What is a man but his will? Is his skin anything more than the cuts it will endure for his desires and dreams?
What are shoulders if not for the burdens they accept for the sake of virtue?
Nothing.
Pauldrons and a breastplate, a helm and two gauntlets - these are a knight's silk. The sword is his scepter, and the blood trickling down its length is the greatest gem of all.
… so long as such is the blood of a tyrant.
"My swords, how do they look?"
Steel, glintstone and gold upon the anvil. Minimal servicing was needed… much to Hewg's surprise.
"You've been taking care of them… 'tis good to see. That sword you first came here with, I could hear it crying out for merciful death with all of the gashes on its blade."
"Ah, come off of it. My claymore was not that bad-off."
He still missed that sword. Some regrets over leaving it to mark Godrick's grave were formed in the time since.
"Either way, this flamberge suits me well, and I must commend your craftsmanship. Quite the great piece for me, indeed. Scarcely in my life have I seen one with a blade so expertly-shaped as it."
Great pride once again surged in the heart of Hewg; such words were like sparks aplenty in the night, indications that he still had what made a smith great.
"Your words are appreciated. Where did you happen upon this smaller sword? I haven't seen its like."
"I found it in Liurnia; its previous wielder was… indisposed. … anyway, thank you for making that shortsword as I requested. I think it will see its share of use… since we have some exciting news to share. Do we not, Roderika?"
The knight looked to his right, meeting eyes with the woman standing next to him. She was a good six inches shorter in stature than him, but then again, he had seen far shorter. Some of the noble girls back home hardly came up even to his bicep… let alone his shoulder.
In spite of it they were attractive, he thought at the time. He still thought that until the day of his departure. After that, why bother? They would go on with their lives, and his would forever change.
Even then it wasn't easy to forget. Man is oft a fickle being, easily swayed by thoughts and desires. With rosy lips and charming smiles, what noble boy could resist infatuation (even were it fleeting)?
None of them had eyes quite like Roderika's, though. Large and pretty and green… oh, and uniquely hers. If he were not accustomed to navigating by the sun and moon, he could perhaps become lost in them.
"Yes… Master Hewg, I've decided to accompany Arthur on his journey when he next leaves the Hold."
Smiles adorned both of their faces, wrought with such hope that seemed all but past to the smith.
"Taken my advice, have you? I suppose your head isn't filled with rocks after all."
"... yes, Hewg, I have taken your advice. I will have you know that my head is filled with bone and brain like most others. I was not born irregularly."
As she looked at him, and observed his face, it was obvious that what mild indignation he showed was feigned. Mere play-acting for the sake of banter. The mood was undoubtedly a happy one.
What advice they spoke of, she knew not, but maybe it was an earlier element of the conversation she'd overheard.
"Master Hewg, I believe I've travelled far enough in my walk as a spirit tuner… and what I have left to learn, I'll surely pick up along the way."
The expression on his face betrayed that he wasn't entirely in agreement with all of this.
"What is it, old man? Have you grown attached? Do you hope perhaps to tutor her a while longer?"
The smith ran his gnarled, aged hand over the back of his neck.
"If you believe she's ready, I won't chide you… but don't go around carelessly. Intention isn't the matter that counts. You need technique."
"No, I do not believe so. That is why she shall become ready at my direction… hence the shortsword."
"Taking her as your squire, are you? As long as you know what you're doing…"
In all truth, he didn't.
"Well, of course I do."
Neither the woman nor the smith needed to know that.
"I'm inclined to believe him. He's come this far, and done well for himself so far. I don't see reason to distrust him."
From what he described of his encounters with the land's fine residents, his triumphs meant he could be nothing less than qualified.
Hewg didn't hesitate to play the part of the scolding elder trying to hold back some rash youths from their foolishness. Not forbid them, of course, but simply ensure that they didn't pay dearly for it.
"If you consider bleeding doing well, you won't get far."
The knight couldn't contest this in any meaningful way; Hewg was right. The war would not be won by the cuts upon his body; it all hinged upon the cuts he might deal to others'. Better to be a victor than a martyr.
Even if he made it a habit to get himself into trouble, that would cease now that she would be alongside him. Beyond the self-concerned desire to live that pushed him to battle hard, he could accept dying if there were no other way
He could gamble everything upon a decisive strike, dare to taunt a grafted beast and carve a crack into its axe - he could do this because it was only his life at stake, thrown with full force at the wicked.
