In the real world, only about a minute had passed, but to Evelyn it felt as if she had been fighting for a hundred years. Every desperate block she made sent her further and further into despair, her aching fingers just barely able to keep grasp of the hilt of her sword.
Another swing, another deflection, wooden blade splintered and groaning in protest.
This couldn't be a simple squire, could it? The way he moved, his strength, his speed… whoever this Mordred was, he was levels above everybody else she had fought. Too much so to be normal.
A lazy slice came in from the right, Evelyn only barely able to put up her defence in time.
That was probably just her insecurity talking anyway. She had not trained for nearly half as long compared to most of these contestants, so why should it be surprising that one of them was now beating her. It made sense, didn't it, so why? Why did it gall her so much, why did her blood boil with impotent rage every time her opponent swung his sword?
After ducking under a slow-moving sweep, she realised what it was. The girl was on her last legs at this point, barely able to carry on, yet Mordred didn't seem to care. Infact, his blows had considerably weakened since the start of the fight, and he refused to capitalise on any of the glaring holes that came as a product of her weakness.
He was toying with her, like a lion toying with its prey.
"Where has all that bravado gone now, huh?! Didn't you say our swords would do the talking? Show me then!"
Evelyn snarled in the face of defeat. She would make him take her seriously, or die trying. She pushed through fatigue, the bone-deep exhaustion, and when the next strike came, Evelyn swung her sword with as much force as she could muster.
Both blades met with a resounding crack.
Her opponent was caught off guard for a scant moment, surprised by the girl's newfound strength, leaving his guard slightly open. Evelyn took this opportunity without hesitation, ignoring the burning ache within her lungs and surging forth.
Her blade carved a sweeping crescent through the air, hurtling towards her target, and for a brief second, the taste of victory was at her lips. A vision of celebration flitted through mind's eye in that instant, of her opponent laying defeated in the dirt, and she smiled with wan hope.
"Nice try."
Her dreams were snuffed out like a candle in the wind.
In the end, it was her own ambition that led to her downfall. She had become too consumed in the future, too enamoured by unlikely possibilities and what-ifs, that Evelyn failed to see what was right in front of her.
The edge of a blade tickled her throat with deceptive gentleness.
She lay there, slumped and despondent, as the sound of Mordred's footsteps faded into the distance.
/
Raphael had dealt with many things during his short life. He had faced down monsters with a stoic gaze, done battle with horrors beyond mortal comprehension, and even, quite recently, he had managed to prevent the collapse of an entire world.
Well, he wasn't totally sure about that last one, but it was the thought that counted really.
Nevertheless, most would look upon his deeds and think him larger than life. A hero, a messiah, someone who had an answer to anything, no matter what it may be. And to a certain extent it was true, for Raphael had accrued much experience whilst wandering the lands between. He had learned how to speak, how to listen, and most importantly, how to fight.
He just wished that 'dealing with crying women' had come as part of that package.
The man reached over with a tentative hand, patting Evelyn on the back in awkward motions. She stiffened imperceptibly at the contact, before tilting her head upwards with teary, imploring eyes.
"Erm… Don't worry about it, okay? Everyone needs to lose from time to time. Keeps you humble, y'know?"
She paused, seemingly parsing through his words, before responding in a way he wasn't quite expecting.
"J-just shut up and hug me."
And with that, he was pulled rather forcefully into her warm embrace.
The inn bed creaked as their bodies shifted, the dim light doing strange things to Raphael's mood. He was tense at first, but slowly his muscles began to relax, as the warrior found himself rubbing soothing circles around his protege's back.
'Hah. Fia would be proud.'
He wasn't sure how long they sat there, seconds stretching into long minutes, but like most things, the blissful silence eventually came to an ignoble end. Evelyn's snorting laugh broke the peaceful ambience like a bull in a China shop.
"I'm n-not sure what I was expecting, but your armour is way too hard for me to get comfortable."
