Graves Family/Waldor

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A Second Landing in Panafau: Desperation and Cowardice

During the Landing

Waldor watched as the longboats were prepared and lowered into the sea, and then reached aside again to take the spyglass from the captain one last time. He looked through it toward the coast of Panafau, wished he could see more than its harsh line cutting across the horizon, and then carefully handed the expensive instrument back to the ruddy, wind-weathered man. The captain acknowledged him with a nod, nothing more, and left to shout sailors into motion. A cat o' nine tails swung at the man's hip, tucked into his broad leather belt. Waldor noted it with a sympathetic wince for the men it was about to kiss, and wondered why in the void the captain had kept referring to it as his daughter.

A look to the side, at where Captain Reinolt was pushing a boy no older than thirteen into the boats - a straight shove and a several meter fall past the rope ladder hung on the ship's side - made him reconsider his curiosity. Some men were just mad enough to function, and it made them cruel. He supposed the ship's captain fell into that same category, too. He hoped he himself did not.

"Everyone's nearly into the boats now. The captain wants us in the second landing, so we'll be in the fourth boat. He's going ahead in the first wave - second boat. He would have me inform you that the first boat is crewed by cowards and deserters, so if we meet heavy opposition, the losses won't be as severe as they could be, and we'll have time to pull the rest of the company back." His squire was at his side, speaking quietly, with distaste and disbelief that he felt himself mirroring. Sacrificing men because they were afraid to die. It must have shown on his face, though, because his squire stepped away from his side and added: "And that if he calls a retreat, noble or not, he expects you will instruct your men to do the same."

"Ranulf managed to hire the most unprincipled asshole I've ever met," Waldor replied, rubbing at his neck, then unbunched the coif from under his arm and began to fit it over the padded cap he wore. It was heavier than he'd like, but the Girl had insisted. Grimy leathers and studded jacks did not suit true nobility, she had complained, and he'd taken it as a veiled warning. "You can pass that on, if you'd like. Tell Reinolt: 'you are an asshole.' But don't. This campaign means a lot, and we need his service."

"You shouldn't say that," the girl grumbled, her expression suddenly sour, and held her own half-helm beneath her arm. She was allowed to wear padded armor; she didn't have to worry about drowning if she fell off the boat. "It doesn't suit your position."

He shrugged in response.

"Get into the boat. I'll be down there shortly."

She turned and left, and he turned and faced the railing again.

Cowards in the first boat. He rubbed his hands together and wondered if he shouldn't be there with them, and felt a pang of guilt and shame rise like gorge in his throat. He was dreading the next battle, as he had come to dread all battles. That presence at his back, the shadow-cat that had given him some reprieve during his days in Fissoa, crept back behind him with all the dull expectancy of the dead. He could feel its phantom breath ghosting over the hairs on the back of his neck, muggy hot through the rings in his chainmail. Had she said they had stripes? He was certain now that, if he could only get a glimpse of the animal, there would be no stripes - just the khaki-tan, short fur of a lioness on the prowl.

A quiet prayer to the spirits of his ancestors, a heartfelt apology to the father he had forgotten to make his fortune, passionate curses on whatever god stalked him now and then he turned away and started for the ladder. He waited his turn in line, though this earned him a few confused looks from the men, and climbed down into the boat when it was his due. He sat quickly on the wooden slats, inhaled deeply, then looked about him. Men he did not know, and did not wish to know, crowded the small craft. His squire stood near the prow, all armored and with a small banner unfurled, tied to the spear she normally carried. A few sailors at the oars, arms already straining as the moorings were thrown off.

"Let's see if we can beat the sunrise."

Uneasy Waiting Before the Battle

"The men are antsy. We should be celebrating our victorious landing, as is our right." Reinolt stood at his side, staring out across the Fissoan encampment - tents massing along the coast, and men at work digging trenches and palisades, throwing up wooden spikes to ward against surprise cavalry charges, others carrying logging axes toward the distant trees. Companies marched off in formation toward the fishing villages, and he saw smoke curling from the tops of houses, drifting toward the horizon. It was not chimney smoke. That was a pyre, a burning house, grain, the shattered livelihoods of desperate farmers still - as he had heard - slavishly devoted to the ways of old Madina. Waldor wondered what they thought of this war, and if they even understood that it was no longer Madina that led them, but Madina that burned their crops. And even that was no longer quite true - Madina was dead. It had been dead for a long time, he gathered, even before it had fallen to rebels and thieves. Its name lived on, but names often did. Longevity alone did not a legacy make. And peasants did not care either way.

"No," he finally stated, coming back to the present, and glanced toward the man who stood at his side - not nearly as reliable as Ranulf had been, not nearly as personable, not nearly as sensible. "I don't care what the rest of the army is doing. I don't care if the High Marshal himself comes down and personally orders you - there is to be no rape, no lynchings, and no burning of grain. The buildings can go. If you're low on provisions, take only what you need and offer them a fair price in silver in return. But you won't harm a hair on any peasant girl's head, or anywhere else."