Not anymore.
He knew what it meant to be a knight - to protect - and he would prove it. This was to be his crucible, his trial.
"... you are correct, Hewg, but she shan't bleed. My vigil will be unending, my guard unbroken."
The woman could push him to new heights, heights he never would think to reach for himself. A true knight acts in service of others, for his life is worth only so much as that service.
"You say that now, but you're just a man. Even the greatest have their limits. You'd do well to know yours."
Damn that blacksmith, telling him things he didn't want to hear. Didn't he know that standing against the tide of optimism was considered ill-mannered?
"..."
"Master Hewg, you've spoken the truth, but I think this is the best thing for us. Besides… it has been some time since I've felt the sun."
She had been here for nearly a week, that was true. The fireplace could only replicate that bright old sun to a fledgling extent.
The smith sighed and looked down at his anvil. He was here and he would never leave - that was his duty, his curse.
Youth would be wasted if she spent it doing the same.
"If you're sure."
"After all of your talk about 'carrying on any way except like this', you seem apprehensive where we are not. I know I might be a sword calling a spear sharp to point it out, as I was unsure myself, but… just wish us luck, would you?"
Hewg raised his head to look the knight in the eyes. He saw a will that was absent during their conversation yesterday.
"When those blades of yours are chipped and rusted with blood, I'll be here… doing my job, same as ever."
His own iron-edged way of saying 'stop in to prove that you haven't gotten yourselves killed'.
"Well, that reminds me of why I came up here, besides to inform you."
The knight retrieved the blades from atop that anvil, sheathing them and subsequently holding one in each hand. Despite the bloody nature of his arm's injuries, it was no longer agonizing… nor was his leg. Pain soothed by recuperation, cuts that healed. Being able to stand and stand well was a blessing.
Still, to be upright was one thing - to stay that way was another. His armor would be heavy in comparison to the soft attire of linen that had lined his stay at the Roundtable Hold.
That was indeed what made donning it a worthy endeavor.
"All of that reluctance is quite unbecoming, truly, but your aid is appreciated."
"You would be the same."
An astute remark only made obsolete by the outcome of the morning conversation between maiden and knight.
"... you know neither the three-quarters nor the half of it. Ah, but such is past. This is no decision I make carelessly, and make it I have."
"Then good luck to you."
"Luck is auxiliary when Queen Marika blesses me so. Golden grace be our guide and Her Eternal Majesty's virtue be our own."
Hewg's face showed something like dismay at the mention of Marika… but he brushed it aside and nodded once more.
"Keep in mind what I've told you. The time has come."
Now did Arthur nod.
"I will."
As much as the Misbegotten still held concern over the idea, it would do no good at all for her to be consigned to the Roundtable Hold.
No good for either of the Tarnished.
The fire dimmed within the living quarters, only to find new life with the addition of two logs. So, too, did Knight Arthur find new life - new light - when the past did not strike so cruelly.
The time had come.
He was going to fulfill his end of the bargain at long last - to instruct Roderika in swordplay, so that her safety may prevail over what could threaten it.
"Follow me, and bring your shortsword."
In no meaningful way could he deny the excitement that built. He, at best a squire whose knighting day hadn't come, was now taking into his ward a member of royalty.
Better yet, it was Roderika. His father might not believe him when regaled of all this; what scandal it might cause in any civilized country where order yet lived. Somebody like him taking into his party a full-blooded princess… with whom he'd begun something like a relationship.
At least, he thought she was a princess; she certainly was no queen. He could imagine her as one, though, with how dignified she shone in his eyes.
Every knight needs a princess, right? Those tales of heroic knights - the knights he aspired since boyhood to equal - always had some princess or other. Princess Something the Fair, Princess Something-Else of Place-Name. They often had a dragon, too, and it invariably perished at the hands of the heroic knight.
'Perhaps I should fight a dragon. I could slay a dragon, most likely.
That last time was a mere fluke.
… and when I nearly was melted by Godrick.
… and that time upon Agheel Lake some weeks ago.
Of course, of course.'
Half-lost in his thoughts, he only managed to return to the present when he heard the woman step behind him to reach her bedside table. In-between two white-sheeted beds it stood, the brooch earning a few seconds' attention. Only a few seconds.
