"Highlander"

Chap. 01: Him.

Highlander.

The first time he had been labeled by that term had been ten years ago, when he had roamed the land alone, dirty, starving to the near point to start considering eat his own horse, the only valuable possession he had to his name by that time, and a pigheaded sixteen-year-old self who had thought that traveling to the South was the brightest idea ever.

It wasn't.

War had been raging for more than two decades since the late King, Uther Pendragon, had been slain at the hands of those who he had once called "allies".

Not that the old man didn't deserve it with that business of invading Tintagel, slaying Duke Gorlois with whom the King had shared a peace pact he had shattered lusting after the wife of the other man, and reclaiming the said wife, then a widow, for himself.

The old fetcher had been betrayed by Gorlois' sympathizers, chased like a dog, and ultimately sinking his old sword, a symbol to his authority, in a stone, swearing that nobody but him would wield it… and thus, cursing his own land with civil war along with greedy noble Houses pursuing the throne by fighting with one another.

With such chaos and instability, Saxon invasion came.

And with the Saxons, came more war along with pillaging, starvation… and death.

He had arrived to the old County of Cambridgeshire penniless, landless and honorless, brutally exiled (and by "exiled" he meant he ran as fast as he had been able before his throat were conveniently sliced) by his older brother when he came to age and started to pose a threat to his inheritance when their old man's health had started to fail.

He had arrived knowing shit about the far South, mantled with his noble's son pride, his customs, his accent… and his appearance.

And out of the blue, people had started to call him this "highlander" thing, denying him access to small settlements and, ultimately, throwing stones and curses at him while spitting on the floor, closing all doors and windows like he was some sort of plague.

To them, he was nothing but a stranger, a foreigner from the cold distant High Lands where sorcery had been remarkably frequent and almost normal between females.

To them, he was equally or worse than the Saxon invaders.

They called him "highlander" while they meant to say "outlander".

And he had been alone.

And alone, sword in hand, eventually he had charged against small invader's groups; first playing the guerrilla strategy (a common occurrence where he came from since they had the mountain range at their favor), later frontwards like the red-headed giant with brute strength he was.

That way, he had made some coin and, unbeknownst to him, a name.

"The Red Swordsman" they had dubbed him, and not just by his unruly mane of long bright hair, but his sanguinary way to deal with the enemy.

The young man had been a butcher, and damn good at it.

But despite his not-so-unselfish "services" to his country, two years after his arrival people were still afraid of him, forcing him to become permanently errant, away from the populations and, thus, away from the whispers that brought news.

And the news had been painting a shred of hope in all that time he had been forced out of his home: King Arthur, legitimated Heir of Uther Pendragon, had dislodged the sword from the cursed stone and he had started to drive the Saxon invaders out of Britain country.

Since two years ago to that very day, Arthur had been convincing… or rather pushing the noble Houses to acquiescence to him becoming King of them all.

But he still needed allies. Loyal, strong-willed allies.

And nothing is stronger than ambition.

Guided by the rumors about this "Red Swordsman", the King had arrived at County Cambridgeshire rounded by his most loyal knights and they had started, slowly but surely, to comb the area, finding eventually their intended goal: to face the infamous "Red Swordsman".

By that time he had been eighteen years old but he had looked much older. Embedded in a mixed set of various rusty armor pieces painted with the few ancient runes of protection he knew from his home, dirty, with animal pelts for a cape and a wild air around him that could have matched a dire wolf's.

The King then halted and he had put his blue eyes over his broad figure and had spoken with dignify.

- I heard about thy accomplishments. – he said, observing all the time the body language of his interlocutor, who looked like he was going to tear their throats open with his bare teeth. And he wasn't far from the truth, actually – I am Arthur Pendragon, the true heir of Uther Pendragon.

The red-haired young man had displayed an almost insane grin, slightly crazed after so much time having really poor social exchanges.

- Pendragon, huh? – he replied, slightly amused by the looks of truly badly masked fright the other knights showed by just looking at him and his height, impossible monstrous for a man of the South, slightly remarkable for his people of the High Lands – You're the bastard son of that deceased King?

