many thanks again to the wonderful ashtynqueen

2 summers later.

Khalad laughed, loud and genuine and long. This day had been a long time coming and something that he had not even dreamed of when he was young. Earlier he had waited with bated breath kneeling before the Preceptor to accept his judgement and find out if his entry into the order would become official. He was expecting the objections to come, shouted from among the congregated Knights that were observing the ceremony as was traditional and their right: he was too young (though not the youngest to be Knighted), too uneducated (though took more care to learn than some), was not lordly enough. That one he wouldn't have been able to argue as he was not born into the gentry and the ink on his newly granted title still a little damp.

He had made efforts to integrate with his fellow novices but Khalad always had the lingering feeling that the others doubted his worth – that he didn't deserve a place among them. When the ceremony hall fell silent, and Sparhawk continued on to pronounce his admittance, Khalad thought that maybe that was only the projected shadow of his own self-doubt.

So Khalad laughed and joked and raised many a tankard in celebration that night – if any of his brothers in arms though that it was inappropriate for him to get a little tipsy then they wisely kept it to themselves. Around midnight he and twenty of the youngest knights left the chapterhouse to 'patrol' the local taverns, and 'inspect' their wares. Few had his head for drink though so most stumbled back to their bunks well before the sun rose and it was left to Berit to help Khalad do the same.

Berit who had been there the entire evening to make sure his cup was well filled. Berit who had helped Khalad into the heavy ceremonial robes that tradition dictated was his uniform for the day. Berit who had supported him in the last couple of years – been a patient and encouraging sounding board for any frustrated rant or self-depreciating diatribe that Khalad cared to give voice to – was now giving a more physical form of support.

"I can walk yaaaa know," Khalad insisted.

"Of course. The road is just uneven." Khalad couldn't see Berit's face clearly, but surely he wasn't grinning as they lurched along the road.

"Yes, unev'n." Khalad agreed as he stumbled slightly. Berit gripped a little harder on his arm.

"They thought they cou'd out drink me. Ha! They've been closeted in training f'r years." Khalad scoffed.

"So have you."

"Shhhhhure. But I had practice before." In the long years before, when he was a simple squire, not even a novice Knight. Those simple years were behind him now: a much more complex future had dawned.

Berit gave a chuckle at that, and steered them away from a muddy puddle. When had this road gotten so rocky? And so long?

"Have you been practicing? Not seen you much. Suuuuurprised you kept up," Khalad slurred only slightly, feeling more than seeing Berit shrug, the road now spinning.

"I was keeping an eye on you. Celebrating this evening is fine – expected even. Drowning in the gutter because you've drunk yourself unconscious is definitely not."

"So you were babysitting me?" Khalad exclaimed, offended. He took a step away to make his displeasure known but had to be reeled back in by his friend when he leant too far, balance abandoning him.

"Of course not. Just protecting the Order's reputation."

They were lurching through the gate of the chapterhouse now. Or Khalad was lurching and Berit was trying to keep him falling on his face like the good friend he was.

Berit paused them both, and then turned them away from the long staircase that would lead to the longer corridor and second staircase they would have to navigate till they got to Khalad's room. Instead he guided the newest Knight into the bunk house that acted as infirmary if needed, storage area if needed, and sleeping quarters for anyone too drunk to use the stairs.

"I think here should do for tonight, you are too heavy a lump to carry any further." Khalad was deposited onto one of the cots. He was about to protest when his head spun once again and his stomach clenched. The thought of even another step was too much, as was nodding in agreement.

Khalad let himself be pushed over, feeling the thin pillow cool and comfortable beneath his cheek.

"Just a nap." He muttered. "Then I'll go t' b'd."

"Sure you will. I'll see you in the morning." Came Berit's voice from somewhere in the spinning darkness that closed in around him.

It wasn't the morning when Berit next saw Khalad. That wasn't a surprise as the sun had been creeping to the horizon when Khalad had been at last been coaxed away from the beer. The sun was waning when Berit found Khalad sitting in a shady corner of the courtyard, damp cloth against his forehead and flagon of – hopefully –water at his feet.

"How was your first morning as a Knight?" Berit asked cheerfully sitting down next to the man who gave him a red-eyed baleful glare. That was answer enough, and Berit didn't bother to hide his smile.

"Well, if you didn't insist on buying a round for everyone there, maybe you wouldn't be in such a state."