It's quite comforting to know that even something like that…
The spirits of her fallen companions were idle now - not vanquished, but content to know that she would live. She was in good company; this knight had proven his measure when, with their spirits bearing witness and the brooch in his pocket, he put their killer to the sword. He would never grasp it fully, but Melina was not the only spirit that looked on in pride and silently cheered for him.
... can be overcome in time.
She took in her hands the weapon - the shortsword, best described as a rather short sword. It was as standard and plain as any, but it was hers and it was better than a dagger or her gloved fists, even if she didn't know how to use it. Soon she would.
Its leather sheath was equally plain, and of probably-inferior leather to her plush gloves… but such 'inferior' material seemed sturdier than the royal riding gloves. Of course, they were never meant for combat, so this was no surprise.
The knight strode past the beds, past the fireplace and through the doorways until he trod upon red carpet again. She followed closely behind, nerves thrumming with the knowledge that she'd be doing something so very foreign to her.
In the center of the grand hall, he about-faced and addressed her with flamberge in left hand and arming sword on hip.
"Part of our agreement is that you would become accustomed to a sword… even if not adept. You may commune with Aurelia as I cannot, and know how to mend battle-wounds while I prove weary, but if imperiled you must defend yourself and your dignity. Your training begins today."
His eyes looked into hers with a resolve she'd missed seeing. Upon his unshaven face which ran so newly with stubble, the expression was cast of iron.
"I suppose I'm your squire, then?"
He nodded and his determined expression softened so as to give her a faint smile.
"Yes, you are m… well…"
'Wait… if I am still formally considered a squire, then she would have to be a page.
The two are functionally the same right now, but titles are important for the sake of pride… that is why, after all, I presumptuously jumped to such introductions as 'Knight Arthur of the Roundtable Hold'.
Ah, hell, what difference does it make? She will be with me at last!'
"... no. You shall be my page."
"Your page?"
"Yes, my page. I am still considered a squire myself, and we could not be of equal rank."
He embarrassedly scratched the back of his head.
"As you know, I never was knighted, and the road to knighthood is that of the squire. The road to squiredom is itself paved of a page."
"I see. I'm your page, then. Does that make you a book?"
"... very funny."
He molded his visage into an unamused stare, meant to convey a message of 'that was not actually funny'... but, somewhere in that, it looped around into something humorous. Humorous enough to break his supposedly-unamused look with a deeper smile and a laugh.
Her remark had done its job, even if it took a moment.
"Perhaps you might refrain from shooting me in the shoulder like the one I most recently met. I suppose he could be termed a 'book-burner', since he set the bolt alight."
Even in recalling something like being shot with a crossbow, he could joke and smile. It was a blessing and a curse in equal measure to experience danger daily, to court it so freely. One becomes desensitized, if only to an extent, and the macabre becomes prime comedic fodder.
"He was an agile fellow. Luckily the bolt was tipped with such a shape that could be removed without trauma… otherwise I would be in much more pain."
To be harmed by some mere servant-boy was a denting blow to his pride… but then he remembered slashing the little bastard up with his flamberge and it suddenly wasn't. Which of them was standing now? Not the masked assailant. Reprisal is a sweet thing.
"Even so, it must hurt… right?"
He shook his head.
"Not to worry. Such pain has come and gone, so let us think of the here-and-now."
Conversation with her always was a thing he adored, but the time had come for action.
"Right. You're going to show me how to use a sword."
As she pointed this very obvious fact out, he realized that he truly didn't know what he was doing. He knew of proper sword technique, no doubt, but how would he best pass them on to somebody inexperienced?
"Yes, I… am."
'How shall I go about this? I am used to being the taught, never the teacher…
Surely I mustn't place too much pressure upon her.
It will be her first day, and she is not possessed of the upbringing instilled in me.
If only my father were here to help me. He would show me the way.'
"I want you to… hmm… alright..."
Roderika held the sheathed sword in her hands, but quite obviously it would serve her better hung at the waist. She'd need to get used to wearing it that way if she were to roam the lands with him. To be unarmed is to be dead, that much he was certain of.
"... firstly, secure that scabbard upon your hip, if you would. There should be a loop at the very top, near where the hilt sticks out. Loop your belt through it."
