Changing the Stars

By Alone Dreaming

Dedication: To my dear Steph, for being a steadfast friend and giving me the idea.

Author's Notes: This was written as a spur of the moment thing. It's a one shot from Chaucer's POV. Read and enjoy and please, please, review. It means a lot.

The Black Prince asked him if he was fit to compete. Such a silly question in my mind. Will fit to compete in the joust? He could be bleeding from both his eyes, his ears and have half his innards hanging out and he'd be fit to compete. Will could go days without rest, without food, without water and if someone requested for him to finish a tournament, especially if Adhemar was his opponent, he would immediately agree. That is simply the way Will is- not quite obsessed but right on the borderline. And anyone who knows Will simply accepts it. Not if they know Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein- no, he's just an incredibly talented and competitive knight- but if they know the real Will, they understand that the joust is more than just a joust for him.

"A man can change his stars," he said ages ago to me, as we were traveling. We were still walking then, only two horses to help us. It was night time and the stars were out, shining brightly. He was leading his jousting horse by its reigns while I led the cart horse. Kate was asleep in the cart, as were Wat and Roland. At the time, I was wishing that we had stopped for the night so I could sleep as well but it wasn't possible. We were a day's travel to the tournament and couldn't risk being late. Well, we probably could have but Will wouldn't allow it to happen.

"I suppose he could," I replied, running my hand down my face. I wasn't paying attention, really, too tired to think straight and too worn to be witty.

He sighed softly, in a most contented way. I couldn't see how he could possibly happy. We had been walking all day and we both would be walking for most of the night. He would be competing in maybe a day and a half's time if we were lucky. The chances of him feeling disgustingly tired were very high. If I had been him, I would have been downright cranky.

"My father told me that," he informed me, a smile on his face. "He said to me that I could change the stars. He believed in me... and he gave me the chance to do just that..."

For Will, competing is changing his stars. He was born a peasant, told again and again that he would never amount to anything. His father was a thatcher, his mother died when he was barely a year old. He grew up with hopes and dreams that society told him he couldn't fulfill. His only wish, to be a knight, had been beyond his grasp according to the world. It was his father who gave him a chance, told him that he could be something more, something better. He sent his only son, the boy that should have been his apprentice, with a knight so that his boy could be what he wanted to be despite what people dictated.

Will's not only changing his stars but he's showing his father that the sacrifice was worth it. He's proving to the world that your birth rank doesn't mean anything. It's the inside that matters, and a person's actions. And if there is anyone in the world who shows how just they are through their actions, it is Will. He is, without a doubt, one of the best men I have ever known. His intentions are pure, his actions filled with justice and love. In my life, I have met few men I would stand in front of the stocks for, few men I would defend with my life. Will makes me wish that I had a hundred lives to sacrifice for him.

I will never really understand what Will's life has been like. I was born to the riches and royalty. Though I have chosen other paths sometimes, a good thing too or I would have never met him, I have always had the leisure of returning home when it was necessary. There were always places I could turn for money, higher ups I could go to for help. Never was I turned away because of my rank. I have dined with royalty, stayed with nobility and thrived on the goodness of peasants. I have never been told that I cannot do something. I have never been told that something's beyond my grasp. And, I think if I was told that I could not have something, I would not go for it as Will has. I wouldn't have the strength.

He's near fainting right now. The Black Prince is going to call for the match to continue in a little over an hour and I truthfully do not know if Will is going to manage it. They didn't feed him or give him any water. He hasn't slept in ages and is more exhausted than I have ever seen him. Days of walking to tournaments do not compare to this. Even the times he has taken bad blows, he's looked better than this and had more energy. Currently, it's taking both myself and Wat to hold him upright and Roland reminding him to walk to keep him going.

He seemed fine when Prince Edward asked him the fateful question. He ran away, ran from the crowd that had ridiculed him and from the ugly stocks. And we followed him, around the bend into the empty street and caught up with him just in time to keep him from collapsing. He was wheezing for breath then and still is now in a most unhealthy manner. He's walking in a limping, defeated manner. His head's tilted just enough so that it rests a bit on my shoulder.

