—— ✶⋆.
“Tis’ time,” the knight’s face was covered by his armor, though Evan knew every single expression the young boy had on him. “I have trained the Vanguard my self, your Majesty.”
“You have served with great valor,” answered the Queen, his mother. Her slender frame was covered with an embroidered veil, she looked far too beautiful for this dreadful time. “This courage shall not go without recompense.”
Barty— or how Evan was supposed to refer to him, the Royal Knight, kneeled before Queen Lavinia. Behind the silver armor, a boy a year younger could be found. A boy who had grown up with him, a boy who Evan trusted his life to. A boy who used to play hide and seek with him whenever the prince felt like forgetting his tasks. Bartemius, the 16 year old with his own warband.
“I seek no recompense, Your Majesty,” he said, voice steady. “The honor of protecting His Royal Highness is sufficient to me.”
—— ✶⋆.
1377, Kingdom of Rosier.
Evan woke up at the crack of dawn.
Falling asleep with the knowledge of many lives being taken in your Family’s name was not easy. Keeping said state was also a challenge, his dreams being constantly turned into battlefront nightmares.
Evan was never one for war. Whenever he had sparring lessons, he coincidentally fell sick and could not leave his bed for any reason. An odd statement, since he was born in the midst of battle —quite literally, Queen Lavinia gave birth to him as troops attacked the outside villages. The troops were killed in his name. All hundred and twenty three of them.
His father didn’t seem to mind this aversion to violence, claiming he was blessed by Peonia, the matron of the mind, instead of Drakos, the patron of war. Evan was fine with this until he turned 17, a time where he was expected to at least have his own guard, and he was meant to lead them too.
The war had been going on for a score of years, and it had taken everything with it. He couldn’t even remember what it was about— something about a northern Kingdom trying to take over the throne. His throne.
He hadn’t known a life without war, but that didn’t keep him from dreaming about one. He liked politics well enough, though his personal desire was to become a scholar. He’d also want to be able to leave the Fortress for once. The Prince did not have many friends, asides from the help —Severus, the cook’s boy, and Lilian, the daughter of the Bard— and his knight.
He used to live with his siblings, until they were forced to leave the Kingdom in order for, if something went horribly wrong, the bloodline to prevail. He was five. The girl was four, and the younger boy was two. Pandora, his younger sister, was in the castle of Moscow, alongside the Black Family, who also went into hiding because of troubles of their own. And Felix was welcomed in the Kingdom of Navarre, completely alone.
He missed them terribly, even if he didn’t have much time with them. But they were safe, and that was best.
When they were younger —he and Bartemius—, they stayed up after curfew and shared what would they do if this war ever came to end. Barty said he would remain being his knight, but, if he was granted permission, he’d like to attend school. Evan, to this day, did not understand that dream— tutors were awful. But he just nodded when the 13 year old confessed his mind.
Evan sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The morning light of the sunrise filtered through the heavy velvet drapes of his chamber, casting long shadows across the stone walls. A sharp knock at the door pulled Evan from his half dreaming state. He hesitated before answering—it was early, and few dared disturb the prince at this ungodly hour.
He groaned, passing his pale hands through his face. No calluses in sight— his mother said that had to change. “What is it?”
“Your Highness’ Champion,” Evan rolled his eyes at the term, “Sir Bartemius has returned. The campaign was successful.”
He immediately perked up. Was he absolutely furious at the boy for not answering the letters? Yes. But he was alive. That was enough for an apology. “Where is he now?”
“His Majesty has requested his presence.”
Of course. Of course his father would’ve personally asked for the boy, demanding a play by play of the war. Was he foolish for wishing that it’d been different? That he would’ve been the one to see him first?
“Your Highness? Are you—“
“Go away now,” he plopped back on his mattress. “Thank you for delivering the good news.”
The servant hesitated for a moment, but the footsteps appeared quick, so he assumed the man was gone.
With his face buried into the pillow, his yelling was muffled. He felt so… useless. People were dying, and killing, and stealing, and committing far too many sins in the name of “righteousness”, whilst he lived comfortably in the Fortress.
Many children were stripped away from their childhood, many father’s had left to fight, even the women were made into casualties of this dark period. And he? He was here, hidden away, sheltered from the brutal realities of the battlefield. The thought made his stomach turn.
His frustration boiled over again, and he paced to the window, pushing aside the curtains to stare out at the distant hills, where the dark shapes of soldiers could be seen training in the distance. They looked so small from here—insignificant against the vastness of the kingdom, so unimportant than his names were forgotten in his mind, if he ever knew them.