Upon the white-silk fineries that the maiden wore, a thin leather belt was wrapped and tied around her stomach. She undid it and slid to her left side the sheathed sword, hilt sticking out towards Arthur. New weight proved unfamiliar as she tied the belt again, though not unbearable. The sense of something very subtly dragging it down on its left emerged, despite all visual indications showing that it remained firmly in place.
"There. That is better, is it not? Arms will tire eventually, and a sword is no good without some place to rest it… whether that be a sheath or a shelf."
"It feels strange to wear a sword."
"Yes, at first it does. Soon enough you cease to notice its weight, at least to an extent… but I am told that to forever set it down and live in peace is the greatest relief. A burden raised from your shoulders. Someday my sword will rest on a wooden shelf and never spill blood again, but for now a leather sheath suits my purposes just fine."
That day couldn't come soon enough for either of them.
"It will suit yours as well, though this is all a measure of last resort. In the best of all possible scenarios you will have no need to draw it, but without fail life seems to avoid those 'best scenarios'."
A bittersweet smile appeared on her face. His words evoked all that had gone wrong in life, all that had gone worse than it should have.
"It does… doesn't it?"
On her shoulder he put his right hand.
"Yes, sometimes. Despair not, though, for it could be worse. In a drearier world we could be dead, yet we live, so let us endeavor to maintain such states."
She nodded. Things were turning for the better; it would be cowardice to let her hopes dim now.
"You're right. I'm ready, then."
"Good."
Now both of them smiled without hesitance or doubt. The times of trouble had passed like the cold moon fleeing over the mountains.
The Carian moon, having fled away from the blinding light of golden Marika.
In time Ranni would face justice - Godwyn's blood, spilled by such a sin as hers, cried out to the heavens for vengeance - but the rotten witch couldn't taint his thoughts now. His thoughts belonged to him, and he gave them to the maiden in silk looking at him with anticipation.
"Our first lesson will be quite basic. You have no experience in battle, and none in training… so we will start by means of a vow most befitting a swordsman."
He stepped close, drew the blade from the scabbard upon her hip and placed it into her right hand before returning to about four feet's distance.
"Do as I do, if you will."
Now Arthur set down the sheathed flamberge and in its stead held the arming sword. It adorned his own hip in its fine sheath only to be drawn at last.
With its flat against his chest, its tip facing the ceiling high beyond reach, only the faintest and lightest remnants of blood could be seen staining it.
Both legs came together, both feet touching, as he stood up entirely straight.
"My father recited to me these passages when I first became his squire, retained from his own time as a squire to his father. Repeat after me."
Thus did the knight and maiden speak in turn, the first providing every line and the second repeating every line.
"This is my sword.
There are many like it, but this one is mine.
My sword is my dearest companion. It is my life.
I must master it as I must master my life.
Without me, my sword is useless. Without my sword, I am useless.
I must swing my sword true.
I must strike truer than my enemy who would seek to kill me.
I must strike him before he strikes me.
My sword and I know that what counts in war is not the scrapes against mail armor…
… the clattering against plate…
… nor the tearing of leather.
We know that it is the flesh that counts.
My sword is human, even as I, because it is my life.
To this end I will learn it as a brother-in-arms.
I will learn its weaknesses, its strength, its length, its weight, its tip and its edge.
I will keep my sword clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready.
We will become part of each other.
In service of His Majesty the God-Given Sovereign of Auld Cambria King Charles do I swear this vow.
My sword and I are the defenders of my country.
We are the masters of our enemy.
We are the saviors of my life.
Today am I wed to chivalry, and chivalry wed to me.
Disgraced be my soul to dishonor it; exalted be my life to uphold it."
The knight lowered his sword, and so did his instructee.
"With these words your tutelage begins as mine did, and as that of my father, and quite likely even his father."
Arthur smiled as he spoke, before returning to a firm expression.
He was glad to share a family tradition with somebody dear… even if it was martial in nature, and that somebody was not.
She was glad to be so honored, even being of a different nation (and an empire rather than a kingdom, for that matter).
"Now, if you are to have a sword, you must know never to direct it at any man you would not wish cleft in twain. Fights may begin with any provocation and end in tragedy unwarranted; therefore this is the most vital of all procedures."
She nodded. A fair enough thing to stress; life is not a thing to be taken or given so freely as by whim.
