guide you through the night. The only light now comes from the bright and full moon. You look down into the waves, the water as black as night. You look back up at Xavier, whose back straightens as soon as your eyes land on him. You hold out the piece of bread.

“Eat this,” you speak. He takes the bread and rips it apart, your mind still dizzy from the glasses of wine you have drank throughout the night. “It will save thee a headache.”

“Will it?” Xavier quietly hums to himself. He brings the spiced bread up to his lips, slowly chewing as he watches you. “Why take leave with me?”

“Why fill my head with thoughts of conquering and worry? Hm?” you are quick to counter. You slow your steps and so does Xavier. He finishes the bread with a few more bites, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What mission did thine accomplish?”

“Truth,” Xavier states.

The moonlight shines along your dark hair, the light reflecting off the strands. It brings Xavier comfort to know that the moon adorns you with its beauty, that the silver colors of the night suit you as much as the golden colors of a day in the desert do.

“Truth? Is that you speak of?” you step closer to Xavier. He simply nods in response. You do not know if he speaks of truth in an objective or subjective manner.

The problem with truth and so called honesty, as you have come to learn from many moments in your life, is that there is always motive behind it. People do not willingly expose their worries or sorrows, they do not put their cards on full display for their enemies to see because, well, that is what you and Xavier are, no? The truths that originate from men in power, from soldiers and nobles, are always attached with a hidden context, something that you know to look out for.

So…what is Xavier’s motive for showing you his cards?

“I do not wish to be thine enemy,” Xavier fills in the silence. The lights of the noble-run inn flicker. You focus on the yellow flames instead of the blue in Xavier’s irises. “I wish for us to unite as one.”

“The why speak of campaigns for my heart?” you ask, feeling vulnerability slip into your voice.

“Duty’s embrace is cruel, domina,” Xavier slips into your mother tongue. You hold back a gasp, shock written all over your face. “I do not wish to see us succumb to the cruelty and coldness that come with it.”

“Why does thou work hand in hand with it? Duty forced thee across the world! You are an accomplice to duty,” you speak, closing the distance between you and him. Perhaps it is the wine that has given you the courage to speak up. Maybe it is the way you have finally realized that you are now doomed and will be imprisoned in a place that does not want you.

“You are as much of an accomplice as I am,” Xavier counters.

“Duty did not force me to set honor to the side and traverse the realms to slay innocent people,” your breathing grows heavy, “it did not force me to smite those who oppose my rule.”

“You speak of thine brother?” Xavier switches back to his tongue. It frustrates you.

“Of course I speak of him,” tears fill your eyes, “he was taken from me. It was your doing.”

“He was well aware of his intent,” Xavier groans, “he knew the rules of combat as did I.”

“A battle to the death,” you laugh and push past him. The silk of your dress sends chills down his spine. “How pitiful.”

“What course of action would thou have taken, then?” Xavier grabs your hand, pulling you back to him.

“Terms,” you spit the word out, “terms for peace.”

“The battle between thine brother and I was the terms,” Xavier’s voice drops. “His fate hath been tied to him since birth as was yours. Be grateful that you are alive.”

“Grateful for a life of servitude and political games?” your anger begins to boil deep inside of your chest. “A life with a man who does not care for me? Who chose thee on a whim? Ah, yes, your Highness, I am eternally grateful for the life fate hath laid for me.”

You rip your hand free from Xavier’s. You turn around and rush towards the tall stone building, the wooden doors opening as soon as the soldiers spot you. Xavier is hot on your tail. You move with precision, the layout of the building already memorized in the back of your mind, as you traverse the stairwells and long corridors. Xavier has kept a decent distance, following you down the dark corridor that leads to your bedroom.

“Who said I do not care?” Xavier steps forward, closing the distance with a few easy strides while you hold the fabric of your dress skirt in your hands.

“Thou dost not care by forcing his betrothed to leave everything behind,” you approach your door and grab the black handle.

