Written one sleepless night between midnight and three a.m. Week Two is successful! Stay tuned for Week Three.
A quick note again: DON'T SPOIL ANYTHING FROM SEASON THREE. I'm still watching it. If you spoil, I will rain ruinous contagion down upon your household.
Set a few days before the Battle of Luttenberg. You decide if this is romantic or not, I don't want to ruin your fun. We're just pretending that Julia and her silly jewelry had nothing to do with this. Kay? Kay.
Disclaimer: The story is mine. The smexy men, unfortunately, are not.
Silver blades cut the breeze in the early spring afternoon. Soft leather shoes dug into the gravel in the courtyard of Covenant Castle as their wearer tried desperately to regain the ground he was losing; he parried blows with ringing precision but could not for the life of him find an opening with which to regain his offensive stance, and still his opponent advanced steadily into him, sword pinwheeling, deft feet dancing away from his every strike, menacing him still further backwards towards the circular flower garden in the courtyard's heart. Strike and riposte, swing, parry, feint leftward, duck, strike and riposte, and suddenly a partial blindness and a tickle against his cheek. He reached up instinctively to brush back the long brown lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes, momentarily dropping his guard; a blade hooked itself between his thumb and the hilt of his sword and its hilt slipped too easily from between his sweating fingers. Conrad's sword went spinning into the air and clattered down against the stone pavers that ringed his mother's neglected flower garden; he lunged for it but, in his carelessness, his foot caught on an uneven slab and he went flying face-first into a withered bush of Beautiful Wolframs. He cursed his little brother internally as a thorn stabbed into his cheek.
"That's the match, Lord Weller." Conrad extricated himself carefully from the flower bed and met a steel point at the nape of his neck. He sighed and let his head hang limply from his shoulders. Sluggish droplets of blood dripped from his cheek and pooled in a tiny puddle on the dirt. He heard Gunter sheathe his sword with a long-suffering sigh. "That hair of yours has bypassed a nuisance and become a liability, Conrad. If we were on the battlefield more than your precious locks would have been severed by now." His fencing instructor helped him to his feet; concern and quiet disappointment shone in his violet eyes. "If they send you out unprepared—"
"Not now, Gunter…"
"Then when, Conrad?" Gunter's usually buoyant face was bogged down with anxiety and his eyes, like so many during these times of war and consternation, were ringed with the sallow shadows of sleepless nights. "When will you take this seriously? They are sending you out on the front lines of an unwinnable battle soon; within weeks! If you did not return— just think what that would do to your brothers! To Her Majesty! You will not bear home a victory. You may not even be able to bring back another living soul. But you, Conrad—"
"Enough!" Conrad interjected, disgusted at the images flashing through his head—images of himself in cowardly flight, leaving behind the scattered corpses of comrades run through with spears or run over by horses, a sea of nebulous faces who, though yet unknown to him, were his destined brothers in arms and thus as dear to him as kin; images, too, of that one face he did know, and too well, framed in vibrant orange hair matted with blood, ever-cheerful smile forever torn from familiar lips; gruesome images of death and the greatest horrors imaginable. His hands tightened into fists and he clenched his jaw so stiffly he thought he might break teeth.
"… Very well." The elder demon spun and strode back up the steps to the castle interior. Conrad tasted bile in the back of his throat.
"Hypocrite," came an instantly recognizable baritone drawl from above his head. "I don't see him cutting his ridiculous hair."
"Get down from there, you clod," Conrad said without turning.
"As you command, Captain." He heard a tree's branch rustle and soft-shod feet hit the ground lightly behind him. He looked over his shoulder. Josak crouched catlike to his rear, blues eyes alight with their customary roguish gleam. "You should try not to get your ass kicked so easily; I said I'd follow you anywhere and I will, but hell is not exactly at the top of my must-visit list." As usual, Conrad couldn't help but smile.