"Still, it is only a tool - a hammer, or a shovel, or an axe with which to fell wood. A blade, controlled properly, can do no other than what you decide it should."
Her blunder while fooling around with the very sword in his hands now implied otherwise. That was an incident which would stay between her, herself and she if it could be helped.
"Of course."
"Talk will only bring you so far, though. The basic movements can only be known through doing… so I want you to take a swing at my sword as I guard, and do not hold back."
Her eyes widened a fair bit, her voice grew deeply uncertain.
"Surely you aren't serious?"
"My name is not 'Surely', and I am serious."
Indeed, he looked serious, yet not like anybody named 'Surely'. He could pass for a convincing 'Arthur', though.
"I don't believe that's a good idea… we're using real swords, and you aren't wearing your armor. I don't want to accidentally cut you."
He could only speculate as to what would lead to such a conclusion.
"Roderika, I am quite literally a knight in all except accolade. I doubt a first-time practitioner could seriously harm me during a mere drill. Do it, take any sort of swing, any at all."
"I don't believe I should."
It's not in keeping with your behavior to… suggest something so rash as this.
I would rather not risk slashing you; anything could happen.
"Well, I do believe you should. Armor or not, I am perfectly able to defend myself."
"You shouldn't downplay your injuries. You've only had two days' rest; are you sure that I should be attacking you? This is only my first time, after all… isn't there more I should learn first?"
Briefly his nostrils flared, and he raised his tone.
"Roderika, I mean not to be rude… but when I said 'take a swing at me', I was not making a request. In battle, do you request a foe not to assail you? Do you request a new helm when yours is shattered in two? No. There lies no room for requests; in battle there is only a will that strives against others for supremacy. It is my will that you swing your sword at me and learn how to use it."
She was entirely caught off-guard by his insistence. He certainly must have known what he was doing, if he was so adamant.
"... if you're sure, then…"
He raised his sword so as to guard.
Despite being entirely unarmored, deprived of sleep and having been grievously wounded only two days prior, it was quite evident to Arthur that he would easily ward off any strike issued.
This was a really good idea, the king of all really good ideas. That only became more solidified when she raised up the shortsword, right hand entirely consuming the hilt and the left on the small, round pommel. Even with how awkward it was, her left hand being relegated to the very end of the weapon, she swung it down.
Clash
It was an amateur effort, and she didn't use every ounce of strength, but it was her first time.
The sharp, untested edge of the shortsword struck against the polished flat of the arming sword. It barely even swayed the latter blade, if at all, and she pulled her arms back to point it at the ground. Quite an unsurprising lack of impact on Arthur, given the difference in size and experience between them.
Such a thing could not be said for her - the loud noise, combined with the fierce obstacle that the thing in her hands met, reminded her very acutely of something.
This is a sharp weapon, and I'm swinging it at him.
Suddenly she wasn't so sure about this. The 'thing' in her hands was a lacerating, dangerous armament, and she was swinging it as an absolute novice.
"Again."
She had to. If he was sure of it, so was she, and condemned be her hesitation; to be brave is not to hesitate.
The nod that he gave only pushed her further.
Clash
Metal against metal, both surfaces crying out with spark-tears - such a familiar sound, not just to him but to her. The noise of her men battling, trying, losing. Wooden roundshields and iron spears meeting with steel poleaxes, crossbow bolts and everything so overwhelming as to kill.
The noise of her trying now, and resolving to continue on. Unsure, but not giving up.
"How was that?"
"It was certainly a swing. Do it once more with passion."
His weapon remained in the same position, and she once more swung against against it.
CLASH
A blow fiercer than the last, though without technique and more like a clubbing motion. It landed closer to the crossguard than the last.
She would need more practice, and more varied practice than just striking his blade.
Most importantly, he would need to teach her - a prayer to Queen Marika that he was up to the task may have been in order.
My first time swinging at something other than a stack of books…
At least I know how it feels to actually hit something.
The magical sword, it was like a weightless weapon besides the heft of steel and gold.
It was twice as large as the metal blade, but I didn't feel any change.
What a dangerous thing.
To think that I'll be practicing with a sword when I wasn't even adept with a dagger…
"That was better. Do it with one hand, though. That type of sword is of most value one-handed; with two hands, you would best be armed with a longsword whose hilt would provide proper leverage. We can try that when you progress further."
"What about my left hand, though?"
