Ah, the jousting tournament. It was an event England, currently a teenager, had adored since he was just a tiny child. The grace of the horses… The shine of the knights' armor… The loud clash of lance against shield… The roar of the crowd… It was all ecstasy. His passion was so strong, in fact, that the moment he grew capable enough, he entered himself in the tournaments.
It was not unheard of to have countries participating in their own jousts. Although it was true that most nations preferred to watch the action as opposed to being part of it, and sent their best knights to partake, others- such as the audacious young England- chose to participate themselves.
Upon his debut, Arthur Kirkland (if nations were to contribute, they were to make it apparent that they were average knights, not representations of countries) was immediately labeled the underdog. None of the spectators were aware that he had in actuality been around for centuries; to their eyes, he was a young man, not even 20 years old. Little did they know of his amazing stamina and dedication- traits that would lead him to be a feared pirate king later in life. This was illustrated in his first tournament, when he managed to triumph as dominant over every one of his opposing knights.
His reputation skyrocketed from there. Arthur never lost; in fact, some opponents would toss themselves off their horse, knowing before the man-to-man combat even began that they were to be beaten. Such fame could only last for so long, however. Eventually, the day came that his defeat would show its head.
It was only natural that someone of such often victory would become at least a little cocky. Arthur would trot into the arena, sitting high on his black-as-night stallion, waving casually at his boisterous admirers with a slight smirk on his face. His youthful appearance left the ladies swooning and the lords envious, yet striking fear and a dash of shame into the other knights. Yet this time, for once… he was shown up.
They rode in one after the other, almost as if they were all representing the same kingdom. This was obviously not true, seeing the colors they wore: black and white; yellow and red; red, white, and blue. The first knight's level of arrogance made Arthur appear meek; he rode on a sleek horse whiter than snow, complimenting the silver-blonde shade of his rider's hair. A toothy smirk as wide as the ocean was set beneath a pair of scarlet eyes. The second knight shone with a very likable aura, yet at the same time he didn't come across as someone you could easily pull one over on. His skin was tan, eyes were like sparkling emeralds, smile was bright, and hair was the same dark chestnut color of his mount.
The last rider would have even caught the eye of a blind man. His horse was a mystifying shade of gray, so beautifully light that it almost seemed to be a spirit. The unmistakable pride with which it trotted still didn't match its rider's. He held his head even higher than the first rider's, his shoulder length blonde hill flowing about his shoulders like an angelic glow surrounded his head. His smile was absolutely hypnotizing, prideful, arrogant, and flirtatious all at once. At the sight of him, Arthur's confident grin faltered.
"…And representing the kingdom of France, lord Francis Bonnefoy," the hosting king's leading lord had announced. Francis Bonnefoy… The name echoed about Arthur's head. He told himself this wonderstruck feeling was a result of being faced with a new challenger; any other reason- anything romantic- would result in severe punishment: homosexuality was most frowned upon.
The tournament proceeded as usual. There was, however, a notable difference; it was obvious to anyone that these three new knights- Gilbert of Prussia, Antonio of Spain, and Francis of France- were not unfriendly with each other. Whenever one of them scored a point for their country, the others' negative reactions weren't the usual ones of knights growing gradually closer to defeat; on the contrary, they were quite childish. They would stick their tongues out and boo, grinning and then calling something positive like "Good shot." When it got down to the man-to-man combat, they'd tease each other, pretending to lunge with their swords just to unnecessarily get the other on edge. They treated the whole thing like a silly game when their opponent was one of the others.
However, if they were facing someone apart from the trio, it was a whole different story. Gilbert was obviously trying to keep a lid on brutality, coming perhaps too close to incapacitating his opponent. Antonio fought with the air of a freedom fighter, awe-striking and fiery. Francis was both graceful and strong, his movements liquid and perfect.
For Arthur, this was most intimidating.
When the end of the games came around, it was Arthur against Gilbert. He'd come this far; Arthur's exhilaration was pulsing throughout his body. He could do this, he knew he could… Inhaling deeply, he pulled his helmet down over his face, cracked his neck, and readied his lance. On his command, his horse streaked across the arena, Gilbert bolting from the opposite direction…
It happened far too quickly for Arthur's liking. For the spectators, it was something simple, yet for Arthur, it was a devastation. All that had happened was Gilbert's lance glazed Arthur's shield, sending a few sparks sprinkling to the ground below. Arthur, however, had not been counting on being hit so soon, and this tiny touch was enough to catch him completely off-guard. He lost his stature on his horse, stumbled, and rolled to the ground with a clatter, his helmet tumbling off right with him. Only a quarter of the audience cheered; the rest made sounds of shame and surprise. Gilbert smirked and hopped off his own mount, tossing his helmet to the side and holding his hand out for one of his men to provide him with a weapon.