You pull on it but Xavier’s hand pushes the wooden panel back into its place, trapping it and you in the process. You can feel the heat from his body on your back. You close your eyes, fists balled at your sides, feeling as Xavier leans down, his lips grazing the fragrant skin of your neck. His hand leaves the door, wrapping itself around your body, keeping you in place. You do not fight back. You lean into his chest, your back fully pressed against him.

You remain near him despite all of the warning bells in your head ringing all at once. You ignore your mind’s plea for freedom, following your innate desire to remain close to the man you will call your husband.

Xavier slowly inhales, taking in the floral scent of your perfume. His free hand reaches around your body and plants itself on your chest. The heat from his hands seeps through the thin material and you shudder, a pool of warmth forming in the pits of your stomach. You let out a breathy sigh, tilting your head to the side to give Xavier more room.

“Duty’s embrace is cruel and cold,” Xavier murmurs against your skin. Your body heats up, your face flushed as you lay your hand on top of the one that rests on your chest. “Let us endure this trail as one.”

“As one?” you breathe out.

Xavier slowly kisses your neck. He starts at the base and works his way up, pressing a feathery kiss where your pulse is the most prominent. You gasp and push your body back into his. The candlelight is dark enough for the two of you to get away with this scene, your quiet breaths and the sounds of Xavier pressing his lips over and over along your skin the only things that will give you away.

“Why me, Xavier?” you ask.

Xavier turns you around, pressing your back up against the door, hands pressed against the wood on either side of your head. He towers over you, his breath smelling like mead and wine, a sweetness stained on his mouth. You reach out and place your fingertips upon his lips, dragging them across the leftover wine stains. Xavier kisses your fingers, his blue eyes locked onto yours. You shudder. The man frees his hand from the door and cups the side of your head, his fingers tangling themselves into your hair.

“Say it again,” Xavier whispers in your native language. He avoids the question. “Say my name.”

“Xavier,” you follow his command like the obedient wife you think he wishes you to be.

A low grunt vibrates in the back of his throat. Without wasting another second, Xavier pushes forward, connecting his lips with yours. His grip on your hair slightly tightens as you accept his tongue into your mouth. He leans into you, the door creaking from the weight. Neither of you care. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his closer to yours if it is even possible. Your breaths mix in as one, quiet words of praise coming from Xavier’s mouth, muffled between your colliding lips.

He finally tastes the wine you allowed upon your lips. You taste the saffron from the bread on his tongue. The bitter mixes in with the sweet, intoxicating you deeper into the kiss. He reaches down and lifts you up, your legs wrapping around his torso. The prince pushes you into the door, the tan stone acting as a barrier between you and the rest of the world.

Xavier pulls his lips away from your swollen ones, traveling down the side of your face to your neck. He targets your pulse point, biting down on your skin. You let out a gasp, eyes flying open from the sensation. Your legs tighten around him. You feel something press into your core. It shocks you. The sound of guards stirring near the stairs makes you dig your nails into his nape.

“Xavier,” you breathe out, head rolling back into the wood of the door. Your voice remains low, matching the quiet of the night. “We shall be discovered.”

“I do not wish to leave,” Xavier’s breath is hot against your skin. His hands travel from your waist to the fabric of your dress His fingers slip under the dress and graze along the back of your leg, leaving chills in his wake. “Do not make me leave.”

“My honor—”

“Shall remain intact,” Xavier sighs and pulls away from your neck. His eyes look at your skin, a small smirk forming across his lips as dark red and purple spots littler one side of your neck. He keeps you in his arms, using one hand to hold you while he opens your chamber doors. “Duty is cruel indeed,” he mutters under his breath.

He walks you inside your room, roaming towards the bed. You feel his defined muscles from under his cloth shirt, your cheeks heating up all over again. Xavier lowers you onto your bed, quickly gathering the scattered belongings and setting them on the trunk at the foot of your bed.

He stops at the bow. He picks it up, inspecting the golden accents that are molded into the dark wood. His blue eyes flicker to you, the prince setting the weapon down atop your weapons.

“I wish to see you shoot,” he comments, remaining in place.

“Thou will,” you whisper, “in time.”