Khalad groaned. "I did do that, didn't I?"

"If nothing else you have cemented your reputation as a generous man who can handle his drink." Khalad groaned again. "Don't worry, I don't think I stood up at all the day after I was Knighted – I think Kalten was putting more than beer in my mug."

Strange to think that being too sick to sit up was a fond memory but, yes, the headaches and twisting stomach had not been able to distract him from the intense pride of joining this brotherhood. Getting blindingly drunk was seen as a rite of passage as much as receiving spurs or sword.

They sat in a companionable silence for some minutes, Berit taking in the bustle of the courtyard and Khalad taking intermittent sips of water. A group of novices were mucking out the stables while others were undertaking careful archery practice. Several men patrolled the wall – despite the peaceful times this was a military order and daily life reflected that.

"You are looking annoyingly perky considering you were out all night too. At least I think you were. You were, right? Some of it's hazy." Khalad said at last.

"I was there," Berit murmured absently, as he watched a rider approach the gate guards. "I just don't seem to get hangovers any more. Or drunk."

"You can't get drunk, since..." Khalad trailed off.

"Yes. It's just one of those things." Berit tried to brush it off.

"And have you had much cause to want to get drunk lately?"

Berit remembered standing in the middle of a forest clearing, trying not to choke on the cloud of death that hung in the air. He had found cause of the children's disappearance and it was not a happy sight. The men who had committed this atrocity surrounded him, clubs at the ready. They were going to make sure that he didn't walk out of there to spread word of their crimes, to bring the force of the town watch or the Church onto their doorstep. They were going to try. They would have succeeded if he had been anyone else. He had ordered many beers that night trying to drown that memory, those little bodies and the larger ones he left behind, but each drink was just as ineffectual as the last.

"Not really." He said instead.

"Yeah? I know I've had my head in training and studying but I have noticed you've been out of the Chapterhouse a lot. Sparhawk been sending you anywhere nice?"

The den had been abandoned for several weeks at this point, the brigands who had occupied it had moved on long before Berit arrived in the area. The Queen had been fielding complaints about safety on the roads for some time, and the local lords were only satisfied when she had promised to send aid. They hadn't expected just one Knight to turn up but the lords were wise enough not to show their disappointment to Berit's face. In truth the order could only spare one man at the moment, never having been as numerous as rumour suggested. Word had got out that enforcement was on the way and any number of Church Knights held such a fearsome reputation that many criminals in the area had moved on. Berit had spent weeks riding round the countryside hunting a prey that was no longer there, huddling in cold damp caves or camps that had been stripped of anything useful. This day was no different – rain running down his back, feet cold, fire refusing to start, no fresh food for the last three days...

"Not really."

"And apart from that you're keeping out of trouble?"

"Of course."Berit said.

Khalad just looked at him, gaze penetrating despite the slight crease to his brow and bagged eyes that showed the effects of the drinking.

"As much as I can anyway." That seemed to satisfy Khalad, for his expression softened.

"Just... take care of yourself. When you are out doing whatever it is Sparhawk has you doing."

"I do my best."

"Why don't I believe that?" Khalad muttered into his mug.

"Because you are too cynical for your own good."

"Well, I fancy a change of clothes now I can stand up without swaying." Khalad proved his point by rising slowly to his feet. "Will you still be here when I've washed up or will Sparhawk have sent you away by then?"

"Well. He can't send me anywhere if he can't find me. I'll just have to hide from him for a bit." Berit smiled, clapping Khalad on the shoulder.

"Then you go find us some breakfast."

"More like supper."

"I haven't eaten today so it's breakfast." Khalad insisted, serious. Berit gave in.

"Fine, breakfast. And we can talk about what Sparhawk might have in store for both of us."

"I'll be about half an hour?"

"I'll be right here."

Was he staying out of trouble? Berit pondered as Khalad strode away to make himself more presentable. In a manner of speaking.

Berit squinted at the burley man, trying to judge his reach, his speed, his strength. He hadn't really stopped to think when the man grabbed at the tavern server: her body language and the slap she delivered made it clear that his attentions were repeated and unwanted. When the thug returned the slap Berit had launched to his feet and positioned himself between the two as any Knight – hell any decent man – would do, the inn fell silent.

"Get out my way." The man growled.

"No."

The man tensed and three others – just as large– stepped up behind him.