"Sentiment isn't strategic," the captain remarked idly, as if quoting someone, and Waldor shrugged in response. Memories of his mother drifted back to him, dying slowly, her face splotchy and breathing ragged. The wet coughing, and cloth spattered in blood. The smell of incense, decay, and sick.

"Doesn't matter. I'm the one paying you, and those are my orders."

Waldor turned and strode down the small hill, toward where the ground sloped toward the pitched tents of his men.

The Militia Holds The Village Still

"I don't like it," Waldor murmured, staring off into the distance - opposite where the Falkirk army approached slowly, throwing up dust in their wake.

"You should leave the commanding to me, sir Graves. It's not unusual for young knights like yourself to jump at shadows." Reinolt stood staring at the massing men, and did not pay attention to what it was the young man watched moving in the distance.

"Militia."

An arched eyebrow. Reinolt still did not turn.

"What?"

"There's militia out there."

"So?"

Waldor shrugged, feeling uncomfortable and unable to say why. The hairs on the back of his neck were up.

Chuff, chuff, chuff. Eyes in the dark, shadows striping a tan hide.

"It's probably nothing," he admitted, lacking sincerity. But it feels important.

A Letter Arrives

Sir Waldor Graves,

If you are reading this then I know you didn't burn the letter upon seeing my seal, and thus I trust I have the mark of your character and quality well.

You have no reason to like me I know, by contrast I have no reason to hate you. When we crossed blades att he Tournament I wondered of the kin of Tarkus, of how he would conduct himself, if it was possible for there to be a Knight cast from the line of a treasoneer. I admit I was skeptical, but then I always am, and was glad to be proved wrong. Tarkus was many things, an oath-breaker, but not a barbarian. He was a chevalier of Aurvandil for a time and that alone stands a man in good stead. Loyalty is transferable yet not always forgivable, honourable conduct has no such relativity, no such transient nature. Right action must prevail.

I cannot believe you would stand to serve amongst these murders and rapists, this fallen Fissoa, a hideously diminished shadow of its former self.

Don't let Fissoa take advantage of your name and your kin to pursue their war. They cite your claim as the reason for their fight as much as any other, yet have you any assurance you will be reinstated in title to Madina? If Fissoa prevails, which it won't, have you been granted the Dukedom as your father held? I can't imagine so. If I am wrong so be it, but even then I would not trust such a promise from such a sect of careerists and greed mongers as Fissoa. They are using you, using your father's legacy, to commit murder and thievery and war. Surely this si not something you can stand for? Surely the House of Graves does not bear this shame willingly?

I appeal to you: take up our offer. Come back to the lands you supposedly hold dear. It may not be with title but it shall be with good faith on our part. The crimes of the father do not transfer to the son. There can be reconciliation.

You may never forgive me for slaying your father. I shall never forgive him for his betrayal. That does not we must be enemies. Indeed, You are not mine.

If these words convey anything to you, if you feel your honour as true and heartfelt as I believe you do, meet me before the sun's rising at the Mill. It is scarely half a mile from your encampment, and this night burns still from the actions of the looters. I have something for you.

Carmine Umpeta Perticta

Cyabr of The Falkirkian Freestate

Margrave of Madina Gardens

Waldor read the letter again.

And again.

And again.

Then, very quietly, he folded it up and slid it under the thin mattress of the cot he'd had brought to his tent. He straightened, made sure that his armor was fitted, that his baldric was tight across his chest, and that the broadsword's hilt rested easily at his hip. He touched the rim of the shield at his back, then ducked and brushed the tent-flap aside, walking out into a night backlit by campfires, house fires, torchlight, the expectant hush of a thousand men waiting for the inevitable dawn. His squire spotted him, and she set aside her own weapons, approaching - but he waved her off, and kept walking.

Half a mile alone in the dark, toward a distant mill, with the sun already threatening to rise at his back.

Meeting With The Enemy

Waldor reached the mill and stood in silence under the dull glow of the moon, his hands crossed behind his back, standing at parade rest as he would have back when he was a company captain, under the watchful eye of his noble employers. His stomach churned, and adrenaline made the palms of his hands slick with sweat. The sword at his hip. The shield at his back. I could challenge him now, he thought. I could challenge him now and end it all. One way or another, his life or mine.

The anxious prowl of an animal in the dark, the ragged breathing of something wild, something insubstantial - his own breathing, not a cat's, he realized, and tried to quiet himself.

He rehearsed the words in his head.

Cyabr Carmine Umpeta Perticta of House Perticta of the Freestate of Falkirk. I am Sir Waldor Graves, of the House Graves, of the Grand Duchy of Fissoa. For the honour of the House that has recognized me, I challenge you to a duel to the death, before the two armies meet, at sunrise.

He wondered if he'd have the nerve. His shoulder and side already hurt - phantom pain, the pain of failure. He wasn't ready yet.

Dying for a man who wasn't his father. For honour that wasn't his own.