Xavier nods. His eyes flit to the empty space in bed beside you, his body wanting to move to lay beside you. He slowly steps towards the door, the candlelight just bright enough to show him his way. He pushes it open and looks back at you, a soft sigh leaving his lips.

“Until tomorrow, domina,” Xavier calls to you.

“Will you get me before we leave?” you quietly ask, sinking into the blankets below you.

“Of course,” Xavier nods.

The prince silently leaves the room, closing the bed chamber door to be as quiet as he can. Xavier quietly walks down the hall, finding himself at the stairwell. Just as he is about to set foot on the stones, he spots the Lemurian prince staring at him from below. He does not speak, simply glaring at the Philos Prince.

“Say it,” Xavier barks the command.

“Thou’s greed will ruin her,” Rafayel’s voice is low and dangerous. The muscles of his arms flex, his blue and pink eyes narrowing on the prince who stands at the entrance of the stairwell. “I refuse to see it happen.”

“Need not worry,” Xavier tilts his head to the side. He licks his lips, tasting the floral notes of the oil you graced your skin with. “She will be safe with me.”

“Is that so?” the Lemurian prince asks. He moves up the stairs, the men now at eye level with each other. “Do not make me sink a boat to be rid of you.”

“If I did not know any better, one would think thou has issued a threat,” Xavier’s eyes sharpen.

“Not a threat,” Rafayel’s eyes darken, “a promise.”

as always, likes, comments, & reblogs are greatly appreciated! please show love to the works & authors you read from!! <3 we love commenters!!

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDS React to a War General Reader

AN: Take a guess, I am reading Brandon Sanderson. I fucking love Dalinar and Kaladin. I would die for them. Alas I must write this. This is also why I have been writing so little.

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn reader

Ingredients: 100% pangst (pining x angst- my fav combo)

My Fav: Xavier because of course he would fall in love with someone older.

Xavier:

He is barely of age when he first sees you.

The war banners rise above the parade ground, crimson and silver, the kingdom’s crest stitched in gold thread , all symbols he has known since birth. But none of them matter.

Not when you're standing beside his mother, head held high, armor gleaming in the fading light. You are a warrior of her clan. A general. Her most trusted blade.

Your hair is braided back in soldier’s fashion, but a few strands have escaped, clinging to your cheek. You don't brush them away. Your hands rest calmly on the hilt of your sword. Not possessive. Just ready.

And then he sees it, the scar just below your right eye. Faint, half-faded, nearly lost among the curve of your smile.

Something fractures in him.

His chest tightens. His breath catches. The war drums beat in the courtyard, but he can only hear the thunder in his own blood.

Anxiety. Awe. Something darker. Something deeper. A sense of longing he doesn’t know how to name yet. He shouldn’t feel this. Not for someone like you.

But he does.

He watches you from afar for months. In training yards. In strategy halls. Once, in the rain, when you carried a wounded squire and scolded him with a laugh in your voice.

Each time, he falls harder. Softer.

He prays for battles just so he can see you ride out. He studies maps not for war, but for the chance to be stationed at your side.

Because you are the sword of the kingdom.

And he, he is just a boy in love with a flame that does not burn for him.

Yet

Rafayel:

The court sings of you. You, the general with sun-threaded hair and dimples that damned worlds.

Rafayel watches from the edge of the throne room, wine untouched in his glass, jaw set tight. He watches another group of nobles stumble over themselves just to get near you, and of course, you smile. Of course, you lift a fainting young lord into your arms and laugh like it’s all a game.

And the court laughs with you. Because you are beautiful, and beloved, and so damnably kind.

He mutters under his breath, "For a warrior, you smile too damn much."

But he watches. Always.

He watches the way your blade moves fast, clean, elegant. He watches the way you speak to soldiers by name. The way you remember their children, their injuries, their fears.

He watches you stand beside the Lemurian crown and never bow too low. You are not theirs. You’re not anyone’s.

Not even his.

But gods, he wants you.

In the darkest part of the sea, where even the sirens do not sing, you are his sun. The only warmth he ever knew.

And it infuriates him , that the court gets to see you laugh, to bask in his sun.

He dreams of you. Of you loving only him.