"Move. While her and me go somewhere to have a little talk." His leer made it quite clear what that meant.

"That's not going to happen." Berit said, even more convinced he was doing the right thing.

One man at the back drew his belt knife.

"You think this is wise, son?" said Burley.

"I'm not your son, friend. And I think you should walk away before you embarrass yourself." That was all bluster of course. There was no way that Berit could take down four men without getting seriously hurt himself. He was hoping that someone had recognised the Church tabard on his horse and would whisper in the man's ear causing him to slink off into the darkness where he belonged. No such luck. Berit wished that he had worn his armour after all but chainmail would just have to do.

Burley made the first move – lunging forward with a swiftly drawn belt knife in his hand. Berit easily dodged back and to one side, the swing going wide. Berit grabbed the man's wrist and twisted with a harsh squeeze causing the man to cry out and drop the knife: broken bones probably. Berit didn't have time to follow up as the second man was barreling in, his longer blade swinging wildly. Drawing his own belt knife Berit directed the man's weapon away from him. He could have drawn his sword but there wasn't really the room he needed to use it properly in this crowded inn and he didn't actually want to kill these men, just give them cause to regret.

A few more ineffectual slashes and the man was getting frustrated, but his two friends had at this point stepped up beside him. They shared a grin when their slow thoughts told them that three against one was pretty good odds. Berit glanced to the side and could see that though many people were watching no-one looked to be stepping up to help, not even the innkeeper who was hovering in the background.

He couldn't take three at the same time, he would have to separate them a bit.

In a quick move he passed his knife to his off hand and grabbed a nearby stool. Putting as much strength as possible into the move he swung it heavily against the nearest man's leg. That put him off balance enough that a firm kick to the same spot sent him staggering in a crunch of bones and stream of swearwords – he certainly wouldn't be running any time soon.

Berit saw the second man start another attack, but used his momentum to block the man's arm and followed up with two fierce punches to the face and one to the throat that had him gargling.

Berit hadn't forgotten the fourth man: he realised he had his back to him but didn't have time to turn before he felt the knife slide into his side, just under the arm that was raised in a punch and one of the few places his chainmail didn't cover. The man grinned and twisted the knife cruelly as Berit gasped.

Shit.

A shove knocked Berit to the floor where he lay gasping, the movement pulling against the knife still buried in his flesh. He grit his teeth against the wave of pain – the wound was deep and blood was flowing freely. The man who had stabbed him waited for the nod of approval from the leader before giving him a swift kick to the ribs, eliciting a strangled grunt. Despite watering eyes Berit could see that Burley was clearly furious. He stopped clutching his injured wrist and stooped to pick up his own dropped knife.

"Well now, son. Looks like you started something you couldn't finish. I can help there."

This was the bit Berit hated. He steeled himself and grabbed at the knife under his arm, pulling in one smooth motion. He didn't have time to wait for the wave of healing to pass, so he was heaving himself to his feet as the trembling overtook him. That made him slightly dizzy, but he managed to stand up and stay there.

"I told you, I'm not your son." Berit growled, and attacked before anyone could assess his condition properly. He pressed his advantage – that he wasn't moving like a man who had just taken a very serious and possibly mortal wound – and he was now with a knife in each hand. The one who had unwisely disarmed himself by leaving his knife buried in Berit's chest went down first, trying to stem the sudden flow of blood from his own chest wound. The second man was still down with a leg that wasn't quite pointing the right way and the third was on hands and knees struggling with rattling breaths.

That just the left Burley who wasn't giving up despite seeing three of his bested.

Persistent. Berit thought, even as the man made a run at him. But he was clearly not used to fighting with his off hand: his footwork was wrong and he was overreaching so it was a simple matter to dodge to the right, jab him in the ribs with the hilt of a knife. Another three jabs in quick succession to the man's kidneys and he was collapsing with a low groan that got louder as he inadvertently put weight on his injured wrist.

Berit paused and looked for any signs they were going to be stupid enough to get back up. Didn't look like it. Berit took a deep breathe, ribs now moving easily again but knew the pounding of his heart couldn't be controlled as easily.

Excited babbling from the watching patrons emphasised the silent vigil they had held before. He lowered his knife – and dropped the stranger's - when the innkeeper stepped forward with his hands raised as a sign he was unarmed.