His stomach twisted into knots.

--

“Man approaching sir, on foot, no horse in sight. Not a scout either, he’s too sure footed .. not trying to keep quiet, and heading straight for us.”

“Very good” The Lord stepped forward from the shadow of the Mill, blackened and smoky as it remained. He gave a sharp cough, muffled by the thickly padded leather gloves he wore. At was a cold night, sharp and piercing, that and the dusty air around the torched farmstead irritated his lungs. He mused how feeble age made a man. In the north it had been chillier still, with deep snow falls right through from Autumn to Spring, and back then he couldn’t even catch a cold if he tried. These days he was all wool and fur and he could still feel the ache of the night.

He rubbed his chest, the thinning and faded symbol of Averoth still woven into the mail he wore, and where his surcoat was cut clear to display it. On his left and from his waist swung his sabre, a cavalry man’s weapon really, but just as effective in the dismount. It too was a memento from times long gone by and a war that was lost. The long blue cloak hung down from his right shoulder, embroided as it was with his family’s crest and sigil, stark white even in the weak moonlight. It was a heavy sky, clouded for the most part, with only the occasional scattering of stars. A dark night indeed.

The footsteps grew nearer, the grass clearly rustling as a lone figure made his way through the gloom, becoming ever clearer. “Leave us” Carmine instructed the two soldiers, each of them hesitantly sliding their swords back into their scabbards and pacing off some distance. They had hastily buried the Miller and his family not more than an hour ago upon discovering their burned bodies, and both were visibly riled. He watched them retreat. He had arranged this encounter, he would have no foul play from his camp.

Carmine turned back, suddenly aware of the young knight’s presence, seeing him stood several yards distant at stiff attention. “Sir Waldor Graves, I am glad you could make it. I don’t think I could have lasted the night’s air much longer.”

He paused but the Fissoan made no reply, so Carmine took a casual step to the fore. “But tell me, why did you come here?” The Lord asked inquisitively. "I can't imagine it was simply because you were invited for a moonlit stroll to a runied Millery."

--

"I came to," Waldor began, but all those practiced words failed him. He felt tired, hunted, haunted by memories of blood and the mangled faces of fallen friends. He drew himself up, glanced to the side, and stared openly at Carmine. This man, this fragile creature, the engineer of so much destruction and despair? Men he had known for years, trampled on the beaches. Drowning in blood-thick surf. He shifted out of parade rest, sliding his left boot in closer to his right, letting his shoulders slump, and reached up, wiping wearily at his face. Then he rested his hand on the pommel of his basket-hilted sword. Why had he come? Why had he really?

"I came to respond to you in person," he said instead, looking off toward the Fissoan encampment. He kept his eyes averted from the butchery at the mill. He hadn't been there, but it was easy to make assumptions. Too easy, in fact. "I cannot join you. We may not be enemies, but I am sworn to this, and I... can't abandon it. Your offer was made in good faith, so I'll respond with a gesture of good faith, too. One day I am going to kill you, Cyabr Carmine Umpeta Perticta," at least the name came easily to his lips, "I will challenge you, and we will duel, and I will kill you, or I will die. That is the only way I can redeem myself short of sitting again in the old Graves estates in the Gardens." Again? He'd never seen the demesne Lord Tarkus had spoken of.

He fell silent afterward, then let out a muted sigh.

"You are not my enemy, but you are an enemy of my House."

But it was not House Graves he thought of when he thought of the failed assaults, the brutal ocean landings, the stab of grief twisting in his chest. His men, his common, baseborn men - himself, his common, baseborn soul savaged by the brutally of the upper classes.

"Do you still wish to talk now, knowing this?"

--

Carmine listened silently, watched as the young man uneasily twisted and twitched as he spoke. He was certainly pent with some sort of turmoil, some frustration, but not angrily or aggressively so.

“"Do you still wish to talk now, knowing this?"”

The Lord fixed the knight with a stare. “I expected it, so it changes little, and conversation is always worth pursuing especially against adversity” He exhaled, a plume of frosty breath circled before him. “You know I have never tasted the desire for revenge, .. or felt hatred; contempt yes, but not hatred. In all my years, fighting in the North against theocrats and in the South against republicans: nothing.” Carmine glanced away into the dark of night. “Personal ambitions, personal .. feelings, have no place in the Freestate. There is duty and right action .. and little else that matters. We are motivated by ideals not private aspirations.”

“Many men have tried to kill me, some came close. On the battlefield a fair few came close, though there were plenty of .. unluckier fellows too. I’ve seen much of death and it leaves it own torments.”

Carmine glanced behind him watching his two men stand off darkly, their hands on the hilts of their swords ready to draw.