How could he be so bravely defended, if he had done nothing but be born with the right name to earn it?
—— ✶⋆.
Barty hadn’t taken off the helmet since the beginning of the meeting.
Evan was highly concerned about that— the boy was hiding something. Queen Lavinia had called for him to participate in whatever planning they had to make up, hence his and other noblemen presences. The retinues were also present, supplying details of their opponent’s forces.
One of the various Lords, a stout man with a gruff voice, pointed to the eastern portion of the map, where enemy forces were gathering. “We’ve received word that the northern forces plan to attack over the Bronze Fortress, just before the first light of dawn. We must place the Meadowes’ household knights quick.”
The Queen cleared her throat. “They will hold the line for the first wave, but it won’t be enough. The northern forces outnumber us by at least three to one in that region.”
“Is there anything else to do?” inquired the reeve.
“We cannot send them to immediate death,” Evan felt one too many eyes set on him as he spoke, even the gaze of those shielded in their helmets were piercing. “I— I mean, what good would it do? We’ll be left with less soldiers, and, with a fortress down.”
His mother looked pleased to have him finally contributing. “Do you have any suggestions, son?”
He didn’t. He had no idea how to play soldier, let alone, lead them with a strategy. But he had read enough novels to come up with something decent, hadn’t he? “Reinforce the secondary ridges around the Bronze Fortress. If the Meadowes hold the fortress long enough to lure the enemy in, our archers and cavalry can encircle them from the west and south slopes.”
That earned him a few nods. One of the younger lords, a boy not much older than Evan himself, added, “They’d be caught in a pocket. Their numbers would work against them.”
“And we’d spare the Meadowes knights from being sacrificed in vain,” Evan muttered, and only the ones sat closest to him were able to hear.
“Knights?” Queen Lavinia finally addressed the young men.
Sir Wilhelm was the first to speak. “Your wish is our command.”
He was a seasoned knight, sworn to House Meadowes since his youth, and though he would die on command, he was no fool. He knew what “bait” truly meant. They all did.
The other knights followed suit in ritualized echoes—all of them approving of their guaranteed unsafe return—, voices blending into a solemn chorus of obedience. None refused. None ever would. Not in front of the Queen. Not in front of the boy who had just spoken his first piece of strategy in a war older than he was.
Evan dropped his gaze. The words felt like poison in his mouth now— he had meant to protect them, and somehow, it still sounded like a death sentence.
“Excellent,” the Queen clapped her gloved hands together. “I call this meeting adjourned.”
The room began to stir, the nobles straightening their backs, scribes collecting papers, knights rising from their seats with polished grace. Even now, as they moved to prepare for bloodshed, it was all done with ceremony, as if death were just another page in a ledger to be balanced. The chamber emptied slowly, leaving behind only the echoes of boots and banners rustling in the high windows.
Evan was the last to go. He wanted to leave in peace to try and collect his thoughts— he didn’t expect a full armed knight to follow him around the fortress, for sure.
“Why are you following me?” asked the Prince, stopping in his feet and turning to meet the boy, face-to-helmet.
“It’s my job, your Highness. I’m your personal—“
“I know what you are,” interrupted him Evan. “You never followed me around before. What is it? What is the matter?”
Barty paused, armor glinting faintly under the torchlight of the long corridor. He tilted his head slightly, as if confused by the question. “We were always together. I— I did do— I’m sorry, your Highness, if I didn’t do my job.”
“Do not call me that,” he huffed. “And of course we were. We were— we are friends.”
Evan’s head felt dizzy. He had never given much thought to his friendship with the knight, and the realization that maybe, maybe Barty was always with him because he had to, not because he wanted, was something he couldn’t fathom.
Barty didn’t answer at first. He just stood there—silent, solid, unreadable. The helmet didn’t help, leaving very little sight of the boy’s blue eyes. “We are friends, however, ‘tis my duty to follow you. Even if we weren’t—“
“Stop it,” he demanded. “Are we only confidants because of your position?”
“…Yes?” the faceless boy mumbled, only to quickly retract his statement. Kind off. “Wait, no. I meant, I wouldn’t have met you if not, your High–“
“I order you to stop calling me that!” Evan hissed. “I must’ve been blind. You only speak to me because of your oath.”
Evan’s stomach begin to twist violently, as if a hundred swords pierced right through it and were being jiggled in his insides. Did his best, and probably only friend, have other companions in the fortress? Did he only make his job easier, by unwillingly befriending him?
