The din of the crowd filtered like smoke through the wooden walls, enshrouding the contestants in a growing haze. Some welcomed it with open arms, standing proud and seemingly confident in their abilities, whilst others began to hesitate underneath the mounting pressure.
The tapping of anxious feet, the clinking of shifting armour, the shallow inhalations of breath, barely even noticeable amidst the ambient noise - every available weakness was devoured piece by piece, as hungry green eyes swept over the competition.
Despite his circumstances, Mordred felt the tingle of electricity course through his spine.
His body was moulded with steel. His mind was dredged in countless stratagems. His heart beat like a war drum, for his entire body was built for one purpose and one purpose only - to stand victorious over all others!
He may have been cast as a squire, tree branch in place of a sword, but such paltry obstacles wouldn't be enough to stop him. Not now, not when his entire existence hinged on the strength of this performance.
Within the depths of his mind, the beginnings of a plan began to form.
"It's time."
The guard at the doors of the armoury slammed the shaft of his halberd into the ground, gathering everyone's attention. He gave a small nod of encouragement, before grasping at brass handles, pulling the oaken doors open.
Sunlight streamed through the entrance, temporarily blinding everyone inside. Mordred blinked the spots from his vision, before opening his eyes, taking in rolling hills and the sight of more people he had ever seen in his life.
His fellow contestants paused for a second, seemingly dumbstruck by the grandeur of the scene. They stood like statues, speechless, in awe of the roaring voices and battle standards raised aloft, a hundred crimson dragons dotting the sky.
Mordred passed them all without a second glance.
To him, none of it truly mattered. His focus surpassed the screaming audience, the waving flags and even his fellow knights, and rested solely upon a single person.
Even from this distance, he could still make out that perfect outline. A man, barely even a silhouette, drew the knights attention in full, like a beacon blinking in the night. Although he couldn't see his features, a feeling of certainty suffused Mordred's bones.
It could be no-one else but he.
Underneath wrought-iron helm, the warrior's lips curled up into a beautiful smile.
'Anything for the King'
/
'Come on Evelyn, focus! You've got this in the bag!'
The encouraging words calmed her nerves slightly, although they didn't much help with the lingering nervousness clouding her form. It was somewhat heartening to know that she wasn't the only one feeling this way - the boy sat waiting next to her was almost shivering, for instance - yet the anticipation was slowly starting to eat away at her.
Quite thankfully, she hadn't been set to go first. Watching the other squire's matches allowed her some measure of insight into their way of fighting, but due to her limited experience in the matter, it did little to prepare her for the coming battle.
The previously murmuring crowd suddenly erupted into noise, and Evelyn looked over to see that the current match had already concluded. Looming over his downed opponent was an intimidating suit of armour, grey steel accented with crimson streaks, adorned with a glaring helm and bull's horns.
"A swift victory from squire Mordred! What a truly impressive showing of skill!"
The sound of the announcer seemed to only drive the crowd into further frenzy, as a cold pit opened up within Evelyn's stomach. The warrior in question appeared to preen for a second, before stalking back to the waiting area with slow steps, his gait confident and leaking with palpable bloodlust.
Shouldering past the other contestants, the knight found an empty spot and sat down underneath the shade of the tree. Her eyes lingered on his figure for a moment, but the boy seemed to catch the action almost instantly, turning his head to stare directly at Evelyn.
Dull grey met shining verdant in an unseen battle wills.
She broke contact after a few seconds, shaking her head in annoyance. Now wasn't the time to get distracted.
The announcer called out once again, his booming voice quieting the crowd.
"Next up, for the final match of this bracket, we have Thomas Beveridge, hailing all the way from York!"
A boy of around eighteen years stepped forward from the waiting area, greeting the crowd with a hesitant wave. He was rather mundane in appearance, all flaxen hair and freckled features, although that might just be due to overexposure to Raphael's… Raphaelness.
"And for his opponent, we have another mysterious warrior! Hailing from lands unknown, ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for Gideon Waterford!"
With halting motions, Evelyn began to walk towards the arena. Denoted by wooden fences staked into the ground at regular intervals, the whole thing was actually rather small, taking up only a small fraction of the entire field.
It was a rather interesting detail, she thought. Certainly a lot more interesting than the horde of people looking down upon her with bated breath.
She averted her eyes from the ground for a single second, glancing upwards with fleeting hope, yet the figure of her friend and mentor was nowhere to be found, lost somewhere in the throng of bodies.
Evelyn gulped.
Standing across from her opponent now, the object of a thousand people's attention, it was easy for all of her piled up doubts and insecurities to start crawling out the woodwork. The little voices always whispering within the back of her mind slithered to the forefront.
What was she even doing here in the first place?
No matter how much she tried to hide it with armour and empty words, in the end she was still that same village-girl from Camelford, a commoner, a peasant that had no right to be in a tournament as prestigious as this.
She wasn't sure what Raphael had ever seen in her. Was it on nothin more than a whim that he took her on, or did he do so with some deeper purpose she failed to understand? Evelyn Waterford was no-one of importance, after all, and with the rate she was going, she never would be.
Weakened hands trembled around the shaft of the wooden sword, as her thoughts began to spiral further downwards. The watching crowd began to morph within her vision, their cheering twisting and becoming distorted, until she was surrounded on all sides not by men, but by the mocking laughter of wolves.
"Looks like the contestants are ready! On the count of three, the match will commence!"
Yet from the depths of despair, came also the will to carry out the greatest of deeds. With inner strength Evelyn didn't know she had, the girl inhaled a deep breath, before focusing on blocking out all other noise.
"3…"
Her hands trembled, so she willed them to stop.
"2…"
Her legs shook, so she willed them to stop.