“Torments and past memories, especially in the night, when every sound seems to the senses one of men in the dark coming to seize you, each noise one of impending capture, or during the day when the patrols ride past the barn you’re hiding in or the hedgerow ditch you’ve thrown yourself into.” Carmine shifted slightly as he fixed the Fissoan with a solemn look “I walked alone from Valkyrja to Candiels, a thousand miles or more, hundreds through enemy territory, a hundred more through the bandit wilds and rogue lands, wearing little more than I do now” The Lord paused for a moment, glancing down at the thick fur necked cloak. “Or indeed, a good deal less.” He straightened and continued. “I had watched my realm burned, our people massacred as the greatest army ever assembled came against our citadel and overwhelmed us. Each time we sallied out to fight despite the odds. A hopeless fight.”

He drew a sharp breath. “My sword you see here, Averothian Steel; that alone sustained me, that and nothing else but the will to survive, to escape, to be free once again” The man’s shoulders rocked slightly as he laughed quietly to himself. “And that is what you have before you now: A free man. You see, Sir Waldor, I’ve many a time in different ways, so pardon my .. stoicism, if I do not seem perturbed by your promise of death again. Oh, I take you at your word, but that is all the satisfaction I can give you for now. Death is just another freedom I have yet to experience.”

“You can’t kill me now, you know I’m the better swordsman, you saw that at the tourney, saw that in the field. You’re what, 18? 20?” he said, weighing the other man’s figure “Young, fit, fiery, but not yet quite good enough. No, of course you’ll wait. Wait until you’re better with the sword, wait til you've had some training, wait until the time is right to settle the honour of your House and your father” the Lord continued, oblivious to the way Waldor recoiled at those words “Wait until the terms are in your favour and then seek me out. I’m an old man, Sir Waldor, or getting there anyway. Give it a few more summers and I’ll be near Fifty and you’ll be in your prime. I’m sure you’ll decide that will be the right time for you to ‘challenge me’”

Carmine sighed “But very well”, he looked back to the knight, the moonlight just catching what seemed to be a smile, and cleared his cloak from his right side, revealing what he held in his grip. “Yours, I believe?” He held out the greatsword, tilting the pommel to show the distinctive handle. He could see Waldor recognised it. “I found it on the field in Panabuk, had I been a few moments earlier you might have had the chance to wield it against me.” Carmine watched Waldor tense. No doubt the young man was considering drawing his weapon, weighing up if he could take down his foe and reclaim what was his.

“Take it.” The offer was sincere, Carmine stepping forward as he extended his arm with the sword outstretched. “House Graves considers me its enemy, and I have no interest in keeping trophies of my foes.”

"Take it, and if you so truly wish it, strike me down."

--

"You tortured Lord Tarkus Graves," not father. He would not call the man father now - it felt insincere. The formality fit better for this conversation. It gave him a distance from which to act reserved. "I saw all that you did to him. There was nothing left of the man when you had finished. What was that, if not hatred? The desire for revenge against a man who you claim slighted you? He had nothing left. His honour, his mind, his body, stripped from him. What was that, if not hatred?" He struggled to put his thoughts into words, struggled to break through to the heart of the matter: that this nobleman before him, who seemed so calm and fragile and quiet, had brutally tortured a fellow noble, a man, countless times in the dark, in dank places. That was not contempt. Contempt was crushing a rat under your heel, a cockroach, killing with the bow from afar - but killing it cleanly. He had spent his entire life as a peasant, a soldier, a camp follower behind his whore of a mother. He knew what contempt was, had experienced it many times.

Waldor reached forward though, reaching to accept the hilt of the greatsword, uncertain if it were really the late lord's old sword - but it seemed to be, and it felt more right in his hands now that he knew how to better use it. How he had improved since those tourneys, by leaps and bounds. But he wasn't certain, and it wouldn't be clean. Still, he was tempted. Strike the man down now, and end it. His hands tightened on the hilt, gripping the worn leather.

The gentle sound, chuff chuff chuff, of that lioness that plagued his thoughts, the watchful eyes. And, unbidden, he thought of the woman who hated him, Lady Norrel. A pang of stupid longing, followed by regret and shame. And the anger that briefly lent him strength faded. He stepped back, holding the greatsword, and rested it carefully across a chain-clad shoulder.

"I do not hate you." He repeated. "But I will see you on the field of battle."

What other choice did he have? He was crippled by honour.

"I wish you well, Lord Carmine Umpeta Perticta."

--

"Hatred? That was Duty." Carmine answered coldly.

...

"Very well, Sir Waldor," the Lord recovered his position and nodded his head in parting salute. "To Battle we must be."

Two Minor Characters Interact

The girl shivered violently in her fur-trimmed cloak, even though the winter was mild here compared to her childhood estates in the north, moderated by the coastal winds. She wasn't cold. Nearby, Captain Reinolt stood rousing his men, forming them up into lines and files, shouting at each of them, beating a few with his fists or a wooden cudgel. She shielded her eyes, staring across at a nearby village where she could see shadows, men with bows on rooftops.

"Militia," she remarked, surprised.

"Blood-oath," Reinolt snarled, "not you too. First the young lord, and now his girl squire. So there's militia, what of it?"

