Collaterals

A Faithful Man

Captain Gawaine had been, throughout his life, a faithful man.

As a his father's second son, he'd agreed to be sent as a page, traveling to the noble house De Clay and learning the mannerisms of court, the word of scripture, and the basic skills of horsemanship.

As a squire he'd polished armor till it'd shone, groomed horses and sharpened swords and followed his Knight like a dog did its owner.

As a knight he'd served his Lord till the man had died, carrying him across the dead carcass of battle so that he may be put to rest by his wife. 

And when he'd been transferred to the King's service, he'd claimed more land, led larger armies, and soaked the ground with so much blood he'd not have been surprised if the bodies he'd bathed in red had floated.

Then he'd been asked to chop up a woman alive, and he'd refused. It was then that his faith, his fealty, had failed him. It was then that he'd no longer been worthy, in the eyes of his King, to do more than train those hostage children. 

How angry he'd been. How he'd thought himself but a useless pawn. But, in his melancholy, a little girl with unruly hair and the glint of mischief in her eye had come to him. She'd molded figments out of flames: flying birds, creeping crickets, and, to his amusement, a man holding a sword. Some called her flame divine. Others called it blasphemy. It mattered little. Eventually, they'd slapped cuffs on her wrists, and she'd curled into herself as he once had. 

And so he'd trained her. First to push past the fatigue, harden beneath its pressure. He taught her the way of his preferred weapon: the broadsword. Too heavy for her frame, they'd said, too heavy for a girl. But she'd made no protest. Not when he woke her at dawn, before the others. Not when her arms shook, when the blade fell from her grip. She only stared ahead, beckoning him to parry.

To have built her up, to have pushed and guided and comforted...Only to see her robbed of a voice, drenched in her brother's blood. This time, when she curled into herself, when the Captain knew that not a slash of his sword, not a harsh lecture or a gentle push could help her, save her, he did the only thing he knew how: he'd sworn his fealty to her. He'd sworn fealty to her and sent a letter to Tain, all but begging that they come and get her.

They'd not come in time. 

No, not fast enough to redirect the hatred she'd woken from her slumber with. The Captain had not been allowed near her. The Princess had not wanted him near her, and he knew the damage had been done. She blamed him, then, blamed his people. But the Captain had served the Empire a great many years, and a massacre this sudden, this...purposeless...Still, he could do nothing but stand back. Could do nothing but follow— as he had as a knight, as a squire, as a page, as a faithful son— and observe. He watched as that Boy of a King tied wires around her wrists and ankles, puppeteering her into securing him a throne. And now that she was dying on the ground...

Captain Gawain grunted as he lifted her up, hissing through gritted teeth against the heat burning into his skin. He'd done this before, after all, when the Young Princess had learned her own fire could suffocate her. But she was a woman, now, a much heavier one with a sword jutting out of her leg, blood leaking from around its edges. She did not stir in his arms, eyes rolled back. The Captain would not look at her injury, not as he walked through the empty courtyard. The sky was all hues of pink and blue, the sun slothful in its ascent. It would have been peaceful, this emptiness, had it not been for the circumstances. Not a man or woman stood to aid her, the Boy King having ushered them all away to a banquet, cheers and laughs sounding through the window. 

And her lover, that Young Lord who'd secured her some semblance of reprieve; the Captain did not know what words the Boy King had spoken to him, but he knew they were harsh enough that the Young Lord had left Leila behind. It did not matter— Captain Gawain insisted as he held her tighter, terrified he'd bang her head against the walls of the staircase— he was here. And soon, the Tainish would be too. And the Boy King's claims about Tainish involvement in that massacre would be tarnished. 

And she would live. By the might of his beating heart, she would live. 

That was what he prayed, as he ascended one step after the other. He prayed to his own God that he would aid him up another flight of stairs, aid him in keeping his oath. And when that brought little solace...he prayed to Leila's God. He prayed that, as she'd been gifted Divine Flame, she would be gifted a long life. 

He took a breath, stopping for a moment on the last step before he sped down the empty hallways. Yes, a long life, he prayed, one where she saw splendor. One where she lived victorious. One where she did not need to don the cuffs or ask permission from Emperor, King, Mage, or Diviner to burn her enemies to the ground. Yes, a long life. And let it be hers, the Captain prayed as he used his shoulder to push her door open, not a soul in sight to help carry her.

He set her onto the bed: let her life be long, let her life be her own, he prayed and prayed. And though he'd not done it since she was a child, he pushed the hair now sticking onto her forehead with sweat and grime away, and kissed her clammy, cold skin as a father would his sleeping child.

Asleep, yes. She was asleep, and she would sleep for just a little longer, just until he found her a doctor.

That was the thought that guided him out of her room, his steps loud against the vacant quarters. It was a lucky thing years of killing had made him as much a cautious man as a faithful one, though, otherwise he doubted he'd have seen the figure ahead slithering through the dwindling shadows of the rising dawn. 

As he'd done for most of his life, Captain Gawain unsheathed his sword.