And if that makes him selfish, so be it.

He’s already drowned for less.

Zayne:

You are not a soldier. You are not a general. You are something older. Something worse. Something eminent.

Zayne hears the earth shudder before the gate even opens. The stars above Astra dim as if to brace themselves. Then your laugh. Low, raspy, hungry, one that has been silenced for way too long.

He doesn't need to look to know it’s you. The one they warned him about. The one he was supposed to kill.

You do not walk. You arrive. Sword dragging, blood-slick, eyes sharp with some storm even the gods couldn’t name.

And still, he stands between you and Astra.

Not because he believes in the fate. Not because he believes in the god who owns his bones. But because he needs to see it. Needs to see if the stories are true. Needs to see if a god can truly be undone. To see if his wretched fate with you could ever be laid to rest.

You raise your weapon. You smile. You say nothing.

And Zayne, traitor, guardian, prophet, fool, finds himself shaking.

Because you are not fate. You are its end.

And he, broken thing that he is, loves you for it.

He does not beg you to stop. He looks forward to the end that brings him to you. Away from the world.

Sylus:

The general kneels in front of the wounded, sleeves rolled to the elbow, armor long discarded. Your hands are stained with the blood of soldiers no one will remember. Your voice is hoarse from barking orders and whispering comfort in the same breath.

He watches from behind the war tents. A dragon in name, in form, but not yet in freedom. Still bound. Still collared. Still owned.

He is no stranger to cruelty. He has seen the whip. Felt the fire brands burn across his scales. Heard his name used as a command, not a right.

But you, you speak differently.

You sit with the dying. Share your meals with the stable hands. Offer your water to those who carry the tents for the war camp.

For the first time since his capture, since the collar was tightened around his throat, he feels a human hand touch his snout without fear, without dominance just gentleness.

“Be free,” you whisper. The lock on his chain rusts, and then crumbles beneath your fingers. “Beyond the mountains,” you say, voice soft in the old tongue. “Where no one can name you but yourself. Where the skies are bright and the land men have yet to walk on.”

And then, just like that, you let him go.

You didn’t just free a beast. You gave him a name. And that name, Sylus, he has carried it through lifetimes, meant only for you to utter.

Caleb:

He watches the light bleed from your eyes. Not all at once, slowly, like a sun setting behind smoke. Like a lantern flickering through ash.

You’ve both fought too long. Too hard. You’ve won battles that should’ve broken you. Celebrated victories with laughter that always came just a second too late.

He’s your advisor. The arrow in your quiver. The plan beneath your fury.

But this time… this time, something has shattered.

The battlefield is still. The wind has no songs left to carry. Your helmet slips from your hands and rolls to a stop among the corpses.

And you...you fold.

Not dramatically. Not with rage. You just… bend. Under the weight of what you’ve done. Under the weight of what you are.

Caleb rushes to you. Drops to his knees before your crumpled form, hands trembling, reaching. “We fought for our people,” he breathes, brushing dirt from your cheek. “For our king. For our home. For—”

Your eyes don’t meet his. “It was for nothing,” you say.

Your armor is cold against his chest. Your tears are hot against his fingers. He tries again. “You protected so many. You gave them hope.”

But you shake your head, slow and dazed. “So much blood,” you whisper. “For nothing.”

And he knows then, this isn’t about the war. It’s about you. About what you lost to become the kind of weapon kingdoms needed.

He holds you tighter. Like maybe if he anchors you, you won’t slip away completely.

He is so cold. And so afraid. Because if you can fall, what else is worth saving?

[scielson]

henry being hans’ squire adds so much romantic potential. like, henry is supposed to help him with his armor, stay close by, and accompany him everywhere. historically, a squire’s duties included tending to their lord’s needs, from maintaining weapons to assisting with dressing, like small moments of proximity and trust. it was completely normal for someone in henry’s position to take care of their lord, which opens up so much potential for subtle skinship and unspoken tension.

[serpentface]

Here's what typical vestment for The Odomache looks like.