"1…"
Her brain conjured images of hopelessness, scenes of her body laying bruised and beaten underneath the disappointed eye of her mentor. Of her face, unmasked to the jeering masses. Of defeat.
Her mind dreamt of failure's cold grasp…
"BEGIN!"
…So she willed it to stop!
The words had barely left the announcer's lips, but already Evelyn had rushed halfway across the arena. Her opponent had barely enough time to raise his sword before she came crashing down upon him, wooden blades clashing against each other with a loud impact.
With nimble steps she disengaged, capitalising on the boy's surprise, before lunging forward with another attack. Again her sword swung, and again her opponent blocked, a hasty deflection made at an awkward angle. Maybe it was due to this that Thomas Beveridge found himself stumbling backwards in the dirt, an expression of shock writ plainly upon his features.
The boy was disoriented from the unexpected assault, but he did not fall, managing to steady his body by planting his sword into the dirt. Soon he would once again be upright, and this time he would stand prepared. Just one moment was needed, a singular second in which he could retrieve his weapon.
Unfortunately for Thomas, that second would never come.
As she regarded the boy's prone form, a small smile began to form on her face, as she recalled one of the many sessions she had had with Raphael.
"One of the fundamental strategies to winning any fight is to exploit any edge you may have. No matter what it is, and no matter if it comes as a result of skill, circumstance, or pure, dumb luck, you must learn to maximise every advantage to its fullest."
Without further thought, Evelyn surged into his guard.
His mouth opened, as if to speak or to cry out, yet no noise left lips except for a guttural wheeze, a breathless exhale leaving cracked lips. His eyes seemed to bug out, as if failing to process the current events, before realisation dawned upon him.
A wooden sword was planted into his chest.
"And an explosive finish from squire Gideon! Unfortunately for Thomas, it seems that this time he was simply outclassed!"
'I… Won?"
It was a strange sensation, winning. Maybe it was the adrenaline singing within her veins, but she felt almost euphoric, transcendent above all her earthly worries for an infinite moment.
'Is this what Rpahael feels all the time?'
Evelyn was broken from her brief fugue by the sound of the cheering crowd, although a warm contentedness still lingered after the fact. Turning her thoughts outward, the girl spared a look towards her downed opponent.
At a first glance Thomas seemed fine. He wasn't injured - physically, at least - and his expression was set into a neutral line, like he was completely unbothered by the current circumstances.
His eyes, however, told a different story.
They were hollow. A hollowness that Evelyn had seen countless times before, a hollowness that she thought all but cured from the people of her village.
It was as if, by losing this match, he had also lost all hope that things might change.
She hadn't much time to dwell on these thoughts before she was ushered away by the standing guards, back towards the waiting area for a break until the next round started.
The last thing she saw was a lone tear rolling down freckled cheeks.
/
'Maybe I'm better at this teaching thing than I thought…'
Raphael rubbed at his chin, before letting out a chuckle that was lost in the din of the crowd.
It was rather inspiring to see how much his protégé had improved, in all honesty. From a village girl who barely knew how to grip a sword, to a warrior, one that was able to hold her own against the world.
Of course, most of the credit lay with Evelyn herself. He could wax poetic about the intricacies of battles however much he wanted, but the true test lay in the students ability to both understand, and to put into practise the concepts he laid out.
Never let it be said that the girl was not a diligent worker.
So he clapped and cheered with the rest of the crowd, in celebration of Gideon Waterford's victory, as he waited with eager eyes for her next bout.
He was sure that she wouldn't disappoint.
/
Contemplative eyes stared up into the sky, watching the clouds with a distant interest as they drifted across the stratosphere. She envied them, in truth, for they were possessed of an effortless freedom many spent their entire lives pursuing.
Still, she would never want to be one. Being stuck up in the air all day sounded exhausting.
A warm breeze blew over her resting form, as Evelyn's mind wandered from one topic to another. Lost in her thoughts as she was, she failed to take much notice of the strange atmosphere that surrounded her, although perhaps this was an intentional ploy on her part.
The remaining contestants were all sat together underneath the shade of a large oak tree, languishing in awkward silence. A few stilted attempts at conversation were attempted, their hushed voices barely able to be heard, yet they never seemed to last more than a few moments.
It appeared that no-one really knew what to say. Maybe putting a bunch of would-be enemies all in the same place wasn't the most conducive to conversation, but then again, this was a tournament, not some sort of social event.
Evelyn was content to simply ignore her surroundings until her name was called once more, but that choice was taken out of her hands rather abruptly.
"The lot of you might as well give up now, y'know? It might help you save what meagre amount of face you have."
Maybe it was due to the previous quietness, but the horned-knight's declaration was particularly startling, as every head turned to look at his form.
"Just know, that if any of you get in the ring with me, I'll crush you."
No one spoke for what seemed an age, dumbfounded by the strangers' bold claims. That is, until someone let their opinions be known.
"You're not as scary as you think you are. You can brag and boast as much as you want, but in the end, it will be your sword that does the talking."
"Oh?"
The knight got up from where he was sitting, before walking forwards with menacing steps.
It took Evelyn a second to realise that voice had been hers.
"That was pretty well put, I guess. Our swords will do the talking indeed."
He stopped a short distance away from her, green eyes blazing underneath his helm. She had thought he might have gotten angry, or upset as most arrogant nobles were wont to do, but no. Instead he appeared eager, as if that was a normal response.
"Know this, however; you should count your lucky stars I wasn't allowed a real blade."
With a chiming laugh, the boy turned on heel and strode away, leaving Evelyn staring at his retreating form.
Her eyebrows furrowed in thought.
'For a moment there, he seemed almost similar to Raphael…'
AN:
Hello all, hope you enjoy the chapter!