Outwardly, Raphael was the perfect picture of a haughty noble. He cut out an imposing figure, draped head to toe in his signature gold, stark-red eyes outlined like rubies amidst the waning light. He stood straight as a whip, towering over the rest of the contestants like a giant, arms crossed and immaculate features pulled into a slight grin.
To many, the sight was an intimidating one. Here was a man who had just run through the competition with seemingly no resistance, one by one, without even the barest hint of exhaustion visible upon his countenance. A true prodigy, a virtuous knight; skilled - almost preternaturally so - and with a smile that both charmed and terrified in unison. This image was only further enforced by the sullen form of Palamedes propped up next to him, who stood with slumped shoulders and a downcast gaze.
What could such a man be thinking? What kind of thoughts ran through his mind? All were eager to know, but like most things, the truth of the matter is often disappointing.
'I hope they'll serve us some food after the ceremony is done. I'm fuckin' starving!'
Raphael was rather unconcerned with the current proceedings. If he was allowed, in fact, the man would much rather be at a pub eating and drinking than be here, turned into some sort of spectacle for people to gawk at. What was the point of an 'awards ceremony' anyway? It all seemed like a big waste of time, if he was being frank. He had already sat through two whole speeches about the glory of Camelot and its chosen King, and at this point, Raphael was unsure whether he could endure another without falling asleep.
He didn't mean to be disrespectful, but the whole process just felt tedious. Boring. After the drudgery that was his previous battles, the man had finally found a glimpse of enjoyment in his bout against Palamedes, although it was but a fleeting thing. Granted, it still felt a little lacklustre compared to some of things he had done during his tenure as a lowly tarnished, but it was maybe the most fun he had experienced since arriving in these lands, and so to have that sensation torn away from him so soon after was vexing, to say the least.
He would later cite this as the reasoning behind his following actions, although in reality it was perhaps only about half responsible.
Never let it be said that Raphael was the type of man that would pass up a good fight.
"Oi! What the hell are you looking at?"
A voice cut off the announcer's winding monologue, loud and brash, causing the tarnished to turn his head towards its source.
"Are you mocking me, huh?! Got a problem you golden bastard?!"
A tense silence permeated the arena for a short while, before Raphael realised that the voice was, in actuality, talking to him.
He took in the horned helm of the speaker, their elaborate, crimson-streaked armour, before giving an awkward smile, fingers scratching at the back of his head.
"Err… No?"
The knight - Squire Mordred, he had come to realise- began to almost growl at his words, a strange reaction that the man found himself hard-pressed in understanding. Was this boy also a half-wolf like Blaidd? It might explain the helmet, at least, if nothing else.
Next to Mordred, another squire flinched away from the noise, someone that Raphael only just now noticed was there. Dark hair and hazel eyes framed a noble face, stuck midway between haughty arrogance and genuine fear. It was an interesting combination, if ever he had seen one.
'That must be number two, huh? I wonder what happened in his final match…"
He was broken from his musings rather abruptly, Mordred's voice rising in pitch by slight increments.
"Hey! Are you even paying attention to me?!"
His accusations were almost bordering on petulance at this point, but Raphael felt like pointing that out would not be the wisest decision he could make. Instead, he let out a small sigh, before responding as best as he could.
"Listen, I'm not sure what it is I've done, but if I offended you in any way then I apologise. I assure you, Squire Mordred, that I harbour no ill will towards your person."
The boy paused, seemingly contemplating his words, and for a second Raphael thought that he might have successfully diffused the situation. If he had, then this would undeniably be a first for him.
Most of the problems that he had faced previously were usually solved through a liberal application of violence, and if that didn't work, he would simply try again and again until it did. To resolve a conflict with just words… The feeling was strangely satisfying, although he couldn't fathom why.
Alas, Mordred was not the type to be pacified so easily. In fact, Raphael's response seemed only to serve as kindling for the raging fire that burnt within his breast, as he clenched his fists in barely suppressed rage.