Even before receiving an answer, her left hand had fallen back by her side.
"Just keep it by your side for now. It does little good, awkwardly hanging off of the pommel like was; your right hand took up all of the space upon that tiny hilt. … go ahead and attack again."
CLASH
A more tremendous effort than the previous few, swifter as well. The shortsword struck fierce before it was pulled back. Arthur's guard held firm, but the force was more intense this time.
'This is going splendidly so far. Perhaps teaching her will not pose a daunting challenge, after all.'
"Good, that was good. This is only the very tip of the blade, though."
"... but I'm hitting with the middle of it."
"No, that… that was a metaphor, or my attempt at one. I mean to say that this is not only the beginning, but the beginning of the beginning. Fighting is centered not only around attack…"
He lowered the sword and pointed it off to his side.
"... but defense. Any man who will tell you to 'attack, attack and attack again' is a fool. Battle is not oft some swift thing decided in the first ten seconds but a fatal competition of patience and mixed techniques. You must balance offense and defense, or you will end up knelt with blood erupting from your head… like I was with Godrick."
Mutually, the idea of her with her head split open and bloodied wasn't pleasing.
"..."
The memory of the Grafted, and all that had transpired at Stormveil, was not invoked carelessly. He had learned from that battle, and so would she. Mistakes are wasted if nothing is learned.
"To be quite candid with you… he severed his own arm - well, maybe not his own, but it was an arm - and grafted to the stump a dragon-head. A thick gout of flame spread across the pathway, and I felt as if I were being cooked alive."
Both of their faces were serious and not exactly bursting with joy at the moment. The vivid picture of his blackened iron armor, dented and smeared with blood, wasn't what she liked to imagine.
"My fear and aggression consumed me, and I… frenzied. I rushed through the flames, swinging my claymore wildly from right to left and left to right without regard for caution. What do you think happened?"
"... you were struck by his axe?"
"I was struck by his axe. If not for my iron helm - and perhaps my thick skull, if Sellen is to be believed - my life would have come to an end there. Obviously I lived, but that was in spite of my mistakes. I mean for you to learn from them… so you might live, as well."
The mood was lifted with an encouraging smile from him.
"We will work a bit more with the basic swing, and then move on to guarding."
The sword was raised again.
"Lay on."
"..."
"... that means to attack."
"Ah."
Once more.
I think I'm becoming quite good at this.
CLASH
Poorly-controlled as all novice strikes are, this one landed not on the blade but the crossguard's quillon. It landed, much more importantly, close to his unarmored hand. She didn't pull the blade back for another go; it lingered there as she hesitated, horizontally pushed against the crossguard's tip.
"..."
He noticed it, and focused on the portion where the shortsword struck. Any distance more and it would have veered past the guard, hacked into his hand or wrist. The only reason he did not adjust his blade to swat away hers - his lackadaisical attitude in regards to using real swords - suddenly seemed a lot more serious.
"... hmm."
"..."
'Who could have foreseen this? Not I.
Perhaps I should start her off with a dagger instead…
Damn all that eagerness of mine.'
"... well, that was a good swing."
"Arthur, I nearly cut into your hand."
"Perhaps."
"No, not 'perhaps'."
I'm starting to see why, each time you've returned to the Hold, you're covered in blood.
If I don't go along with you the next time, who will rein you in?
That 'Melina' woman you seem so close with?
She doesn't seem to do a very good job of it.
"I told you that this wasn't a good idea. We should use wooden swords. They seem much safer than using metal."
"Well… I… did not consider that. Foolish of me, I know, but to my knowledge the Hold is not equipped with any such training tools. Give me a moment to look for some, would you?"
She nodded; they both sheathed their weapons.
In the armory there dwelt only racks of spears, more sets of armor with helms crested by dragons. Tall shields and all the sabatons one's retinue could desire.
Still nothing they might use to train.
Just through the doorway behind him, past that leading out, was the room where they'd sat and eaten. After this maybe they'd do it again; even if he weren't hungry, which he was, he'd sit down to spend time with her any day. Every day? Every day.
Either way, he returned to the outside.
At the near-end of the grand hall, in the shadow of the balcony, stood more wooden stands with armor. The vast majority of them were, again, of the same make as his current set. Racks more of spears and swords, yet none wooden.
Among the sets of steel armor was iron.