"I've changed my stars," he whispers in my ear, so softly that the others don't hear it. "I did it, Geoff..."

I don't respond directly to the statement but continue to support him under the arm. I truly wish we could slow our pace a bit but we have to get away from the public eye. If there is one thing I have learned about Will is that he has a great deal of pride. It is not exactly a bad thing but it does make him stubborn as a mule at times and as touchy as a baited bear at others. It has helped him change his stars but it also leads him to be easily humiliated. I know, we know, Kate, Wat, Roland and I, that if he collapses here in the street he'll never forgive himself.

He needs food, water, and whatever sleep he can manage. Life needs to return to his arms and legs. He needs to get color back in his skin. The usual tan that resides there has been bleached from mistreatment and is darkened by dirt and bruises. While he was imprisoned, someone hit him, treated him badly. Combined with the things thrown at him while he was in the stocks, he as an assortment of blue and purple spots on his face. I think that if any of us was left alone in a room with a person who mistreated Will, we would kill him. And that is the one time that I know I can speak for everyone.

He saved me twice. Once when I was walking down the road naked, starved and tired. A second time when I betrayed him. He is my own personal Christ. I admit, it was an even trade the first time. He provided me with life's necessities for his patents of nobility. But the next time, when I gambled myself into such a ditch that even I, with all my connections, could not struggle out of, he rescued me. He didn't have to but he did it anyway. I lost him more money than he had ever had in his entire life and nearly let out his secret that time but he did not leave me to die. He forgave and for that, I love him.

The others love him to. Wat and Roland grew up with him, and know him better than anyone. They love him for who he is, not who he has become. Loyal, steadfast friends was what he needed when he began this, and that is what they were, what they are. And Kate? He gave her a chance. He wore her armor, he brought her with us. He showed her respect and love that she hadn't had since her husband had been alive. In all simple terms, he cared. Whether it was myself, Wat, Roland or Kate, he cared for all of us.

We are sitting him down now, in our own private area, hidden from the world. He cannot even sit up on his own, his head wobbling and his eyes rolling about. They are unfocused and hazy in a way I've never seen before. Usually those eyes are so clear and bright, filled with life and wonder. They look unnatural fogged up and dull. It as though I am gazing into someone else's eyes, not Will's eyes. But below the fatigue and the pain, I see something hiding. Something that wasn't there before.

"I did it, Geoff," he repeats, falling against my chest. "Sir William Thatcherson..." And he faints.

I do not know what I saw there at that moment. Perhaps triumph? No, I've seen that before in him and it is not the same. The spark is not that God damned pride of his either. It is something else, deeper and more special. Something that is pure and content. It is an emotion that even I, a great writer, cannot put to words. But it was there, surviving under the illness that is holding him. And I know that it is that spark that will help him get up in a little over an hour and go to the lists. It is not the same strength that made him go before but something different. Something I cannot understand or comprehend.

We are trying to bring him around. He needs to eat and drink, and he cannot do that if he does not awake. Roland is fretting while Kate, calm and steady as always, is gently dabbing his face with water. Wat is surprisingly quiet, sitting on a bench and staring. He looks thoughtful even, which is very rare for him. In fact, it is so out of form that I am afraid that he might be ill as well. But he is not the concern currently. It's William who is the concern. Roland is ready to call a surgeon though Kate doesn't think it's necessary. She says he'll come around in good time and that we should simply wait.

It is much easier said than done. Even as Kate and Roland busy themselves at changing his spoiled clothing, it is hard to ignore the fact that he is still wheezing and doesn't respond to our calls. I know he'd be morbidly embarrassed if he knew that Kate was helping remove his shirt. He is strange that way, an undying sense of modesty when it comes to her. The rest of us sometimes forget that she is even a woman and indeed, she does act more like a man than the average lady does. But Will seems to see her as a lady all the time. And that is a quality of a true knight.

The lack of shirt leads us to be more disgusted than ever. Deep bruises mar his ribs and stomach. We knew before this that he had been harmed while he was still imprisoned but none of us seemed to think it was this bad. Roland is chewing on his lip and Kate quickly presses the wet cloths against the injuries, as though she can wipe them away like the dirt. Wat disappears for a few moments and soon returns with a fresh set of clothes to dress him in. All of us are glad for it, I think. The injuries are a glaring reminder that we weren't able to help him, even though he helped us so many times.