Raphael gasped, a theatrical sound that paired well with his faux outrage.
"Hey, this is premium Leyndell gold we're talking about! It's perfectly comfortable!"
"There you go with your made up places again. It's fine to say you came from France, you know? I won't judge."
They both let out a short chuckle, before Raphael got up from where he had been sitting. This time, when Evelyn turned to face him, her lips were curled into a shaky smile.
"Better?"
She nodded her head, voice cracking slightly.
"A little."
Raphael hummed, eyes flitting to the window for a second before looking back.
"You wanna head out and go watch the rest of the matches? Or not, I don't mind either way."
Evelyn's eyes seemed to narrow for a second, before she replied.
"No."
"No?"
"If I see that bastard again, not even god would be able to hold me back."
Raphael shivered in mock fright, before grinning.
"Scary! Maybe you should focus on your footwork first perhaps, before you go gallivanting off looking for another fight. Didn't we go over your hip-movements just a few days ago?"
Evelyn's cheeks flushed in a mixture of anger and embarrassment, before she crossed her arms underneath her chest.
"It's hard to focus on all that in the middle of a battle, okay! I just need more practice!"
"Maybe… No amount of practice is going to turn you into Sir Gideon Ofnir, though, so maybe you should stop trying."
"I thought we agreed not to bring that up again!"
The two talked until the sun finished its descent over the horizon, and the pale light of the moon peeked through the clouds. He gave Evelyn a quick goodnight, before the tarnished layed down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He wasn't really tired, but he supposed it was best to be properly rested for tomorrow.
Raphael closed his eyes and dreamt of dragons.
/
It didn't come as much of a surprise when Mordred was declared the winner of the tournament. Apparently he had torn though the rest of the competition like paper after Evelyn's defeat, resulting in a swift victory in his name.
Raphael figured he was meant to be annoyed by this news - Mordred had beaten his friend rather handedly, after all- but in reality, all he really felt was intrigue towards the boy. If he was a squire, then the knight was no doubt a prodigy. Even from what little he had shown, the boy's skills far surpassed everyone else's, so much so that it looked as if he stood on an entirely different level comparatively.
The tarnished remained lost in thought, purposefully ignoring the sideways glances being sent his way. There was nothing wrong with scouting out potential enemies, he supposed, but it wasn't like he was the only person fighting, was it?. Indeed, the armoury was packed to the brim with determined faces, a thick tension permeating the air.
The scent of sweat and metal lingered in the room like a haze, bringing a slight smile to the warrior's face. He had missed that smell.
Raphael walked out of the building and into the sunlight, greeting the crowd with an extravagant bow. Their cheers were devoured with an insatiable hunger.
'Feels good to be back.'
Peace was fine and all, but eventually it was bound to get stale. Boring. There was only so much idling around he could take, only so much time wasted doing nothing, before his palms began itching for the hilt of a sword.
He couldn't help it, really. Ever Since he had awoken in that church what felt like a lifetime ago, Raphael's entire being had become defined by the rigours of battle, his existence balancing precariously upon a knife's edge.
'Am I to live, to die, or to be reborn?'
He had asked himself this question every single day, and the results were telling. Battle had become a part of him, a concept tied to his very essence, something he could no longer live without. He was lost in its absence, like a fish out of water. Flapping about aimlessly upon the land.
It might seem unfathomable to most, but to those birthed in the fires of conflict, it made perfect sense.
The rest of the knights were beginning to pour in now, but the tarnsished's focus remained on the numerous spectators. No matter how much he dismissed things or played the fool, Raphael had understood Evelyn's warnings with complete clarity.
He had learned enough now to know that his abilities weren't the most common in this new world. Showing them off infront of so many people was bound to bring some scrutiny down upon him, something that could lead in the two of them being driven out of Camelot entirely.
He couldn't afford that right now. The mystery of the round table still burnt within his mind, whispering within his subconscious, a golden string leading into the future.