The girl shook her head, cowed by the crude man's words and cruel eyes.

Waldor had not yet returned from his long walk.

Grief and Rage

"I told you!" Waldor swore bitterly, shouting at the cold air that whipped at his face, charging up ahead at the enemy lines at the front of the company of men. He passed Reinolt, who was jogging near the mid-ranks. He sprinted beyond his squire, who was struggling to lift his shield and her own weapons too. The greatsword was strapped to his back, and his blood-rusted broadsword was held in his right hand. "You didn't listen!" He howled the words until he was hoarse. The chainmail tunic jangled as he ran, and the baldric pulled at him each step.

Somehow the militia had opened a gap in their lines. Instead of defending from their dug in positions, they had been forced to charge into the enemy lines, but the charge started too early - his legs burned as he ran across the uneven ground, muscles cramping, and he hadn't even crossed half the distance yet to the nearest soldier. It had been exactly as he had predicted.

And it could have been averted.

"Damn you!" He snarled, crashing the broadsword into the face of a man who stared at him, stupid with surprise, and he didn't stay to watch the man die. He ran on ahead, abandoning The Hanged Men, leaving them to get pinchered between two enemy companies, fighting desperately for their lives - and holding, and then losing ground. He couldn't think. He didn't care. Anger clouded his thoughts, made every motion jerky and violent. Still, it was easy to kill. Nothing could touch him.

So he killed with impunity.

Behind him, banners fell. The company he had paid to follow him retreated, bearing their wounded with them. His squire fled, a gash bleeding into her eyes. Waldor paused, killed another man, then started to retreat, swearing again, loudly, hatefully. And then he turned, taking to his heels, and ran.

But to his left, a company clustered around a drooping banner. Wounded? he wondered, and watched as the vanguard, surrounded on all sides, was cut down. His sprint slowed - he turned unconsciously toward that fight, only to watch them retreat, bearing a figure with them. He couldn't make them out.

He rammed his broadsword into the belly of an enemy who came too close, then returned to his retreat, following after the streaming backs of his bleeding men.

When he reached the safety of their tents, he collapsed panting to the ground, his rage spent, and felt hollow inside.

To his back, silence. No warm breath on his neck. No prowling cat beyond his shoulder, beyond his sight.

Alone.

Sailing Home in Defeat

"Just the four of you?" The old captain asked, hunched over and wary in the dim light cast by the ensconced torches in the coastal tavern's upstairs room. He had two of his sailors flanking him, impromptu guards during the clandestine meeting, and both the men were underfed - not a good sign among sailors, Waldor thought, but he wasn't exactly in a position to be choosey. Their ship, the Balefire's Lament, had been the only one willing to transport them back to Fissoa with the coast as inundated with soldiers as it was. He supposed, in a way, it was a miracle they had even found one crew willing to risk hanging to see them back to safety - for a price.

"The four," he confirmed, and felt a stab of guilt twist his stomach when he thought of the past few days - his reckless promise to maintain a rearguard so the rest of the army could embark, a night spent awake in the ruins of a burnt mill, listening while Reinolt and his men were hunted down like dogs only a few houses down in the village. His squire had huddled beside him, uncharacteristically silent, unusually afraid, her face wrapped in bandages and covered in dirt. He still wasn't sure how the scouts had made it back - but didn't question the two. They had survived, and that was all that mattered. He had not lost everyone. Not everyone, again. He was still alive.

The old man nodded, and rattled off his prices and departure times; Waldor, only half-listening, accepted and passed a pouch heavy with gold across the table he stood before, feeling the tension in the room bleed away as the money changed hands. The sailors were smiling and talking quietly to themselves. Even the captain seemed relieved. He held his hand out, and Waldor shook it. Then the sailors withdrew, leaving Waldor to sit alone. The scouts took up watch outside the door; his squire sat on the far side of the room, perched on the edge of a small bed. She had turned fourteen recently, he thought, but wasn't sure when it had happened. She had mentioned it after the battle, stiff with shock, her own blood pouring into her eyes: It's my nameday today. Or perhaps: It was my nameday yesterday.

Time had a habit of folding into itself in moments of chaos and grief.

Waldor pulled out a chair and took a seat, slumping forward, his elbows resting against the tabletop. There were still a few hours before their ship departed, and he didn't have anything he needed doing here - so there was nothing to do but wait until it was time to go, then sneak out of the village and to the docks. They had cloaks and dirty faces. He'd wrapped his two swords in linen and bundled them in bed sheets. He'd abandoned his shield. There wasn't much evidence to mark him out as a nobleman, and there was little risk of Falkirk soldiers patrolling the streets in search of him. His men were dead.

He crossed his arms, laid his head down against his forearm, then closed his dark eyes. He felt exhausted, as if something inside him had broken during the course of the battle and he had been forced to carry on despite it, shouldering burden after burden. Lord Tarkus' sword was a familiar, heavy weight against his back, coupled with the second sword bundled there. The only thing that rode at his hip was a dagger. He'd taken it from a dead man.