The iron armor that he had replaced - the greathelm whose top was dented in by Godrick and crusted with blood by him. The cuirass with dents and nicks aplenty, from his own battles and his ancestor's. Layers of filth and grime were upon it, though in spots it still could bounce light off.
Left to rest among the other armor, it was the oldest of them without a doubt. The armor had survived the Long March and five-hundred years as a relic of the House of Wallace… as well as one year encapsulating his body during the continent-spanning, sea-crossing voyage of that house's heir.
He approached.
He grinned.
Battle-damage had driven him to set aside iron for steel… but a certain element of him still had the instinct to don it. If he'd wash off the blood and grime, the cuirass of tough iron could join him once more. That greathelm was dented inwards, but he could find another or somehow fix it. The remaining pieces for arms and legs laid in a pile at the stand's base, in fair enough condition.
His ancestor surely was smiling on him; did he ever fell anybody so grotesque and vile as the Grafted?
What a shame it would be to let the armor decay in some shaded corner of the Hold.
"I find nothing for training, but something of the recent past. I had almost forgotten that I placed it here."
With his back turned to her and hers to him, she took a second before realizing that he was not simply speaking in a soliloquy. It was a statement that sought response.
"What is it?", her reply was as she turned to join him.
"My armor. Not that of steel, but iron. Battered iron, beaten iron, burnt iron… that still shines in places and holds true."
The knight walked closer, daring approach of the sacred family heirloom. A son's shame at having left it out of practicality reared its head.
A son's desire to be worthy - to be a man and do right by them - had never, ever gone away and it shouted out at him in this moment now more than before.
Without much thought, he undid the buckles that conjoined the front and back of his cuirass. The two plates would have fallen from the armor stand if he weren't ready to catch them.
"Help me with… ah, thank you."
She was already by his side to go through the familiar motion of encasing him in his armor. Even stained in deep-crimson blood, the sight brought to her attention the memory of that day.
"You're all on your own, are you? … and heading to Stormveil Castle?"
"I suppose so, yes. What of you?"
"..."
"... are you alright?"
Their conversation began with her barely holding her nerves together and ended with renewed hope - his bare hand upon her shoulder, a kindness unlike any she came to expect. All she saw was iron and chainmail until she peered through the visor of his helm - then she saw the eyes that looked so sincerely.
She wanted to repay him for that, that comfort. When he stumbled into the Hold half-dead, she tried to. In any way she could now and in the future, she would try to.
As much as she considered herself braver than before, she still felt that familiar pang of mixed emotions in her chest. Gratitude and thankfulness but stained with the tears of days not too distant from now.
"So… what do you think? Still dashing?"
The deed was done, and he turned around.
Yes.
Things were somewhat like before. He wore only a part of the full iron panoply, and she had left behind her crimson riding hood as she confronted the past. So familiar yet so distant - she liked it that way. Some parts of the past could be brought along, and others would die along the roadside.
"It's quite dirty… but you still look good in it."
"How kind of you. I might give it a thorough wash; this grime is hardly pretty. … maybe I should give myself a wash, too. I recently was in a land of lakes, and they were crystalline-blue. Perfect. You could wash any sin away in such clean waters."
Even knocked over by a dragon's strikes, the knight was glad to fall face-first into such pure waters. An eyeful of sandy beachwater would not have been very pleasant.
"I'd like to see these lakes you speak of."
"When I… when we next head out, you will."
He ran his hands down the front of the cuirass. It was by no definition smooth, but not so exceptionally rough as to halt them altogether. The dents and scratches all made for a distinct journey from the top to the bottom.
He remembered vividly how each one was gotten - the tip of a foot soldier's arming sword scraping against what would be his punctured stomach, an arrow piercing through the side but only barely breaking the first layer of skin. Godrick trading blows with him - an impalement for a side-swing and scorching flame.
Even with the various scars, the least he could do was give it a proper scrub. That was the least it deserved for saving his life a hundred times over. Protect and protect in full it did, in the battles of a journey here and there and back again.
Right now wasn't such a time for it, though, and he removed himself from the iron cuirass.
Still, as he gently slid his palm across the very center of the front plate, there was something quite distinct. It was no scarring or stain of blood, but seemed to be mired in a thick layer of grime and poor maintenance. He sighed; Roderika looked on, puzzled.