The pelt of the lion that was originally sacrificed and worn raw for her incarnation is retained throughout the years of service, preserved and fashioned into a headdress and cape (obscuring a helmet). This can get dreadfully hot in the summer but no one ever said that being a hollowed out pathway for God's spirit was easy.

The body is always obscured near completely, barring the hands, feet, and parts of the face (philosophically, these are the body's least vulnerable parts as its modes of Action, though this is in large part a practicality). This is partially a matter of psychological enforcement that this person is not Just a human, and partly a matter of protecting the part of God's living spirit that's in a wholly human body. Conceptually, the Odomache Enables tremendous power rather than being intrinsically powerful in of herself, so all manners of protecting the metaphysically vulnerable human body are of tantamount importance in her case.

The complete obscuring of any identifiable feminine form is also notably important to the underlying philosophies and biases involved. It is necessary that she is female, a condition ascribed a unique malleability to change and transformation (for good or harm), but the act of female/non-male sex and gender assignment also serves to uphold an underclass in a patriarchy that she By Necessity must be distanced from. This extends beyond the masculinized social and dress performance of Odonii to a masculinized social performance with dress that utterly obscures any part of the body that could be gendered, and dress that is not gendered in of itself (women do wear less revealing clothing than men and skirts of similar length, but the act of Fully covering the body in this form exists outside of the bounds of gendered dress).

[[It should be noted that on a historical level, this role is largely a descendant of a variety of 'celibate and/or masculinized female religious authority' figures in pre/proto-Wardi societies stretching back centuries, rather than an emergent property of contemporary religion and philosophy. This is an adaptation of older roles and worldviews to securely fit the contemporary zeitgeist, and that's part of why many aspects of this role Superficially clashes with said zeitgeist.]]

The relatively undecorated white cloak and robes in comparison to culturally favored displays of color and opulence further emphasizes a sense of the Odomache's separation from humanity. The Wardi image of God is not a human lord, but rather the world itself and the functions of the world distilled into the forms of animals. Human hierarchies exist Within God rather than God having a place within human hierarchies, so in this philosophy it's natural for this particular person of high authority to not closely resemble a Human Authority.

This is still ultimately a human body existing at the top end of a human hierarchy (and in the dimension of religious thought, it a human body holding aspects of God most specifically concerned with maintaining concepts of 'right' civilization and hierarchy), so public-facing garb like this will still include a few mundane trappings of lordship such as this fancy gold khattanocuy displaying an image of an enemy being trampled by the Face Odomache as the guardian lion. Purely ceremonial garb for the Odomache hides the body in its entirety beneath the white cloak and forgoes all decoration save for the obligatory weaponry.

A sword and dagger is worn at all times as a matter of being the ultimate physical bastion of her society's military might, and she is always accompanied by a retinue of 'lieutenants' (Extremely elite servants/squires) who carry whatever other elements of her perpetual armament are not currently in use. These weapons are Completely ceremonial in nature (to the point that they're made or plated with gold rather than anything like, durable) and there is absolutely zero expectation that the Odomache will ever directly engage in combat (the times this has happened historically have been when things have gone horribly wrong).

Her face is usually masked in public, though this is not a strict necessity of the role and is forgone for some ceremonial purposes. On these occasion, it's standard to paint the face red to still partly obscure human features in the same fashion of battlefield Odonii. As the color of blood, it positively evokes bodily vitality and strength, the living spirit of the world itself and the mode of connection to God (and will also be reminiscent of the rite of incarnation during which she is Actually covered in blood)

[its-cosmerely-an-obsesh-wound]

As Kaladin joined Skar, the man picked up another spear from beside the wall and tossed it out the window.

“Storms,” Kaladin said, glancing at the squires—who in their haste to assemble their camps hadn’t yet noticed that Skar was stealing their weapons. “This group is particularly oblivious, aren’t they?”

The nearest group of squires finally saw what Skar was doing. Several of them yelped as they realized he’d managed to dispose of every spear in the place save three.

Skar doubled his pace, tossing two more spears out the window before—at last—one of the new recruits managed to grab his weapon and hold it tight. Like a mother with a newborn, eyes wide. The rest simply gaped out the window.