Kate is kind enough to dismiss herself while Roland and Wat change his pants. She returns as soon as she can, though, and helps put on his shirt. The clothes look so similar to what he was wearing before except slightly cleaner. The smell of rotting food does not mar them either or days old sweat. I try to convince myself that he looks healthier already, that the fresh pants and shirt are making him appear more lively. It is far from true. If anything, he looks paler.

"Perhaps we should call this off," Wat says, speaking up for the first time since we left the stocks. "He's going to kill himself."

Roland shakes his head. "We all know it won't stop him. It didn't before and it certainly won't now."

"Then let us get him awake," Kate states, taking one of his limp hands in between her own. "He's done too much for us to let him fail in the end when he is so close."

She is right and we all know it. As much as we want to keep him from going back to the tournament, we cannot. He would never forgive us if we called the tournament in his name. As she said, this is his chance to prove to everyone that he deserves the title Sir William Thatcherson. We all know that he deserves to be a knight more than many of those who are given the title through their noble blood lines but there are too many who do not agree. He needs to show them that he is a knight and that noble blood runs through his veins. The world needs to be shown that the child it suppressed can make it.

His eyes are fluttering open as Kate chafes his hands and Roland dabs his face. He looks confused and achingly tired for a brief moment but quickly begins to comprehend things. With my help and Wat's support, he is soon sitting up and sipping water. He cannot hold the cup himself for his hands are trembling and his arms are like jelly. For once, he doesn't protest help as he has done so often in the past. There is quiet acceptance in his features. He knows he cannot do this himself and that he needs help if he's going to make it to the tournament. No, not just make it to the tournament, but win it.

His head's on my shoulder again and his eyes are closed. He's awake, unlike before, but too tired to stay upright. Roland is still sitting with us, trying to coax more food and water into him while Wat saddles up the horse and Kate sets the armor straight. Generally, we are quiet except for Roland's occasional prompts and the clinking of the armor. It is probably one of the most comfortable silences I've ever been a part of. And, coming from me, that means quite a bit. I hate silence.

A soft sigh escapes Will and he grasps one of my hands. I am startled slightly and almost pull away until I see that he is looking at me again. The thing I saw skulking behind the exhaustion is now burning brightly in his eyes. Using me as leverage, he slowly drags himself to his feet and stands there wobbling for a moment. I am up with him and supporting him, fearing that he'll collapse again. It isn't the same as before though. A new strength fuels him.

"I did it," he says yet again. "We did it."

"Yes, we did," I agree, still supporting him though it is no longer necessary. He is no longer weaving like a drunk. He is steady but at the same time, he does not pull away.

There is a certain amount of awe in his next words. "I changed the stars."

"I do not think anyone else could," I tell him.

It is so strange to see him so surprised about it. He believed it from the beginning. He was the one that convinced all of us that this bit of insanity was worthwhile. He was the one who seemed to have no doubts. And yet, he is so surprised that he is actually a knight. After all his insisting that he was, after going to the stocks for apparently believing it, he is still shocked that he has been deemed worthy. He shouldn't be. In my eyes, there is no worthier man in the world.

"Are you ready?" Roland asks.

His eyes are bright with the emotion I cannot understand or describe. "I always have been."

Kate and Roland are working with his armor while I stand back and watch. He no longer shakes and he looks considerably healthier. I know that it will not last, that after the excitement he will once again be on the verge of collapse. That is alright, though. There is no time to think of the future, only time to think on the present. William is finally truly living his dream and he's about to complete it. He is ready to go defeat Adhemar. He is ready to prove that there is no birthright in being a champion.

And I will stand behind him the whole way. If he loses today, if he wins today. If everyone else hates him, if everyone else loves him. If he falls to the deepest of the pits of hell or rises to the highest glories in heaven. He is my lord. He saved me from death and from torture. He trusted me when no one else would. He is my Lord William Thatcherson, born of a peasant with the heart of a noble.

And I would have him no other way.

The End
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