- Mind your tongue, highlander! - a knight beside the King yelled at him, promptly raising his sword and pointing the blade's end towards the wild red-headed man.

- Hold thy sword, Uryens. – the King stepped on quickly before a nonsensical confrontation took place between the two men – For we came to exchange words, not strikes. – and then, the reprimanded man sheathed his sword without a word but still eyeing the foreigner warily – We hail from Camelot, the old London, seeking aid to our campaign, Sire.

- And what campaign would that be, Pendragon? – the red-haired man sneered, making abundantly clear that he recognized no King in front of him.

The other knights exchanged looks of incredulity between them, but Arthur stood his ground.

- Have you not heard of the Kingdom Reunification, highlander? – another young knight of warm brown hair and bright amberish eyes rose, holding no grudge against the foreigner in his voice tone but still loyal to his King and taking proud of their recent work – Since the late King Uther's death, our land had been shattered, pillaged by those you so eagerly dispatched. – he added, pointing to his mismatched armor – I would recognize a Saxon forge anywhere.

Then the so-called "Red Swordsman" had snarled, his a sound closely resembled of a beast.

Because, sheer brutality had been all he had known even before his exile. His family had never been a happy one.

- And what if I took whatever I wanted from them? – he argued – I had nothing and they had plenty. They earned their keep by ransacking, pillaging and destroying whole villages… and I earned mine by killing them. – he stated proudly – I made an honest keep for an honest work. Who are you to judge me so lightly? – he defied, then turning his attention to Arthur, pointing a finger towards him – You should thank me for taking care of the vermin that infests this land! Whatever I earned was by my sword, and thus legitimately mine. – and that last word had been said with such malice, that some of Arthur's men had been unable to disguise their grimaces.

- Thou should know that thy services to my people had not been ignored, Red Swordsman. – Arthur stated, looking into the other man's surprised eyes with determination – And for that, I want to extend my gratitude… and an offer to join us.

This immediately raised a chain of astonished murmurs between the knights.

- My Lord! – Uryens took the word again – We know nothing about this… this highlander. Rumor said the High Lands are hostile territory, full of much more hostile people and sorcery, against any God's Law we are so hard trying to bring to our people. Who can be sure he is not a mad warlock eager to take an opportunity to destroy us? Think about Camelot, the symbol of our unity!

- T'is right, the highlander cannot be trusted! – another knight shouted, raising his armored fist.

But, as the voices of the men had risen around Arthur, the foreigner had started to laugh. His a not very comforting laugh.

- Well now, a dozen armored men afraid of what they ignore. This same rant is becoming dull and utterly boring. – he stated – But your people never came before me in friendly terms, nor you have the decency to ask my real name instead of calling me epithets, Britons. – he spat, venom tinting each one of his words.

But Arthur had risen his hand, shutting down his men.

- And how we shalt call thee, Goodman? – he inquired.

The green serpentine eyes of the red-head young man had brightened briefly with malice.

- You may call me by my name. – he finally said – You may call me… Ruber.

From that day on forward, the giant highlander, the one who called himself Ruber, had started a reluctant and strictly business-like relationship with the self-proclaimed King and his campaign against the Saxon invasion.

And eventually, he had gained Arthur's trust, even if Ruber manners and behavior stayed the same bold and antisocial as they were since the very beginning. Arthur thought wrongly that a man who was not afraid to express his opinion in regard of any matter and who wouldn't care about etiquette but the truth, was a fine addition to his Round Table Order.

Besides, if rough, Ruber was not uncultured, for he was well-versed in the mechanics of war strategy.

- Winters in the North are hard and relentless. – he had casually commented once – You would be surprised what a pastime a boy would find in an old castle library.

And so, under Ruber's command, many campaigns had ended with victory and, with the years passing and the land under Camelot Christian influence (a hypocrite façade, or so Ruber always thought, as Arthur's counselor, Merlin, was a powerful druid who relied in pagan magic to support his King), many dangers had been prevented because of Ruber's always impeccable foresight.