"Well, I must say, that was a fine show my boy, a fine show!" The man beamed. "We've been having a fair bit of trouble from ol ' Garth and his friends these last few weeks, but it costs so much to get someone on the door to keep those ruffians out."

So they had been making trouble for a while and this stingy bastard hadn't wanted to go to the expense of keeping his people - who had rightly made themselves scarce when the fight began – or patrons safe.

"I hope everyone here knows how much you value their health and their custom." Berit spat in disgust, feeling under his arm. As expected there was no sign of injury though his undershirt was heavy and damp with rapidly cooling blood. He straightened with a sigh of relief.

The innkeeper was put off the stride of his gushing, looking confused not to be congratulated on his great fiscal sense.

"Do you need that looking at? You're bleeding quite a bit."

"Just a scratch." Berit muttered. He drained the last ale from his mug and snatched his cloak: still draped across the bench where he had put it before he began his interrupted meal. He wanted to go change his shirt and leave this place before people started to work out exactly where that blow had landed, how much blood he had lost and how he should be unconscious or worse right now.

"Next time, sort out your own problems rather than leaving it to your customers." He shouted over his shoulder as he strode into the night.

He had never gone looking for trouble - he wasn't that sort of person – but there was something about being a man in armour under the banner of the Church that seemed to attract those in need. Or those in need of a good kicking. That hadn't been the only time that Berit had walked into something bigger than he should have. Didn't he have a duty to help where he could though? That was part of his oaths, the same oaths that Khalad had spoken yesterday. No, his duty hadn't changed but his ability to carry out that duty had.

"Sir Berit? I have a message," the recently arrived rider, thick mud on his boots evidence of a long hard journey, held out a tightly rolled scroll.

Berit took it hesitantly and nodded a dismissal to the young courier in the direction of the kitchen. It was a heavy parchment tied with a fine blue twine, his name written boldly in familiar handwriting.

"It's from the monastery." Berit muttered softly to himself, rolling it slightly in his hand.

While many there viewed him as a theological oddity, Berit knew the fine handwriting on the outside of the scroll belonged to Vador, one of the monks who had been most interested in the physical aspects of his condition. Pondering the nature of the universe was all very well but Berit was a more practical man by nature and the practicalities interested him more. He had spent more time talking with Vador than all of the others combined, and had come to look forward to their late night conversations despite the monk's tendency to call him a heretic.

Even a few weeks ago he would have cracked the wax immediately on this scroll just like he had on the ones that had come before, keen to discover which titbit of knowledge Vador had for them this time. The frantic urgency that had filled him in that first year had receded and Berit had found a great deal of satisfaction when Sparhawk sent him out to achieve what others couldn't.

"Well, open it then." Khalad prompted. Berit hadn't even noticed he had returned, and now Khalad was looming over him.

After Khalad and Talen had found out about his... change through unfortunate circumstance Berit had made the long journeys across the world to tell his friends in far flung places. The conversations were, in places, difficult and all required some level of practical demonstration. Bevier had insisted on leading a prayer for him while Ulath had laughed, given him a stunning thump across the back and called for more wine. But Berit had felt lighter with each friend he visited – often completing an official 'errand' on the way - and knew that there would be no more shocking reveals to those he cared most about.

It was never so clear as now - sitting here in the last of the day's warmth amongst the quiet bustle of the chapterhouse, seeing his friend achieve the first step on the path to his true potential, the reminders of the first day he woke with the title Knight – that it was time to stop questioning and start living again.

"I thought you wanted answers. That's why you ran off to them in the first place." Khalad said, as Berit continued to hesitate. Khalad was still disparaging of the monks, but at least the hangover was going to stop him picking another fight to spoil this lovely day.

"Yeeeees." Berit said slowly, a moment of clarity descending on him and bringing with it a form of peace. "I did. Because I thought there was none." Berit sat back, looking up at the clouds streaming past the setting sun and pushed the scroll deep into his pocket.

Khalad frowned. "Did that make sense in your head? Because it didn't when you said it out loud. At least I don't think it did."

"I'm taking your advice: being grateful for what I have been given."

Khalad just gave a grunt at that – for he could hardly argue against his own good advice. "Took you long enough."

"I never said I was a fast learner."

"Are you sure?" Khalad looked at him seriously. "Don't ignore that message out of some sort of bravado because you think it's what I want you to do."

"I won't. I will read it. Just not today. Now, how about that breakfast?"