Arthur was still in a state of shock as a sword was pressed into his hand. How had he been knocked off so quickly? He'd only been the first to fall one time before, and even then it had taken a few strikes to get him down. No matter… That was in the past; now was the present. He swung his sword.
The two men were almost even in both build and experience, though appearance wise Gilbert had a good 5 years on Arthur. The elder matched every single one of Arthur's swings, the din of their constantly clashing swords reverberating throughout the arena. Arthur's teeth were clenched tightly, his thick eyebrows furrowed deeply in frustration; Gilbert wore the same smirk he had entered with, though with a deal more wildness this time around. Sweat poured down both of their faces, and both of their muscles were tense, yet Gilbert somehow seemed much more relaxed. He knew how this battle was going to end.
Clash, clash, bang, slice, bang. Even the din of the screaming crowd couldn't drown out the two men's sword fight. With what sounded like a war cry, Gilbert channeled every ounce of his strength into one swing. With a clang so loud it could easily have deafened anyone nearby, Arthur's sword flew feet in the air, spinning out of control until it landed yards away. The force of the impact knocked Arthur himself back, gasping for air with wide eyes. Heart beating rapidly, he crawled backwards, waiting for one of his men to supply him with a new weapon to defend himself with, but it was too late.
The air sharply left Arthur as a heavy foot smashed down onto his chest. The audience gasped; this was a little too brutal than was allowed. Still, Arthur attempted to squirm away, not yet ready to give in. He could win… He always won… He needed to win… He was so blinded by adrenaline that Arthur didn't even take note of the fact that Gilbert was raising his sword, ready to deliver an illegal strike.
The crowd was going insane. Arthur was a fan favorite; how dare some haughty new contestant treat him like he was so inferior?! Nonetheless, their chants didn't reach the English nation… Yet one screamed demand did: "Give up, you sot! Being so stubborn will cost you your honor AND your life!" Something about the tone of that wild French accent made Arthur freeze. His eyes trailed off to the side where Francis Bonnefoy stood in the same arch through which the horses had exited, his eyes wide and frantic, staring directly at Arthur. Gilbert's muscles tensed, ready to slice Arthur's throat, when a shaky exhale of breath made him pause.
"I surrender," Arthur whispered. Gilbert's scarlet eyes blinked; he hadn't actually expected the Englishman to give in. Still, rules were rules, so the Prussian dropped his sword and stepped back. At first, the crowd shouted nothing but boos… But then a murmur seemed to skip around them, until a tiny collection of applause spread like a plague and nearly everyone was cheering wildly. With a broad grin, Gilbert made his way to center stage and accepted the praise.
Arthur, meanwhile, tried to slink off without being noticed. How did he, Arthur Kirkland, lose so easily… The nation of England did not lose… His absent gaze drifted toward Francis and Antonio, just a few steps away from standing in the arena themselves. Antonio was whooping and clapping passionately as if it had been he who had one; Francis, on the other hand, clapped as well, yet his expression was dazed with a dash of poignancy. For a moment, his eyes met Arthur's, blue into green, and an unwelcome feeling sprung up inside of Arthur. His breath caught the moment he identified the emotion.
Oh, no.
~Author's Note~
First off, let me apologize for how rushed the first two chapters are. Originally, they were one big chapter, and this was just a one-shot. However, thanks to KiwiFruit07 I decided I was going to expand this into a short story.
Anyway. I was inspired to write this because last night, I went to Medieval Times (if you ever get the chance, I recommend you check them out- it was phenomenal) and there was a joust. Everyone is assigned a knight to root for, and I automatically fell in love with my knight… Seeing as the jousts were popular in England, I couldn't help but picturing England being so into them and falling in love with a knight. Seeing as jousting was so chivalric, and it was a European thing, I naturally decided that knight would be France. (the idea to include the BTT sparked from the fact that at the tournament I went to, there was a knight of the Prussian flag's colors, a knight of the Spanish flag's, and a flamboyant blue one that could easily be France.)
Two more things to apologize for: the cheesy title, and any inaccuracies throughout this story. I did pretty minimal research.