"Squire Mordred, huh?! I'LL FUCKIN' SHOW YOU A SQUIRE, YOU BASTARD! COME ON THEN, LET'S FIGHT, OR SO HELP ME I'LL…"
Now, to most this entire charade would seem like nothing more than a sloppy attempt at instigating a conflict. Mordred's efforts towards goading the man were ham-fisted at best, and at worst, they were pitifully transparent, obvious almost to the point of absurdity. It was an easy thing to see for anyone looking in - so easy, in fact, that all assumed that Raphael, being the prodigious warrior that he was, would be able to discern it as well.
Thus nobody said a word, and the man was left to fend for himself. He had some inkling as to the fact that Mordred's offence might not be fully genuine, but the anger in his voice at least felt real, and at the end of the day, Raphael had yet to fully understand the intricacies of his new home. He was as much a stranger to the customs of these lands as he was to them.
'I wonder what Evelyn would do in this situation. She's good at dealing with people, right?'
…
…
…
Yeah, maybe not.
Raphael fought hard to suppress a snort, although he wasn't particularly successful. If nothing else, the mental image of Evelyn biting Mordred's head off was an amusing one, helpful or not.
Unfortunately, without being privy to Raphael's inner musings, Mordred could only take the man's laughter in one way - badly. He took a menacing step forward, verdant eyes blazing under helm with swirling intensity.
He seemed about to begin his spiel anew, although whatever insults the squire was brewing were lost to history.
"What is going on here?"
The previous murmurs of the watching crowd turned to silence. Mordred halted in her tracks almost instantly, and with agonising slowness, turned his head to face the speaker, armoured form subtly trembling. It was as if the world itself had become suspended in motion, as the setting sun illuminated the visage of the one who was lauded by all.
"Well? I asked you all a question, didn't I?"
Hair of spun gold framed a regal countenance, both confident and self-assured in its presentation. His features were delicate, bordering almost on femininity - yet such things did not detract from the otherworldly presence he exuded. Rather, they served only to enhance the image of what could only be the ruler of these lands.
King Arthur stood before the crowd, hands on his hips, bathed in all of his ethereal glory.
His piercing gaze fell upon the shaking form of Mordred, who had frozen in place, still as a statue. He looked like he wanted to speak up, to say something, anything; but the boy seemed completely starstruck, breath caught up in his throat, and he was unable to utter even a single word.
The longer the silence stretched on, the worse his trembling got. Seeing the previously aggressive squire reduced to such a state was shocking at first, but after a while, Raphael decided to take pity on the boy.
"Sorry about all this, your highness. We were just having a, uhhh… little misunderstanding?"
As soon as the King averted his eyes from Mordred's position, the spell he was under was broken. The squire regained his passion with impressive speed, and without hesitation or a moment's thought, threw Raphael under the bus.
"Y-your highness, that man was insulting my honour! I cannot repeat what he said, but whatever it was, I know for certain that it was extremely vile a-and humiliating!"
King Arthur's expression remained unchanged by this bold-faced lie. He processed the words with a neutral look, before inclining his head towards Raphael.
"I see… And what say you, Sir Raphael?"
Despite his baffled look, the man responded with as much poise as he could muster - which wasn't much, granted, but at least he was trying.
"I… don't know what he's talking about, to be honest. I don't think I did anything wrong…"
"Y-you definitely did! Don't try and weasel your way out of-"
"Calm yourself, Squire Mordred. I have already come to a conclusion."
He did not raise his voice, but the King's declaration was laced with a certain gravitas, one that left his words echoing through empty air. A thousand curious eyes looked towards the arena with bated breath.
King Arthur coughed, clearing his throat, before beginning anew.
"Two options lay before you. The first would be, of course, to take this matter to the round table. Disparaging another's honour may be a serious offence, but to spew false accusations is equally as wrong, if not more so. By doing this, we can provide the issue with the proper time it deserves to both discuss and to deliberate upon, before coming to an unbiased conclusion."
Raphael sneaked a look from the corner of his eye, and found Mordred acting as if he had been struck by an arrow. His face was still obscured, of course, but the tarnished got the distinct impression that, behind the intimidating helmet, Mordred's current expression was not a happy one.
"M-my King, please-"
The squire's halting voice was cut off without mercy, King Arthur carrying on as if he hadn't been interrupted.
"The second option would be to settle this through a duel. It would be the easiest solution, I must admit, but I can only go through with it if both of you are amenable."