"I'll try not to inconvenience you," he said, wincing as the motion of speech disturbed the thorn wound on his cheek. Something that was not a roguish gleam flashed in Josak's eyes.
"You've gotten yourself hurt again. Idiot." Josak flopped himself down on the ground and reclined against the tree trunk, hands behind his head.
"Blame Her Majesty and Wolfram and their blasted rosebush," Conrad said with a sarcastic snort. He settled down beside Josak and let his head settle on Josak's thigh.
"You can call her 'mother,' you know. Gunter isn't here to scold you anymore." Brown eyes darkened slightly at the reminder of his failed sparring bout before closing altogether. Josak ran his eyes over Conrad's hair, spread across his lap. Long, certainly. Too long? Perhaps. He grasped a lock of it and ran it over his calloused fingertips.
"Josak…"
"My mother told me a story once. She said it came from the other world."
"Hmm…" Between the warm spring sunlight and his reclining position Conrad was feeling very comfortable; he felt his nights of sleepless worry catch up to him bit by bit. Josak brushed away a bit of the thin stream of drying blood remnant of Conrad's encounter with the Beautiful Wolfram. Conrad's face flinched, but his eyes did not open.
"Once upon a time," Josak mocked, and Conrad smirked contently beneath him, "there was an immensely powerful hero named Samson. He had the strength of a platoon of men. He once killed a hundred enemies using only the jawbone of a donkey he found lying on the ground. He was an unstoppable force of strength, invincible in battle, because he had once made a sacred pact with God. He would receive impossible strength. In return, he would never touch a corpse." Josak ran a thumb over Conrad's shallow thorn-wound. "He would never drink wine." The thumb strayed hesitantly towards the corner of Conrad's gently upturned mouth. "And, above all, he would never cut his hair." Conrad's smile widened.
"How does it end?"
"He gets his hair lopped off, of course. But only after he kills an army with a donkey's jaw."
"Lucky clod." For a few moments they sat in silence, each listening to the other's breathing, each silently wondering how long it would be before the other never breathed again.
"Make a pact with me, Captain."
"What?"
"I hereby demand that you do not cut your hair. In return I will give you tremendous strength and you will be unbeatable in battle. It's a good deal, don't you think? How about it?"
"Josak, that's ridiculous," Conrad scoffed, sitting upright and looking at his friend in disbelief.
"Why?"
"Because you aren't a god."
"So?"
"So, how do you propose to carry out your end of our little bargain, hm? It's a bit late for an intense weight-training regimen."
"Captain Conrad Weller of the Luttenberg Division," Josak boomed, lowering his voice and puffing out his chest to better imitate a thundering voice from on high. "On the condition that you refrain from cutting your hair until our pact is completed, I, Josak Gurrier, godly in battle prowess and in rugged good looks, do hereby pledge that I will be your strength. Any hand that would rise against you will be promptly severed. Any man who would face you with a blade will taste my own. My arm, my sword, and any donkey jawbones we may find along the way are hereafter yours to command. So spake Josak of godly might." Many moments of silence passed before Conrad burst into a laughing fit. Josak pouted. "I wasn't kidding, you know." Conrad grinned.
"Very well then, Josak Gurrier. I, Captain Conrad Weller, hereby accept your pact." He locked his hand tightly with Josak's.
"A wise decision, Captain. Otherwise I would have had to resort to drastic measures to save your precious hair."
"Sorry, but… why my hair, of all things?"
"Because it looks so damn good on you, it'd be a crying shame to let Gunter hack it off." Another flicker of something that was not his usual impish mirth passed over Josak's eyes, and Conrad had to smile.
"On second thought, I think I will cut my hair," Conrad said, twisting a few strands in front of his eyes. "The moment we get back."
"So certain we'll be returning, Captain?"
"With godly might on my side, how can we not?" They shared a laugh they did not need to contrive.
"My Captain," Josak said, bowing deeply and gesturing 'after you' towards the castle doors.
"My strength," Conrad replied, and nodded in return.