"You've..." His squire's voice, but with an odd inflection. Concern? Hell.

"Bring me some paper," he instructed, his voice cutting over whatever she had been about to say next, and added, "and some ink. I have letters to write before we leave."

But he hesitated when the quill was in his hands.

He didn't know how to ask for help.

Meira,

I am departing shortly on a ship bound for Fissoa. Your presence at my estate in the city would be appreciated, and your absence will be noted should I arrive and find you elsewhere.

Waldor Graves

Knight of Fissoa

Waldor ran a hand through his hair, staring at the half-written letter before him. Candle wax had dripped onto it, and a smudge of ink darkened the reddish-brown hairs of the patchy beard that had sprung up across his face - days without a shave, scruffy and unkempt. He sat in a small cabin of the sloop he'd chartered back to Fissoa, a bed and table bolted to the floor, the chair he sat on weighted heavily to keep it from moving too drastically in any one direction. His squire was nowhere to be seen; he suspected she was still somewhere above deck, chatting to the sailors. If there was one time when her age became painfully apparent, it was when they sailed - all her noble upbringing forgotten, as with horses, full of questions and giddiness.

"What am I doing?" He asked the empty room, still staring at the letter, then scrubbed at his face and exhaled slowly. He was treading on dangerous ground, that was what he was doing. It was stupid, but he couldn't help himself. He needed an outlet, a vent, some way to talk about what he was experiencing before he went mad from the nightmares of blood and battle -- and guilt. He couldn't talk to the other noblemen and women about it; he'd come to realize every exchange of letters was a political battle, a duel with quills, subtle jabs and always jockeying for position. He needed an equal, someone he could be frank with without fear of betrayal.

He dipped the quill in its inkwell and resumed writing. There were still several letters to go before he could sleep tonight.

Bad Decisions

It had been a long walk from the docks to the Graves estate, and Waldor had made it in silence. The two scouts had booked themselves a stay in the first tavern they had come upon, and he didn't dissuade them from it. They had survived; they would have their fun, drinking and whoring, and then drag themselves home to the barracks later when they'd emptied their coinpurses. He had been tempted to join them, but it wouldn't have been proper.

Ranulf met him at the gates to the manor, and brought his meaty palm up in what Waldor thought would be a salute - but turned out to be a rough cuff to the face. It startled the young man, who staggered back and stared at the older man in surprise and panic, though he was shocked out of his muteness by Ranulf's gruff bawling:

"You idiot boy!" The man shouted at him, "You gods-damned idiot! Inviting her here, and then I've got word that the lady is coming, too? I'm the captain of your household guard, not a steward! What did you expect I'd do? Entertain them both if you'd been late? Fine time that would have been, I'd warrant."

"What are you --" Waldor began, only to be cut off by a string of curses from Ranulf, and a thrown punch. He blocked it against his forearm, but winced, and backed a few steps away. His squire, watching the exchange, looked horrified and on the verge of drawing her shortsword. He waved her away hastily, keeping the bulk of his attention set on Ranulf, wary. " -- talking about?" He finished, holding his hands up placatingly. Ranulf stood there, head lowered, shoulders drawn up, bullishly set and breathing hard. Then he scowled, and his face scrunched up.

"I put her in a guest room. We've got maids in the servants' quarters, so there's no room there. God's blood, besides, do you know how they'd talk?"

"I'll handle it," Waldor murmured quietly, shooting his bemused squire a glance, then nodded toward her. "In the meantime, Ranulf, do you think you can see that she's squared up, and Brett gets a good look at the cut on her forehead? It was deep. I don't want it getting infected."

Ranulf nodded wearily, his bulldog stance relaxing, and stepped past Waldor to usher the confused girl away toward the barracks. He seemed grandfatherly there, if not for his armor and the cudgel belted to his hip.

Waldor rubbed at his face, then continued on toward the foyer doors.

--

He needed to bathe. He was painfully aware of that as he trod across the hallway's carpeted floor, his boots leaving mud streaks behind on the expensive rugs. His tunic was stained. His trousers were torn, and his armor was starting to rust from neglect. His face was still dirty and his upper arms were scratched and scabbed over in places from hiding in bushes and dragging himself through brambles. But he didn't head immediately to his quarters.

Instead, wearing Lord Tarkus' sword at his hip, he headed to the guest room that Meira had been allocated. He stopped before the bedroom door, grasped the sword's gemstone pommel in his hand, and brought his gloved right fist up, knocking. Baseborn, bastard or noble, a woman was always presented with a certain amount of courtesy.

"It's me," he stated, and then, feeling foolish, added: "Waldor."

--

Meira pulls herself out of a book she's reading as if chastised. The book's a great procrastination tool as the awkwardness of this situation strikes her. Do I ask him to come in? Do I open the door and let him in? Do I just open the door and bow?