However, not many inside the Round Table were always in agreement with Ruber's unorthodox methods when it came to battle, for he was still ruthless and sanguinary and he cared little, if any, about sacrificing good men in order to achieve whatever goal needed for the kingdom's safety.

And rumors said that, when Arthur supported him to recover his lands and, thus, his noble title, Ruber had charged against the castle he once called home like a hurricane and slaughtered everything that lay before him.

Many men had lost their lives for his cause and every one of the soldiers who had supported his older brother, the reigning Lord since their old man had succumbed to age and a life full of alcohol abuse, had been publicly executed, even the ones who had surrendered.

And about his brother… many whispered about the head in a pike Ruber displayed for two whole months at his castle entrance to send a warning to those who seek to take from him what it was legitimately his.

What he gained by his sword.

This way, the infamous "Red Swordsman" became to be known by many now as "The Red Knight", a name many whispered both with awe and fear, uncertain what to make of the strange, fearsome red-haired northern giant who had been Arthur's General during all the years of battle after battle.

By that point he had been twenty-four and still unmarried, for no noblewoman in her right mind would have desired a match with such a monstrous man who, to adding salt to the wound, ruled a cold distant land where no law but Ruber's own reigned, blatantly disobeying the Christian ways Arthur had so carefully planted in his kingdom.

For in the High Lands, Ruber's territory, sorcery and pagan ways were stronger than ever since all the nomadic tribes and practically all the magic-practicing men and women had moved their residences to the harsh mountain ranges, forced to live exiled from their homes, welcomed with open arms by Ruber, who himself wanted nothing to do with Christianity and still worshiped the many war-oriented gods he had been worshiping since his childhood.

But with unity, came peace… and with peace, in Ruber's case, came again isolation, for no longer his expertise in the war was needed at Camelot's Court.

Isolation in his own lands where mostly everybody feared and avoided him, isolation in the chilling winters when his mind was darker than any other time of the year, sitting in his cold and hard throne made of stone while his calloused fingers drummed impatiently over the worn handlebars, munching about the pleasant, seaside winters he knew Camelot went through.

In those winters, little word arrived from Camelot or other parts of the kingdom and Ruber found himself… bored.

His twenty-five and twenty-six-year-old winters had been spent trapped in his own castle mainly because of the neverending snow storms roaring outside, rereading his old books, drinking a tad too much, seeking warmth (and human proximity, to his much dismay; knowing how pathetic and desperate his sexual life was starting to become at such a young age) between his bedsheets with the few available women under his service, prostitutes most of the time, and speaking with the few people who willingly would be close to him and/or shared more or less his same level of conversation: some carefully chosen servants who he kept mostly and exclusively for company, his old mother who was a sort of shaman-lady in his Court since her husband died, and his little sister Rowena, who was "touched by the gods" or, in Common Language, utterly insane since she was a child, but still adored her brother and always found ways to make herself a cheerful company (the dog-like kind) in her somber sibling's eyes.

Sadly, the insanity had been pretty common between the nobility in the North since they had been scarce, geographically distant ones from the others and they had been constantly fighting between themselves to gain more land property. And that leaded, one way or another, to inbreeding.

Ruber, Rowena and their deceased older brother, Radcliff, had been a product of a marriage between cousins who themselves were products of cousin marriages as well.

Their father had been insane in his own way, obsessed with hoard more territory to his name, living in a permanent stupor because of his unhealthy alcoholic tendencies, always rambling alone about nonsensical stuff, picking Ruber sometimes as his punchbag, sometimes as his apprentice in fighting and swordsmanship as well.

Radcliff's insanity had been his envy towards Ruber and his paranoia about him taking his place as their father's heir one day.

Rowena was mostly harmless… she was a threat to no-one… but herself.

She had the tendency to roam the castle, despite the time of the year, barefoot, half naked or with the laces of her dresses undid, and always pursuing the pleasures of the flesh with whomever man happened to come across her.