The watching crowd broke out into a chorus of hushed whispers, speculative and tinged with hopeful excitement. Events such as this didn't come around very often, he guessed, so their reactions weren't too surprising.
Raphael paid them no mind. Instead, his attention lay transfixed upon the King of England, whose face had remained remarkably impassive the entire time.
"Now, choose wisely. I would rather we finish this as quickly as possible."
Raphael made to speak, but he was beaten to it by the horned figure of Mordred, whose voice had gained an uncharacteristically meek quality to it. He seemed strangely terrified of the King, although for what reason he didn't know. The man didn't seem too bad just from first impressions.
"I would do battle, m-my liege…"
King Arthur nodded in lieu of an answer, before turning his head towards the golden warrior, a single eyebrow raised in askance.
"And you?"
His mind swirled, deliberating his choices with methodical efficiency. He weighed both the pros and cons of each decision, every advantage and potential ramification - before realising that he didn't really care all that much about any of them. When had he become such a worrier? If it had not awarded him anything in the past, then why should it start now?
So the man chuckled, and with a bright smile, followed the warmth within his gut.
"Sure, why not? It's not like I have anything better to do anyways…"
To his credit, King Arthur appeared as unflappable as ever despite the excited roar of the crowd battering his eardrums. With the nod of his head, his decree was set in stone, gauntlet-clad hands crossed underneath an iron chestplate.
"Quite… Everyone clear out from the arena, the match will start in five minutes."
Most heeded this call without complaint. Palamedes trudged away without a word, the announcer and the rest of the attendees following suit, although one person decided to stay behind, fingers twitching with nervous mien. It was that boy from earlier, Raphael realised.
The presumed second place of the Squire's tournament opened his mouth, and spoke with a stuttering tone.
"I m-mean no offence, your highness, b-but are you sure it's best to have this duel now? W-we still haven't finished the award ceremony…"
King Arthur looked at the squire for only a moment, but it was enough to have him quaking in fear. Raphael thought for a second that he might punish the boy, but the man simply stayed silent, seemingly having nothing to say to him. He stayed like that for a while, green eyes piercing into the poor boy's soul, before his stoic mask shattered for but a brief second, as plump lips quirked into the barest of smiles.
"Of course. What better time than the present?"
/
It had only been five seconds since they had crossed blades, but already Raphael had come to a conclusion.
Whoever this Mordred was, squire or not, his skills were far superior to anyone else that he had fought today. The boy was able to switch from one stance to the other with effortless ease, a fluidity present in his every action that spoke of many hours spent in diligent practice. Palamedes was the only person who came who came marginally close to this, but even then it was like comparing a lion with a housecat. It's no wonder Evelyn lost as badly as she did.
She had never stood a chance in the first place.
Raphael hefted his greatsword upwards in a practised motion, deflecting an incoming strike from his left. Where others may have backed away, Mordred instead surged forwards, causing their blades to clash in a shower of white sparks.
They struggled against each other for a moment, a silent battle of wills, before pulling apart once more. Each move was accompanied by noise from the crowd, a selection of gasps and cheers that followed in the wake of their blades - for to them, it seemed as if these were no longer knights, but actors, performing the events of some great play or epic.
Steel touched steel to a steady beat, the battle dictated by a rhythm that only they could hear. Mordred disengaged with quick steps, and instead of rushing back in, he decided to feign a lunge, a manoeuvre that would allow him to slip neatly underneath the man's guard with a well placed jab.
Raphael jumped to the side just in time, the tip of his opponent's blade barely grazing his chestplate. If he was maybe a second later, he realised absently, then he would probably have lost then and there.
'Huh… looks like I've collected some rust after all.'
Crimson eyes locked onto Mordred's own, alight with excitement and ill-suppressed bloodthirst. It was almost like looking in a mirror, he thought. Even hidden underneath that helmet, it was easy to see that the boy's expression echoed his own.
Raphael took a single, slow step forwards, before bursting into action, greatsword turned to a grey blur hurtling through the air.
The cycle began anew.
Each swing was met with a parry, followed up by a counterattack blocked by the flat of a blade. Disengage. Repeat. An endless dance, a never-ending sequence, completed in full by two kindred spirits.