Skar grinned. The man enjoyed all this a little too much. 

“We’re under attack!” Skar bellowed. “Squires, to arms and form ranks!”

Stunned silence.

Then mass chaos.

Skar gave Kaladin a wink.

“Sir!” one of them shouted. “Our spears!”

“Stolen by the enemy when you weren’t looking, you dun spheres!” Skar bellowed. “Might have thrown them out the windows!”

“What do we do?” another asked.

Skar gave her the most withering of stares. “You go and get them.”

[marlinspirkhall]

"No man shall defeat you in combat"– get girlbossed, idiot

"No man or woman shall defeat you in combat"– nonbinary knight

"No man woman nor person shall defeat you in combat"– squashed by a tree

“No man, woman, person, neither incidental nor intentionally launched falling object shall harm you"– high velocity metal attack from outer space!!!

“No Man born of woman shall harm you”- get MacDuffed, idiot

“No Man born of woman nor from his mother's womb untimely ripped shall harm you”– trans man and his kids come to fuck you up

“No Man born by caesarian section nor natural birth shall harm you”– defeated by someone grown in an artificial womb

“No swordsperson shall defeat you”– taken out by a squire on their first training session

“No swordsperson, of any standing, shall best you in combat”– stabbed by jester during knife juggling routine

“No weapon shall harm you” – shovel to the face

“No weapon nor shovel shall harm you”– stepped on a rake

“No weapon nor tool shall harm you”– run over by a horse and carriage in the marketplace

“No vehicle designed by Man shall harm you”– crushed by UFO, angels get the credit

“No human nor their familiar shall harm you”– eaten by dragon

“No creature, real or mythical, shall harm you” – crushed by angel, aliens get the credit

“No Being nor Demigod shall harm you”– crushed by tree again

“No Being nor Object shall harm you”– gamma radiation

“Neither Being nor Object nor radiation shall harm you”– vitamin D deficiency

“Radiation shall not harm you but you shall still be able to absorb sunlight”– skin cancer

“Here's some sunscreen”– why, thank you

– run over by alien horse and carriage

[nonbinaryeye]

Is Henry a page or a squire or an armiger? And what is the difference exactly?*

I've been waiting for a while for someone more educated to make post like this but since no one has done it yet... Henry has been called interchangeable Hans' page and Hans' squire** and it's been bothering me a bit for a while.

To make it very simple, a page (páže) was usually a boy from age 7-14 sent to court to get education, doing job of servant, messenger and maybe learning how to fight but he's not expected to partake in any battles. Page is at most taking care of horses and weapons and usually they are not even assigned to one knight or lord in particular.

From age of 14 page usually becomes a squire (panoš) and usually serves just one knight or lord, taking care of all the equipments, horses continuing their studies and training with weapon and accompanying their lord or knight to battles while still also taking care of all the other possible needs of the lord or knight they are serving. At age 21 they can make their oath and be knighted after performing some knightly deed. The squires were usually noble born as in medival times only noblemen could be knights.

Then there's also an armiger/armorer/shield-bearer (zbrojnoš), as far as I've checked, Henry is not called that in English only in Czech dubbing. The role of armiger is similar to one of squire, the difference is that as far as I understood a man of any social status could be an armiger. The difference between an armiger and a squire is that armiger is not of a noble class and also he mostly only took care of their knight/lord equipment and served them in battles without all the additional tasks squire was expected to perform.

So now to the question - what exactly is Henry? Technically by all the things he's performing the role Henry is assuming is Hans Capon's life, by all means he should be called his squire. His role in what tasks he's doing is more versatile than the one of armiger and he's fighting by his side and too old to be a page.

Now to the questions everyone in the fandom keeps asking - could Henry ever become a knight? Well, actually, yes! As far as I know from my research though bastards of nobles could not get any inherentence from their noble parent, their relations should be enough to allow them to be knighted if they proved themselves.

So only the reason he would be called a page is if the way to knighthood really required one to go through all the stages "page - squire - knight" and so even though Henry is older than page is supposed to be, he would need to assume the role of one to progress further, since his circumstances are quite unusual.