Without any choice but to face what he knew laid there, Arthur spat upon the layer of crusted filth before scrubbing it with his sleeve. The linen no doubt received at least some of the filth, but it was of no consequence in comparison to this.
The rune of Marika - in shape an arc facing upwards with a stake jutting down from its deepest point - etched upon the cuirass' chest.
Dismissed once was the holy emblem, disregarded by the faithless exile, unacknowledged by cold iron gauntlets whose fingers sailed across the front plate.
No longer would it be.
The god of his ancestor, the faith of his ancestor. The god of him.
"..."
"..."
"What is it?"
The maiden stepped closer.
"..."
With both hands upon the shoulders of his armor and eyes shut, he retreated inward.
His last sight was of the rune, etched in faded black upon the gray iron surface.
All was quiet, but for the whispered prayer.
"Your Majesty… Your Eternal Majesty… who are you? You are the god of my ancestor, and the god of this land… but what would you ask of me?
Did I hear you… or was my desperation playing the puppeteer in fear that you did not care?
I see golden light still, in the gleam of incandescent grace that deems me worthy.
How often, though, I forget myself.
I see no white light, but an uncontrolled flame ablaze within.
What is it that I must do?
Do you seek holy vengeance?
The sin of Lunar Princess Ranni shan't go without fire and brimstone upon House Caria.
Is this your wish? I would carry it out and march through any hell if it were.
Such is the purpose of knights and their armor agleam radiantly.
I meant not what I did, in doubting you while so consumed with passion. With joy in earthly love, following fear of earthly sorrows.
Absolve me.
You would not help me because I would not help myself - because I would not believe.
That is all over now.
I spurn you not… Your Eternal Majesty.
I submit to you my sword and my armor - my spoils-of-war and my birthright.
Let my faith burgeon, though I know little… for I pray to you here…
They know not where feet tread, though my eyes see sky and grass.
Guide my feet so that I may walk by faith.
Light the dark so as never to die in the midst of a Carian night.
Be my sun and moon, for you direct me from East to West and right from wrong."
His voice did not quake; steady did it hold from beginning to end.
This prayer was unlike that of the previous day.
'Desperation dies with my reluctance and fears.
I plead not… for I believe she hears me.
Guide me to the throne, beneath Erdtree leaves.'
"So long for now…" and a fond smile were his parting affections; the armor could only witness as its master turned his back and strode to the center of the hall. Roderika followed suit.
"There seems to be little of value for training. I suppose that we must be content with our current methods."
"Arthur, I don't believe we should use real swords. It seems too dangerous."
He folded his arms and shrugged.
"What does that mean, that shrug?"
"It means what a shrug means, I suppose."
"..."
"... anyway, I also suppose that I agree. Unfortunately we are a bit… starved for options. I believe I should ask Sir Gideon. If anybody would know, it would be him."
If he truly was of such knowledge as everybody believed, then she was inclined to agree. Without having interacted with him much, she had no way to be sure.
"You can accompany me, or go about whatever business you would like. Do as you wish. Either way I see reason to hold off on training until we have wooden swords, as you suggested - this was… a bit close for my liking."
Being de-handed would put an early end to his knightly career, so early as to happen before it even began. Who ever heard of a one-handed knight… let alone a knight whose remaining hand was non-dominant?
"I think I'll join you up there later."
"Alright."
The knight bent down to retrieve the flamberge that had seen essentially no use during their session. Before he could go through the double-doors that led to the stairs…
"... Arthur?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you… for being willing to teach me. I'm not inclined towards these sorts of things, but… I want to learn."
Hearing something so simple but so sincere set his heart afire - not with religious fervor as Ranni's deed had, but with pure human joy.
"The pleasure, it is all mine."
If he didn't go through the doorway and up the stairs at that moment, she might have seen the smile that captured his face. Maybe she did.
Only once she was alone (and no longer at risk of wounding another) did the newly-appointed page begin to swing the sword about, making sounds with each motion.
"Whush!"
A right-to-left slash that beheaded some imaginary foe.
"Swish!"
A diagonal left-to-right slash that vanquished some other imaginary foe.
"Woosh!"
A final downward chop that finished the battle with the air. It was no draw; she'd won definitively.
This is quite fun… when there's no risk of grievous injury.
Maybe I should make these noises when we practice next.