Wow, this has to be the fastest I've ever updated a fic before, updating almost each day. A huge reason is that your guys' feedback is, oh my gosh it's just so motivating and makes me want to keep writing nonstop. However, I do need sleep (stupid human body) so that's not quite possible. And now that you guys have given me quite a lot of suggestions, I have plenty of material to work with and that is fabulous! I hope you all continue to read and review, because seriously it's what keeps me going! And sorry about the length of this one, it kinda just wrote itself. I credit gwenhwyfar with giving me the idea for the ending.
A young squire, only ten years of age, awoke from a long, troubled sleep and uncurled himself from the fetal position he'd assumed for the past three days. He crawled out from beneath an old bed and into the sunlight that poured in through the half-collapsed roof. His small hands shoved aside a makeshift barricade that they had created in a rush when he'd sought shelter in that dilapidated, abandoned shack. Pushing open the door, he listened for any sort of noise, perhaps the clanging of armor or triumphant cheers. All was silent but for the wind blowing across the plains and through the wood where the hovel was situated.
No food or drink for three days left him weary, and he shakily got to his feet, leaning against the decaying doorframe for support. The heavy armor he still wore did nothing to help his balance. Staggering forward, his stiff legs carried him from the safety of the hut and out of the forest, to the open fields. A cool breeze ruffled his hair and felt glorious against his sweaty face. He raised his eyes to peer up a gentle hill expanding quite a ways ahead of him. Over the crest, he knew, was where a massive battle had taken place. What he did not know was which army had been victorious: the hearts, or the Knights that he had abandoned as he fled like a great coward into the wood?
He slowly trekked up the hill, unfastening and dropping various pieces of armor to the ground in his wake. All he could hope for was that his parents would be too joyful to see him alive to be angry about his actions. The White Knight had been counting on him to have his great lance prepared for whenever he might need it, and the squire had failed. He'd lost his nerve, dropping the lance and fleeing for his life when the Knight had called upon him. He was sure that the great White Knight would be utterly ashamed of him, deem him unworthy of ever rising to the same status. In the depths of his heart, the squire knew that he would never become a Knight.
As he came up over the ridge, all thought left him as he gazed upon the horrendous sight below. Strewn across the once perfectly green sea of grass, now marred by patches of dull russet, were the fallen bodies of his comrades and enemies. A lone flag flew in the center of the carnage, its pole standing firmly in the ground; the banner was embroidered with a single red heart. His legs carried him swiftly down the hill, seemingly of their own accord, until he stood amongst the deceased. Brave men and boys his own age lied haphazardly in every sort of position, still wearing their armor, some even still clutching their weapons in hands frozen with death. He did not need to inspect the bodies any closer to know that there were no survivors.
Then, amongst the fallen, he saw the White Knight, partially covered by the body of a foe. Even when so close to losing himself to death's clutches, the Knight had still been able to defeat one last enemy. If anything, the sight filled the squire with even more shame. The valiant Knight had been the epitome of courage and nobility, fighting until he drew his last breath, while the boy had run…nothing but a coward disguised by the armor that he had been unworthy of wearing.
With a heavy heart, he returned to the kingdom to report the army's defeat, only to find absolute destruction. The townspeople were slaughtered, some lying in the streets and others over the thresholds of the remains of their houses. His own home was nothing but a pile of charred brick, and his parents — or whatever was left of them — probably buried beneath the rubble. The once beautiful palace was now perhaps only half intact, and as he subconsciously wandered through its silent ruins, he came across the throne room. His Majesty, the Red King, slouched forward in the regal throne, dead just like everyone else in the kingdom. To his dismay, he found the King's hands bare of the stone of Wonderland. The ring that was passed down through each royal generation to the next King, that powered the looking glass, had been taken. Without looking, he knew that the looking glass had been stolen as well.
He knew that he was the only one left. And he wished that he had died with them. The greatest honor that a man could have was to die in battle; and he, nothing more than a craven whelp, had brought only shame and dishonor to his family name. How could he redeem himself?
He buried the dead. Every corpse that he could find, male, female, adult, child, royal, peasant, he laid them all to rest. After at least a month — he stopped counting the days of isolation — the entire kingdom, as far as he knew, was asleep beneath the ground, and he'd become quite the expert hole digger. But one body he left as it was: His Majesty, the Red King. The boy found himself too unworthy to lay even a finger on the King's body, and so the dead monarch would continue to watch over what was left of the once greatest city of the realm. With his work done in the kingdom, he set off for the battlefield to give the fallen heroes the same treatment. By that time, the corpses had been roasting in their armor for a good time, and the stench was almost unbearable. However, he had to do this; he had to pay for his actions. To bury strangers had been a difficult task, as he'd been unsure of what to say as the sole attendee at their funerals; while he was not a priest, he tried his best to help them onto the afterlife. What was perhaps even harder was to handle and speak to those that he'd grown up with, his fellow squires and the younger knights.
Worst of all was confronting the body he saved for last, the man that he had served, the White Knight. Even after being dead for some time, the very image of the Knight was intimidating. The boy felt as though he were being judged, being harshly ridiculed for abandoning his comrades when he was being counted on. Perhaps the Knight had fallen for no other reason than that he was in dire need of his lance, but the disloyal squire was nowhere to be found.
For the first time since he emerged from that shack, Charles Eustace Fortheringhay le Malfois III cried. Shock had left no room for thoughts of weeping, and work had left no time for tears. But now, subjected to the entire cause of his misery, knowing that his shame would cling to him like a shadow until the end of his days, the ten-year-old boy cried. He just wanted another chance to prove himself, to avenge the White Knight and all the others that had been killed. For if that valiant Knight was still alive, that's exactly what he would do. He would retaliate and somehow avenge his comrades-in-arms' deaths. That Knight had been brave and noble and honorable and —
The squire lowered his hands from his dirty, tear-streaked face and stared at the Knight's body resting in the grave, not yet covered with earth. He knew exactly what to do. He would carry on the White Knight's name, embody everything that he had been; with that courage and strength, he would avenge his comrades when the time was right, redeem himself, and regain his honor.
Over a century later, he'd lost his nerve again and run when a comrade was counting on him. He could hear the harbinger desperately shouting his name, "Charlie!" but he could not bring himself to turn around and do the right thing. That somewhat impudent, young man had charged into the throng of suits without hesitation to save the fair maiden, while he galloped in the other direction like the spineless whelp he'd always be on the inside.
With tears shining in his eyes once more, the White Knight berated himself for being an imposter, a cowardly fraud, and wondered if he would ever manage to live up to the title he assumed.
Did I get Charlie's name right? It's sort of hard to understand some of the stuff he says, but he's still awesome, my second favorite right after Hatter!