*Or does the game elaborate on that more somewhere and I've just missed it? (there's one dialogue check with Klara regarding knighthood but it does not really clear Henry's position much...)

**at least in Czech version he's called both his page (páže) and armiger (zbrojnoš) and I'd swear he's called squire (panoš) at some point too (well, if nothing else I know for certain Henry calls himself that at least once in kcd1). Feel free to correct me if he's never actually called squire in English original though.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hi again, i am in need of you help. How do you write a loyal knight character? A true devotee of their charge, but not so much it turns dog-like.

Writing Notes: Loyal Knight Characters

Hi, you can consider using some character tropes as a guide. Found a few examples for you:

"Knight in Shining Armor" Trope: The medieval knight who fights baddies, whether villains, knights, or dragons, and in The Tourney, charms ladies without deliberately seducing them, behaves honorably, and saves the day with his sword; but also, any hero who behaves similarly.

The "shining" originally referred to the way his armor and weapons were kept in good condition, as opposed to the rust that accumulated for less competent knights. Most knights will be depicted wearing plate armor, despite it appearing relatively late in the era of knights. Them using a Knightly Sword and Shield is also pretty likely, though the usage of plate armor with Knightly Sword and Shield is actually historically inaccurate since shields were considered redundant while wearing plate armor.

"Lady and Knight" Trope: The brave, chivalrous knight defends and falls in love with the fair lady.

"The Paladin" Trope: Paladins are warriors dedicated to furthering the cause of all that is good. Holy crusaders, they combat the forces of evil wherever they are found, and defend the helpless as much as possible. Above all else, paladins are good.

"Knight in Shining" Tropes

This is the set of tropes that cluster around Knight Templar: the forces of light in hardcore mode, excessively or otherwise.

This mentality is all the way over on the Idealistic side of the Sliding Scale of Idealism Versus Cynicism.

The Trope Codifiers are the Chivalric Romances of the medieval Matters of Britain (Arthurian Legend) and of France (Charlemagne) — especially the innumberable fantasy novels and verse epics of the 15th through 17th centuries which were based on, set in, or vaguely inspired by the older Carolingian myths.

The Arthurian myths have a less militantly idealistic style than the Carolingian ones; the Arthurian work most completely of this style is Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

This pattern is rarer outside of Europe (and before the Middle Ages) than within it.

The closest analogue to European chivalry was bushido, the code of the Japanese samurai, but the Japanese code emphasized loyalty to one's lord, even to the point of doing evil,

while the European one emphasized loyalty to one's conscience, even to the point of treachery.

Of course, that doesn't mean that non-European heroes can't act like this—and it doesn't mean that European heroes always do, either.

The Roman-derived tradition of "My Country, Right or Wrong" was always present in Europe.

Originally, the word knight was a job description with no connotation of high birth or status: it merely meant a warrior who was skilled and wealthy enough to fight on horseback, and owed their service to someone powerful.

The English word knight is derived from an Anglo-Saxon word for "servant", while most other European languages use a word meaning "horseman" (e.g. German Ritternote or French chevalier).

The word began to take on new meaning in response to social changes at the dawn of The High Middle Ages: the flourishing of merchants and cities gave them new wealth and power to compete with the nobility, while the increasingly independent Catholic Church became more assertive in trying to curb the misbehavior of the warrior class.

In order to maintain their distinction from the class of people who worked, and to reconcile the violent nature of war with the ideals of courtesy and piety, the nobility and gentry absorbed the military role of knighthood while turning it into a more exclusive and regulated order.

A noble child would usually start as a page in order to learn discipline and manners, spend their teenage years as an arming squire taking care of a master's horse and equipment, and when they had grown into a fine warrior, they would be recognized as having earned their spurs. Not everyone became a knight through such careful grooming, though.

Commoners could be rewarded with knighthood for exceptional service, and rulers facing a shortfall of heavy cavalry would sometimes make laws requiring anyone who possessed a certain amount of property to present themselves to be knighted whether they liked it or not.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

Hope this helps with your writing! More research might be needed for literary/historical accuracy.