It takes all of a few moments. She hops up and opens the door to Waldor, immediately bowing. She's dressed well nowadays, more than a nobody. The sword and leathers dumped on the table are looking clean. The sword's new, or at least its scabbard is.

"Sir. At your service."

Taking in Waldor's state properly now, she pales and looks uncomfortable, but that's as far as it goes. She waits for his lead.

--

"Waldor," he reminds her, and seems to hesitate a moment before drawing himself up, keeping his grip on the sword pommel tight. "I didn't mean to interrupt, if you were busy." It's a lie, and not even a sincere one, but he's noticed the book and her state of dress. Courtesy should take precedence here, even if it soon won't have a place anywhere in the estate, and he's too tired to argue with himself, or to be cruel. She was noble once, and had fallen. He had never been noble, but had clawed his way up to a pair of spurs and a title. There was irony in that, he thought, or some kind of humor.

"We'll need to move you out of these quarters when your - the Lady Aristilien arrives." A steady glance, gauging her reaction, before taking a step toward the doorway, into the room, and continuing: "But there are no open beds in the servants' quarters, and the barracks won't due for a woman. I have a proposition for you." Here the steady glance wavers; he glances down, at his right hand, and flexes the fingers of his glove.

--

At the mention of her... of Lady Aristilien rather, Meira is visibly relieved. She nods, stepping aside to give Waldor the room he needs.

Yes Sir... Waldor? I am happy to handle my own accommodation if that helps? You look..." she pauses to consider whether she should say so, and eventually opts on the side of saying too much, "... rough, Waldor. You need rest. A bath?"

As if forgetting - "I will hear your proposition of course, sorry."

--

"I could use a bath," he agrees readily, making his way into the room, and searches for a washtub, uncertain if there's even one in the guest room, or if that was an excess only his quarters provided. "And I feel like sh...it." Impolite, but she was common. He didn't have to guard his tongue around her - the exact reason he'd called her to his estates. He opened his mouth to say more, then shut it with a click of teeth and stared at the far wall, his nerve wavering.

Instead, he took a seat on the edge of the bed, trying to keep from getting too much grime on the sheets, and bowed his head forward.

"My shoulder's stiff," he said instead, and left it at that.

--

Meira is surprised to say the least. She checks outside the door both ways, then closes it.

Kneeling on the bed behind Waldor, she begins to undo the his armour. She focuses on the right shoulder until she remembers no shoulder got specified, so goes for both. She's not judgmental of Waldor, nor impatient. She finds this situation odd, if a little implicit, but she goes with it. She has to. She serves the man.

Making conversation, "How many did you come back with Waldor?" She pauses, before asking more quietly, "Are you all right?"

Exposing the young noble's shoulders, she awkwardly attempts some massage with her calloused hands. It's not exactly professional quality but at least it's got some firmness to it.

--

"Four, including myself and the girl." He means the squire, of course. That's the only girl he ever refers to like that, the only one who warrants that much annoyance and faux-brotherly angst. He keeps his head bowed forward, body tense - a hard body, but not brawny. Scarred along the right side and shoulder, scrapes on his upper arms, the dirty face. His eyes close, and he exhales slowly, but the tension doesn't let up. If anything, he ties himself further into knots at that awkward massage, rebelling against it, or at that touch, or maybe only at the consequences of it.

"The captain and his men were hunted to a man - ten or so of them, I think. The rest died in the battle, during the rout. All things considered, the marshal figures these were good odds and we've won a victory against them even in defeat." The memory of his father, twisting in the breeze. The sound of a rope snapping, a branch cracking, an agonized cry. His mother's hazy, dull eyes. And a sword, flashing from the side, arcing toward his head.

He winces, then tilts his head back, rolling it against his shoulders until his neck gives with a quiet crack.

"I'm tired."

--

Meira gives a startled little laugh, slowly beginning to unbuckle and remove the rest of Waldor's armour.

In silence for a few moments, she eventually apologises.

"I ah... assume you wish me to seek my own bed once you are to rest? I would not wish people to talk tales of you."

"How undressed do you need to be? Or can you handle that yourself?" She's not really nervous, just reflective. Unsure how to handle this particular situation.

--

"I'm tired," he echoes, surprised by her laugh, and shifts to allow her access to the rest of his armor. The tension fades for a few moments, caught up with straps and buckles as he is, then returns tenfold when she speaks again. Beds, rooms. The entire reason he'd come here to her room - to kick her out of it, not to be drawn into it. He draws in a deep breath, then sits straight. The bed makes a noise, some sort of protesting creak. I'm tired, he thinks, as if that's any excuse for what's running through his head. Cool air on skin too long bundled up in chainmail, padding, and that scratchy tunic. He kicks his boots off, listening to them thud against the stone floor.