It was the smart thing to do, he thought. Probably the correct thing as well. There was no need to show off, really, was there? Raphael guessed not.
Still, the urge did not abate. Like a cancer, it took root within his thoughts, eroding his hesitance bit by bit.
It had been a while since he had truly let loose, hadn't it…. Maybe if he found a worthy opponent, then he could-
The warrior's thoughts were cut off by the booming voice of the announcer.
"Welcome once again, Ladies and gentlemen! It's that time we've all been waiting for, the main event of the Camelot games begins today!"
'Huh… is that what it was called?'
"For our opening match, our first contestant is Sir Isac Hurst, a seasoned Knight of Durham castle!"
What appeared to be the man in question stepped forward. He was a tall fellow, clean shaven, with a few stress-lines and a prominent nose. His face seemed to be permanently stuck in a state of haughty dismissal, sniffing imperiously as he strode past the rest of the knights.
'Did someone shit in his bed or something?'
Seeing that the man was ready, the Announcer turned back to his piece of parchment, before shouting out once more.
"And as his opponent, we have Sir Raphael, from…err… 'somewhere beyond the fog'?"
Well, it seemed like that was his cue. Raphael walked into the arena on steady feet, features impassive, as the sunlight reflected off his armour in dazzling orange hues.
His opponent took one look at this, and scoffed. When he spoke, it with a mocking sneer, tone heavy with derision.
"You are foolish, boy. Do you think covering yourself in gold will make you a better fighter?"
Raphael raised a single eyebrow in askance, wondering where the man was going with this. Sir Isac seemed to take this as the go-ahead to continue his spiel though, unsheathing his sword in a single motion, before pointing it at him like an accusing finger.
"No! It serves only as an indicator of your incompetence, that you would wear such a thing to a competition as prestigious as this! What a farce, that I must face a jester like you!"
Before Raphael had been slightly intrigued, but now he was just baffled. Did this man have some personal vendetta against gold? Was he critiquing his fashion sense?
If so, then it was quite a strange attempt at pre-fight banter. Raphael couldn't say he understood.
Heedless to his inner thoughts, Isac carried on, his voice raising into a passionate shout.
"Do you know why we wear steel, boy? Why we coat ourselves in cast iron and plate mail sheets?"
The Announcer had started his countdown by now, but the man either didn't hear or didn't care.
"Because iron is strong, and just like the spirit of chivalry, it is unbending. Keep your glitter and your jewellery to yourself, oh Raphael! I have no interest in it. For gold is soft, same as you, something I will prove here and now!"
He charged forth on the count of one, blade poised at the ready. Despite his strange demeanour, the man's footwork seemed actually quite solid, something Raphael noted absently whilst standing stock still.
'Hmm, I wonder… is this the norm in this land, or the exception?'
He didn't let the question bother him overly much. From his side the tarnished drew his weapon, a large greatsword with gold furnishings along the base of the blade. He gripped it with both hands, before advancing forward, stepping past his opponent's swing with an effortless dodge, and proceeding to stamp the hilt against Isac's back.
He had a rather large sample size, after all.
The man was launched into the ground with explosive speed, slumping over defeated in the dirt after just one move.
The previously cheering crowd went completely silent.
After a long pause, the announcer sprung to life, half-spluttering with shock.
"W-winner, Raphael!"
He smiled lightly, before walking back to his place.
/
For the people asking about my other story, I want to be completely honest and say I'm not completely sure when I'm going start uploading chapters again. When I started writing it, I honestly had no real plan on where it was going to go, and every chapter I was basically winging it without much thought to the future. Due to that, I kind of wrote myself into a corner, and my original vision for the story got lost along the way.
I still really like the idea, but I just struggle on deciding a satisfying path to take the story. I'll hopefully be able to revisit the story in the coming months now that my schedule has become pretty regular, but right now most of my focus is on this current story. I'm unfortunately quite a slow writer, so it takes me double the time of your regular author to get out a new chapter. Hope you can bear with it though :)