This way, Ruber and their old mother had found her many times in one of the soldiers' or servants' arms, making a disgrace of herself over and over again, and always seeking forgiveness in a somehow childish way throwing herself at his brother's arms giggling madly and, thus, shaming him greatly.

The ones Ruber found with his sister were usually whipped or, in the worst cases, impaled and displayed out in the courtyard.

And this, along with the cold winters, the isolation and many other factors, proved to be too much for Ruber.

Since the last year, the man had developed severe insomnia along with a constant alert state that brought several nervous, involuntary muscular contractions, mostly concentrated in the orbital muscles of his eyes and mouth.

And with this, he became incredibly conscious of his surroundings, searching in the people's faces around him any sign that gave away that they thought he was somehow deranged.

And this preoccupation of not becoming crazed was driving him exactly what he feared most: insane. Just like his father, just like his siblings.

He knew he couldn't stand any longer that situation when one night, after he had fallen pleasingly unconscious for a moment in his bed, lying between two naked and also asleep of the regular women he slept with, until a strange feeling of weight over him awoke him.

It was his sister, who had somehow slid into his chambers and managed to climb over him like some cat.

That very moment, even groggy, Ruber saw something in the girl's eyes.

Something that scared the hell outta him.

For she wore nothing but a slight camisole that left very little to the imagination, and her wild and messy mane of bright curly red hair had surrounded her face like some unholy aura, giving her reptilian green eyes an intimidating and more predatory look that they already had.

Ruber looked at her absolutely transfixed; pondering briefly if she already went completely mad and she came to his chambers to strangle him in his sleep.

But stupefaction transformed soon into cold realization when she put one pale little hand over his chest and the other wandered much lower.

His right eye twitched slightly.

Inhaling sharply, he had caught quickly the impudent hand by the wrist.

- No, Rowena. – he said smoothly, almost whispering, the way he was used to talking to her instead of screaming at the top of his lungs just as he, at that very moment, needed to – That's a line I would and will never dare to cross.

The girl's answer had been raking her long fingernails along his chest while her look hardened.

Because, in her lunacy, Rowena saw Ruber as her brother… but also saw him as the powerful, huge man the size of a bull he was, with big hands and a sensuous mouth with thin lips which would give her the pleasure her high libido so desperately sought.

Because he always treated her good and he never hit her.

Not like her father. Not like Radcliff.

Her father had been a bad father, the violent one kind… but Radcliff had been a worse brother when she had turned fifteen and he had grown eventually bored of his bedmates.

And he had been brutal.

Ruber wasn't anything like him; he spoke softly to her, he was nice to her. She didn't see any problem bedding him.

Fortunately, Ruber's brain was not so addled to even ponder such a thing, so he caught her other hand and sat up on the bed restraining her and her hands, which started to sink their fingernails viciously in his own hands' flesh.

The other two women stirred in the bed.

- You, out. – he said to one, directing his eyes to the door, not bothering to even remember their names – And you, go and fetch some clothes for my sister, bring them here and leave.

The two women obeyed without a single word and he had found himself dealing with his sister and her state to near undress.

When he managed to cover her decently, she groaned in frustration, dropping on the mattress and started to roll over it like some spoiled child.

Sighing heavily, Ruber rubbed his face until he reached the hairline, which was alarmingly pulled back to near halfway the top of his skull. So young and he was starting to get bald. It was, honestly, depressing.

- You must get us out of this place, my son. – a voice not far in front of him suddenly reached his ears – And soon.

Raising slowly his gaze, Ruber's green eyes found another pair of eyes with the same reptilian quality.

- Is the "privacy" word unknown to this family? – he grunted, meeting his old lady's visage with a slight frown.

But his mother paid no mind to his usual bold words and she sat on the mattress beside her daughter who quickly rested her head on her mother's lap, mewing sweetly, looking for some cuddles.