Whilst the sun set over the horizon, the two of them were locked in battle, heedless to all else. The Moon crested over rolling hills, yet they remained in the same position, faces inches apart, that identical point repeated over and over ad infinitum. Sweat dripped from Raphael's forehead, golden locks glittering in the pale light, muscles burning in a familiar exertion.
He had missed this feeling.
Mordred did not seem much better off than him, if his staggering steps served as any indication. Still, the boy had made no effort to give in, and for that, he had earned Raphael's respect.
He was more a knight than anyone else in this bloody tournament, regardless of his strange behaviour.
Maybe it was due to this, but Raphael had begun to grow curious as to what type of person his opponent really was. He attempted to discern some meaning from his past actions, before giving up half-way, a heady cocktail of adrenaline and battle-lust making it hard to put proper thought towards anything not directly related to fighting.
So, in one of their brief lulls in battle, the man decided simply to ask.
"What was the point of all that back there? Do you actually have a grudge against me, or is there something else to it?"
Mordred startled at his words, evidently not expecting him to suddenly start talking. Still, he did not ignore him, planting his blade into the earth before responding.
"You want the truth?"
The look Raphael gave him was dry enough to curdle milk.
"Preferably."
Mordred heaved a sigh, one tinged with both self-doubt and embarrassment, before responding.
"Whatever… I just… I just wanted to fight, okay! I couldn't really think of any better way to say it…"
"Huh. Is that all?"
The sky had turned dark by now, the night fully upon them. Their surroundings were covered in a haze of black, yet for some reason, the man was still visible, standing out amongst the gloom.
"You could have just asked, y'know? Would've been a whole lot easier for everyone involved."
Like some sort of beacon, the air around him seemed to almost shine, a million blurry motes of light enshrouding his form.
"W-huh?"
Raphael grinned, and it was as if the very stars shone all the brighter for it.
A sense of wonder engulfed Mordred's heart, along with something else he couldn't quite identify. He suppressed the feeling with ruthless efficiency, but still, the impression lingered within his mind, a vision of otherworldly might made manifest on mundane soil.
He wondered what the man might do next. A hundred possibilities lay before him, yet Raphael seemed content to pick one he wouldn't even have dreamt of.
With a brief chuckle, the man tossed away his sword, leaving himself totally defenceless.
Bafflement came first, before giving way to a boiling rage, blazing hot and cold within Mordred's veins. After all of this, he was just going to give up now? He said he was up for a battle, right? Had something changed?
The boy couldn't, no- he wouldn't accept this. Not now, not ever.
"Oi, what the fuck are you doing, you bastard? Don't fuckin' pity me! If you're trying to give up, then I refuse, okay! I refuse your refusal! So pick your bloody sword back up, and let's go!"
The man did not respond with words, but with the snap of his fingers, echoing through the night like the clap of thunder. The aura that had been coating him started to coalesce into a single form, although whatever it had been was quickly put out of sight, Raphael's fist closing around the object.
"I think you're under some sort of misconception, Mordred…"
He stepped forward, and with an errant mind, Mordred realised how tall the man was compared to him. A strange tingle ran up his spine.
"Why would I be giving up? Hell, this battle has hardly even begun!"
"W-what, don't be an idiot! Pick up your blade then! You can hardly expect to be a swordsman without a sword!"
The man laughed, the sound carrying across the entire stadium with ease.
"Hmm… You are correct. If I were a swordsman, then I certainly would be in a bit of trouble, wouldn't I?"
He took another step, and Mordred found himself wrestling with his own body not to retreat back. It was a ridiculous notion, for the man had robbed himself of his only weapon - yet for some reason, this only made him seem even more dangerous than he was before.
"It's a good thing I'm not, then. You shouldn't underestimate me simply because I am a man of the cloth…"
Before Mordred could even begin to process that absurd statement, his world was lit up by a flash of amber light. He shut his eyes for a brief moment, blinded, and when they were opened, they gazed upon a sight that both made no sense, and was entirely expected all at once.
For within those hands burnt fire, dancing and flickering with a life of its own.
He seemed about to say something, but whatever it was, the voice of somebody else cut him off.
"I think we've all seen enough. Let's just call this a draw, eh?"
A man with hair the colour of snow interrupted their bout with a calculative smile.
/
MERLIN, STOP COCKBLOCKING MEEEEEEE
