A/N: NOT HISTORICALLY ACCURATE AT ALL! Alright, now that's out of the way, I just wanted to say that, apparently, the only way I know how to recover from Crooked Kingdom is to write medieval themed Harry Potter fics? This is the second one in a week... Enjoy!


QLFC – Round 11

Team: Puddlemere United

CHASER 3: Fighter - Write about a character who is very skilled in battle (weapons/wand movements).

Optional prompts: [Character] Septimus Weasley, [Object] Pendant, [Object] Sword

WC: 1,583


~~ bloody swords and dimmed eyes ~~

There was blood on his sword.

Fresh blood, fresh from the day's events, still a gleaming scarlet red, slowly starting to congeal, taunting him with his crimes. Old blood, engrained into the metal of the sword, a darker rust colour, always to remind him of what he had done.

No matter how many times it was cleaned, polished, sharpened; made to look as new as it was on the day it came out of the forge, it would always be haunted by the lives he had taken, robbed, from the poor men he fought each day.

He stared at it for a long time, forcing himself to remember the events of the day, thoroughly disgusted and horrified by what he had done. The sweat, once hot and beading on his forehead, was now icy cold as he sat in silent meditation and prayer.

This was an important moment for him. Terrible, but important. He had to close his eyes and try to remember the face of every like he had taken, and pray for them to be welcomed in the open arms of the Lord.

It was silent in his tent.

Suddenly, a loud crash broke him concentration. Septimus turned around to see a young boy sprawled on the floor, a bunch of armour scattered around him. He was rubbing his head, obviously having hit it in the commotion.

"Owww," the boy cried.

Septimus sighed. He really didn't want to have to deal with another injury. "Are you okay, boy?"

"I'm fine, sir," he assured him, still rubbing his head, and Septimus was pretty sure he wasn't fine. But then again, the boy was so clumsy and got into so many scraps that hopefully his skull was a little harder now.

"How many times have I told you to watch where you're going?"

Septimus bended down to help him collect the fallen armour. Dedalus—or Dally as most called him, especially because he had quite an annoying tendency to dally—was his newest page, after the last one had died from the illness in the water. He was fresh out of the boat from England, and terribly excited about everything war-related.

"I'm sorry, sir," Dally said, looking truly bashful. But a grin quickly lifted his lips back up. "I was just thinking about all the things you did today, sir! Everyone in the camp is talking about your exploits!"

Septimus frowned, and then tried to tune out the boy. He didn't want all of the horrors of the day recounted back to him. He knew exactly what he had done. Instead, he carefully put his armour in its appropriate place, putting the sword next to it.

But Dally's stream of speech still reached his ears.

"They say you slaughtered over a hundred and fifty men today, more than anyone else! Apparently, you're so strong that your lance can pierce through any armour, even the toughest! I wonder how that's even possible? I'd love to learn how to do that! Could you teach me one day, sir?"

Septimus ignored him, but even after barely a few days with his new master, Dally knew this was usual, and continued on nevertheless.

"Everyone at camp says you're the best knight there is in all of England! I heard all about your sword fight with one of them French lords! Johnny told me how it went, because his master was there next to you."

Dally proceeded to grab a stick off the ground and re-enact the heinous crime Septimus had committed.

"It was all like this—" Dally lunged, almost tripped over his laces, but that didn't discourage him. "And then the French was like 'Woah'!" He mimicked his opponent. "And then this happened."

The sparring with himself continued for a while, and Septimus barely paid any attention to him, though a small part of his brain registered what was wrong with the young boy's technique, and what he would need to make him practice if Dally was ever going to be a knight like him.

"And finally, you drove the point through his eye and he died on the spot!"

Dally thrusted the stick forward, gouging his invisible opponent's eye out, crying with joy when the figment of his imagination fell to the floor. He whooped happily, waving his sword-stick around. "You really are the best, sir! I'm so, so glad to be your page!"

Septimus caught the boy's stick with one hand. "Dally, stop waving that around before you actually take my eye out by accident."

The boy bowed his head down again, a blush quickly spreading across his cheeks. "Sorry, sir."

"And I'm not the one supposed to be cleaning this all up," Septimus chided, but there was no anger in his voice. He was never angry with his pages. "Get to work boy."

Dedalus nodded twice, blushing even more. "Of course, sir. Right away."

But even as he worked around the tent, cleaning the little mess Septimus had made, he continued to murmur battle cries under his breath, practising his sword moves. It was quite comical, if it wasn't quite so morbid.

As Septimus had said, the boy was fresh off the boat. He didn't know anything about war yet, didn't know the actual horror that it was. All he knew was the honour, and the glory, and the wish to become a powerful and respected knight one day. He'd been there for just a week, and nothing terrible had happened on their side of the war.

But soon, he knew, even Dally would be sent out onto the battlefield, instead of being left behind in the tents. Then he would see the cruelty of humans. The hecatomb of bodies. Horrors beyond anything you could imagine.

But Septimus would let Dally enjoy his dreams as long as they lasted.

After all, he hadn't been so different once upon a time.

Septimus was never meant to become a knight.

He was the seventh son, in a family where his six elder brothers had almost all miraculously made it to adulthood. Bilius, the eldest, was always meant to be a knight, and when Father died, he had taken his place as Lord Weasley. Harry, the second son, was sent to the monastery, as he was supposed to. Jonathan and Basilius also became knights. Gabriel died when he was three and Andrew left to go to Italy to study the arts.

And finally, there was Septimus.

Septimus had lead a relatively easy life, staying home at the castle, waiting for his parents to decide of his future. The biggest adventure in his life was when he met Lady Cedrella Black for the first time, and fell instantaneously in love with her, and she with him.

But, of course, it wasn't that easy. The Black and Weasley families hated one another, and Septimus had nothing to offer Lord Black in exchange for her hand. He was a seventh son, after all. Though his family might love him, none of the land would ever go to him, except in the unlikely demise of his brother.

However, Lord Black had made him a deal. Should he find a way to make himself covered in glory and respect, with riches he had earned from foreign lands, then could he have his daughter's precious hand.

It hadn't taken much to convince Septimus—simply the kind blue eyes of his beloved, a swish of her dakr hair, and the promise of her lovely singing voice every morning, and he was begging his parents to let him become a knight too.

It was awfully convenient that the war was demanding more and more young men.

And so, just like Dally, he had turned up on a boat on the coast of France, promises of glory and his beloved's hand lighting up his young innocent eyes. He too had started off as a simple page, working up to full knighthood, and finally, one of the best ones his army had. But with each step he took, the light dimmed.

The only moment when that foolish hope and light came back was when he gazed upon his beloved's gentle face and soothing smile.

It was a secret none knew, but he had her picture, carefully painted onto a miniature, tied around his neck. A pendant of sorts. He took it out only when he was completely alone, just to remind himself of why he was doing all this, why he was the best man on the battlefield, why his sword was always bather in blood.

Just thinking about it, he felt the pendant grow warm against his chest. It was the only thing that comforted him when nothing could.

"You will teach me, right, sir?" Dally interrupted his stream of thought once again.

Septimus looked up at the young boy. So much hope, so much light. "We'll see. Now go clean up my sword."

Dally smiled brightly and hopped to it.

Oh, what would his darling Cedrella think of him, if she knew all the horrors he had committed? But there was no place in his heart for thoughts like that, because tomorrow would be just as horrible as today, and he had to be just as strong as always.