Sometimes she looked so frail and minute…

Combing with her hands her daughter's unruly mane, full of curls and knots in equal quantity, the old lady never took her eyes away from her son's.

Ruber could sometimes swear that his old lady never blinked, and that made her more difficult to stare back.

- State your business, mother. – he said, lowering his gaze, unable to hold back the cold stare with which the lady dissected him – It is late and I would like very much to catch some rest.

Always straight to the point. No use to beat around the bush with the old lady, really.

- Tell me about the warm climate in the Lower Lands, my son. – she unexpectedly said.

Ruber sighed. No sleep for him for the rest of the night, it seemed.

- I told you about it dozens of times. – he halfheartedly protested.

- Oh, but it is the only consolation this old heart has in these long dark winters. – she said softly, looking intently at him – If only we could settle down a little Southdown… enough to not to endure such harsh weather.

- What do you exactly want me to do, mother? – Ruber questioned sternly – This is our home and I already control more territory than other knights do. – he stated proudly – We are powerful here.

- We are isolated here! – the lady suddenly exclaimed, startling the now meek Rowena briefly; her eyes holding a strange inhuman glow no doubt thanks to her powers, greater but darker than any average magic practitioner – Cast aside, prisoners of our own land, banished!

- Banished?

- Did you not saw the King and his Court? – the lady said darkly – How they are spitting on their roots turning their sights to the Christian ways? Many of the banished now populate our lands.

- I do not care about religion, mother. – he said, crossing his arms – For in my lands, everybody has the rights to worship whatever gods they feel to. Arthur cannot erase our culture so easily.

- Oh, but he will. Eventually. – his mother said somberly – Christianity had proven to be a useful tool to control people's minds and willpower beyond the seas.

Ruber inhaled sharply, disturbed. His right eye twitched again uncomfortably.

- How will you possibly know that? – he asked cautiously.

For she was right. But news overseas had likely never reached the High Lands. He had learned this while in Camelot's Court.

- I've seen it. – she answered enigmatically – And believe me when I say that Christianity will bring our people in the next centuries great pain and sorrow.

- And what do you want me to do? – Ruber asked again, starting to feel impotent in a situation he held no power to remedy it – I do enough preserving our ways in my territory! Asking for more lands that are already Christian would be suicidal. Arthur knows already how things are here. That's why we got this share of lands… - he rambled, realizing suddenly the point in the present conversation - … Because nobody would want them. – he finished slowly, looking at his mother as if he saw her for the first time in his life.

- And do you not feel that is unjust, my son? – she added smoothly, knowing he was starting to grasp the extent of the situation. His mind and his fiery northern heart been buried under depression long enough.

- I do. – he said, nodding slowly – I do, mother.

- And what are you going to do about it? – she continued, pleased about the reaction her words had invoked.

Ruber's eyes narrowed, his gaze hardening, decision painted across his features.

For that day, awaken from his resignation slumber, the Red Knight vowed himself to make things better for his family, for his people… for himself.

He had been serving diligently Arthur for eight long years, granting him victories and people's gratitude and admiration. He deserved more, more than any of those meek men who sat at the Round Table!

He will pull the diplomatic chords in the next annual meeting, asking really nice for better and warmer lands.

And if diplomacy didn't sink in Arthur's goodwill… well, Ruber already knew how to deal with an undeserving, ungrateful King.

Author's note: first of all, I know shit about History of Great Britain and, for what I read about Arthurian Myths, the legendary King drove out the Saxon invasion, so maybe I didn't mess this up much, or maybe I totally did. Corrections are quite welcome, actually.

Anyway, English is not my maternal language, so if anybody sees grammatical mistakes, screwed up verbal tenses and the like, please, send me a private with the corrections and I will gladly actualize it.

Now, I don't know what crossed my mind to write this, but I've read all the stories in the "Quest of Camelot" section and only found one Ruber-friendly oriented, ONE! C'mon, people, surely I can't be the only one who finds him interesting, yes?

Anyway, as I've said earlier, corrections will be welcome. Corrections and comments if you liked it :P

Cheers!