"But not tired, if that - even makes sense." He goes back to staring at the far wall, the ceiling, anywhere but the woman kneeling behind him. "I can't stop thinking about it all. Every fight I'm in, I go a little more mad. The last one, I broke ranks and ran ahead of the unit. They tried to keep up. The one before that, I had to be dragged away screaming and frothing like a rabid dog. Before that, I don't know. I live, I survive. I spent a day buried under corpses, once. But I lived. Everyone else dies. I don't sleep well. And I can't talk to it with anyone - Sir Ivansen, Lady Norrel. There are some things you can't discuss with the nobility. If I told them even half of what ran through my head, I'd be exiled, committed, killed, I don't know. But it's not honourable to jump at shadows. It's godsdamn craven. And I never used to be like this. I used to be calm, smart. I never risked myself, or my men, without at least the promise of victory. And now, here I am, throwing their lives away like they're nothing."

He goes silent for a few moments, then twists suddenly to face her; it's an abrupt, violent motion. His expression is earnest, almost hopeful. His eyes, however, remain guarded. There's no violence in any of it - just in the turning. And, for awhile, his own age shows. He's still young, however old he feels at the moment. Young and confused and afraid. Well over his head. Younger than her, in fact, though still probably taller, too.

"My proposition is -- this: stay with me while I'm on Fissoan soil. Humor me. You can sleep in my quarters, but I won't demand your virtue if it's precious to you. And I won't pay you in coin unless you ask for it. But as long as you stay here, I'll provide you with books, clothing, whatever you require. And when I go back to the Isle to fight, you can wander as you please."

--

She laughs encouragingly, brushing Waldor's cheek with her finger.

"Aren't I lucky? Permission to keep my virtue - lost long ago I'm afraid, my dear Waldor - and I'm only a whore if I wish to be... " She's strongly amused by this, and not in a bad way. Waldor's young, but really, so is she.

She tilts her head forward to meet foreheads with the noble. Looking into his eyes, she smiles. It's a little curve of her lips. Comforting. Given some moments, she even speaks too - "You will learn to cope with the responsibility. Honour is, after all, a reason to not do what you want to do. Often right, sometimes wrong."

She steals a kiss on his cheek, then his lips. Swift. Confident. Not her first. "I accept your proposition. If a chance to speak without courtly facade is what you desire most, I am happy to oblige."

She takes a deep breath. Thinking. Considering. Not fazed. "I do not know exactly what happened. Just the rumours. Tell me. What bothers you so?"

--

Tell her? Tell her what? The body parts and guts, the wild eyes and gaping wounds? He recoiled at the thought, but not from her - and when she'd finished speaking, he grasped at her shoulder, attempted to press her back against the bed, to kiss her, to do all the things to one woman he'd wished to do to another, but couldn't. Restraint snapped, already frayed beyond salvaging. Responsibility? Honour? Damn it. He craved release of one kind or the other, and if he couldn't talk about fear, then at least he could experience lust. No words. His mouth on hers, or her throat, or against the fabric of her clothes. Happy to oblige. What did he desire most?

Who?

--

Waldor laid awake, staring up at the ceiling, an arm crossed behind his head. Dawn was still a few hours off, and the room was dimly lit. Quiet, too. He still hadn't bathed yet, though the sweat had dried and the dirt on his skin had rubbed off into the sheets for the most part. His clothing had ended up in a jumbled heap on the floor, piled atop his discarded armor. Lord Tarkus' sword had been thrown across one bedpost, hooked by the baldric, and hung with its tip digging against the stone floor. Outside, beyond the hallway and foyer of the manor, he thought he could hear rain. His other arm was hooked about the shoulders of the woman who laid against him, his fingers idly tracing the outside curve of her ear. He wasn't sure if she was still asleep or not. He didn't ask. It would ruin the moment; if he raised his voice now, he'd have to start thinking about all the consequences of his actions, and he wasn't ready to do that just yet.

He felt better, though. The war felt far away here, and that was what he'd wanted out of this deal. Peace.

--

Waldor had returned to his own quarters sometime during the early morning, bathed, and now sat clean-shaven at a cramped oak desk pushed up against the far wall of his room. He perched on a stool, bent over a flickering candle, and read by that light, as well as the light streaming in from the high window above him, a short letter. Then, with a strange expression, he leaned back. He traced the name written across the parchment - his name - with the rough pad of his thumb. He closed his hand into a fist. Then he exhaled slowly, tipped his head back, and shut his eyes. His shoulders sagged, and the part of him that hadn't relaxed since that first fateful battle grudgingly unwound. He reached for the quill resting in its dry inkwell.

He began to write, and for a time that scratching was all that echoed in the room.

Meira,

By the time you get this, I will be on the road to the Fissoan Fields. I expect to only be gone for a day at most, and afterward will be on standby in the city of Fissoa and back at the estate until I am called away to war. Before I return, I want to make sure things are clear between us. I am giving you full rein over my quarters, and a portion of my household staff, but expect you to be scarce when your sister, or other nobility, are present. I will not press your claims to House Aristilien, and I do not want any bastards. There is a horse or two in the stables, and if you can ride, you may ride either of them.

...I hope you are doing well.

Waldor Graves

Knight of Fissoa