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[jasmine-flower]

Long Journey: Prologue

MEDIEVAL! AU - (no historical accuracy lol)

The silver-armoured man is an imposing figure as he stands waiting in the centre of the Grand Hall. He stands straight-backed with his arms crossed across his chest, gloved fingers irritably drumming on his vambrace. He’s unusually minimally armoured. He doesn’t wear one of those clunky suits of armour the knight’s you’ve seen before clank around in. Only a silver chestplate, pauldrons, vambraces, chestplate, cuisses and a helmet mark him as a knight. His helmet is peculiar too, and you narrow your eyes to study it as you approach. It’s a barbute, seemingly, but the slits are so thin, they may as well not be there. How does he see? Your thoughts must show on your face, because his helmet tips to the side slightly as he studies you back.

This is going to be an issue. You can tell already. He’s hot. A tall, broad-shoulder man hidden behind metal. But it was more than that. There was an air to him. He silently demands the attention of everyone in the room, evidenced by the furtive glances of the servants bustling through the Hall. Good Lord, you’re drawn to him. He’s magnetic. He shifts his stance, his fingers flexing on the hilt of his sword.

"This is the knight who will accompany me?" you lean closer to whisper discretely to your father.

He pats your arm comfortingly, "He is the greatest in the land, daughter. I am assured of the fact. He will ensure your safety on your travels to the Kingdom of Nevarro."

You nod, clearly unconvinced and flash your father a strained smile.

"My lady," the knight grunts as bows his head in respect, but doesn’t remove his helmet. Rude.

But damn, that voice. It’s a little tinny, reverberating around in his helmet. But it’s a gruff, deep baritone, the kind of voice that goes straight to your stomach and turns your knees to liquid. If you were a few years younger and stupider, you’d giggle, blush and tuck your hair behind your ear bashfully.

Instead, you’re a little shit, of course, so you hold out your hand for him to kiss. Hah! Now he’ll have to remove his helmet. No being mysterious for him. He doesn’t seem a fool enough to refuse, and risk this contract by offending my father.

He takes your hand in his gloved one, and lifts it to his helmet in an action imitating a kiss. But he never removes his helmet. Cheater.

Your father smiles, “Darling, this is the Mandalorian.”

“A pleasure,” you smile sweetly, oozing with all of your court-trained charm. You will charm this man. You will make him like you. Everyone likes you.

The Mandalorian grunts in acknowledgement and gently releases your hand. Damn him. You can’t read him at all behind that stupid helmet.

“Well,” your father claps the Mandalorian on the back and smiles, “I will allow you two to discuss the journey ahead. You will leave at first light tomorrow. I must finish the preparations for the leaving banquet.”

You smile softly and kiss him on the cheek, “Thank you, Father.”

Your father gives your shoulder a final squeeze and then walks down the hall, already beginning to direct servants. The man has never found a reason to not throw a feast, and you’re leaving to go get married is as good a reason as any to him.

“So, ‘Mandalorian’,” you turn to the knight, “Is that what I am to call you?”

“Yes,” he replies sharply, physically tensing, “It is my title and how I am addressed.”

You arch your eyebrow, sitting into your hip and crossing your arms across your chest, “Are you a real knight?”

“Why would you ask that?” He tips his helmet, shifting closer slightly.

“Well,” you smile, a self-congratulatory pleasure at capturing his attention running through you, “You don’t wear a full suit of armour. Like a knight should. You call yourself ‘the Mandalorian’, whatever that is, instead of ‘Sir’. And you seem entirely uncomfortable in this Hall, like you aren’t accustomed to it.”

He’s impressed. He tilts his helmet further to the side, now even more interested in you.

“You’re correct, technically, I’m not a knight,” he finally confesses, “But the armour is enough for people to assume. And I don’t correct them.”

"So then what are you?" you question.

"Mandalorian."

"Yeah," you roll your eyes, "I gathered. But how do you make money? Like, are you normally a bodyguard for hire?"

"Bounty hunter," he replies.

Bounty hunter? Interesting. You have a million follow-up questions, but his tone makes clear that he won’t be answering any more personal questions. So you pivot.

“How long do you think the journey will be?” you ask.

“A month,” he grunts, “Two weeks to the border. Two and a half through Nevarro. If we’re lucky. Minimal stops.”

“If we’re lucky?” your brow furrows. What does that mean?

“Dangerous journey. Bandits,” he replies gruffly, “Should be fine. You’re with me.”

Maker. The way he phrases it. So simply. You’ll be entirely safe the entire journey because you’re with him. You’re with this tall, muscular stranger and he’ll protect you. You’re cavewoman brain sparks. Protector. Provider. Looking after you. Totally safe with him.

This is going to be a long journey.

There’s also a long pause. He doesn’t seem disgruntled by it, just watching you behind that helmet. The silence is awkward to you, but it doesn’t seem to bother him at all. You’re starting to learn he’s a silent man.

“There is to be a banquet tonight, to farwell me,” you finally break the silence, “Will you be in attendance?”

“Might be,” he mutters, a little surprised by the direct invitation, “But we’re leaving at first light. No exceptions. So you need to be able to wake up early in the morning.”

You smile and nod, “Don’t worry, Mando. I’ll manage.”

Mando.

The nickname slips out without you even realising. But you like it. Shorter. Simpler. Personal. He probably hates it, but he doesn’t say as much, just lifts the chin of his helmet slightly. It’s sticking. You’ve decided it.

[jasmine-flower]

By seventh year, we were Marley, Dee, Lil, Em and Liss, but on that very first day when we stood in our dormitory for the first time we were Marlene Mckinnon, Dorcas Meadowes, Lily Evans, Mary MacDonald and Alice Fortescue.