The few words spoken with the help’s children were incomparable to the bond he thought he had with his knight. His. He was supposed to be his.
“Your Hi— Evan. Evan,” Barty said, stepping forward, the chainmail under his plate creaking with the movement. “I don’t understand. We are friends, best of! But I doubt you’d talk to a village boy if things were different. ‘Tis not bad, it just is.”
“Unfair.”
“Not quite,” the tiny strip he could see of his eyes narrowed. Either he was smiling, or he was squinting. “We wouldn’t have met. I would’ve been an orphan boy, and you’d still be the Heir of our Kingdom. I wouldn’t be worthy —I still am not— of your time.”
His breath caught in his throat. Evan had never been the one to hide his emotions, so the look on his face must’ve been comical. “Worthy?” he repeated, voice hoarse with disbelief. “Is that what you think? That friendship is about worth?”
“I… Yes?” the Prince frowned. “No! No. No?”
In times like this, he wondered if Barty spoke his true mind, or he just said things to please him.
“You fool,” he said, low and shaken. “You absolute fool.”
“What am I saying that it’s so wrong?”
“Would you have liked me if we’d met in some village square?” Evan stepped towards him, a finger pointedly resting on the boy’s armor, as if accusing him of something. “If I’d had dirt on my face and no title in my name?”
“I would’ve lo—cared for you just the same. “Barty took a breath, swallowing so hard that a gulp was heard. “I mean—liked. Respected,” he added quickly, “You would’ve been funny and rude and completely unaware of your own charm. And I would be me. Without armor and all of that, of course.”
“And you think yourself unworthy?”
Evan’s heart shattered at the lack of response.
“Take off your helmet, Barty,” he sighed. “I want to see your face.”
The knight’s visor allowed him to see a glimpse of the now closed eyes. “I do not think that’s recommended. None of us have been clean–“
He shut him off, again. “Take off your helmet, Bartemius. It is an order. If you want to be worthy of my friendship you must–“
“Do as you say?”
“—trust in me,” the Prince ignored the interruption. “Do you trust in me?”
Barty did not hesitate. “My life is on your hands. ‘Tis yours to take and ‘tis in your command.”
Evan raised his chin, a sudden rush of something rising in his chest. “Then dispose of your helmet.”
With steady hands, his Champion took off the heavy metal out of his once handsome face. Evan would be a liar if he didn’t comment on the boy’s appearance— the memory of his looks was the one of three months ago, a week before he was sent away to the north.
To say that he was changed, would be an understatement. His cheeks were hollowed, his eyes, once bright and filled with spark, were. the same shade of the sea under a storm. He had attributed that to the shadows casted by the visor— only now, without the thing, they looked even darker if possible.
His face was dirty, both with mud and with dried blood, and the skin around his eyes was tarnished with brown paint— the mark of his title. Knights who worked for their House had to draw a line across their face to represent who they served: Red for King Gaultier, white for Queen Lavinia, and brown for him.
Though the physical changes were drastic, the newest scars were worst. A jagged scar split down from behind Barty’s left ear to his neck, not stopping even when the chainmail appeared— it was horrific. Red and crimson where the blood was old, pink surrounding it, hints of green and purple all over the wound.
The two others —one under his right eye, the other over his chin, both small— fell unimportant next to that monstrosity. It was as if Barty was almost beheaded.
The prince’s eyes darted over the rest of Barty’s face—the paleness that hadn’t been there before, a sick look that made his heart clench. A part of him had expected that this would be how Barty would look after a few months of battle and survival, nonetheless, no amount of preparation could have made the sight easier.
“Who?” Evan managed to get out.
“Northern scum,” he mumbled, his gaze dropped to the helmet in his hands. “They retreated, the cowards they are.”
He nodded stiffly. “How?”
“They’re filth,” Barty spat. “Attacked at night, most of us were asleep. Cowards.“
“Dishonorable bastards,” the older grunted. “And runners too. Next time, have the prisoners take their time with them. They will pay.”
“Aye. Brilliant idea,” the knight’s lips quirked up slightly. “Are you certain they deserve that, though?”
“Whoever did that to you deserves to go at the hands of rogues,” said Evan, with a deadly stare directed to an unknown man. He felt all of what he said— he was an honest soul. And, the scoundrel that dared to hurt his Bartemius, deserved hell on Earth before arriving to the actual eternal damnation.