#dueling gauntlet | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

novaursa · 3 days ago

Text

Legacy (high heart)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Be aware of one time jump at the end (back into the past).

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the judgment

- Next part: the dawn

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi

The crowd gathered to witness the trial by combat. On one side of the arena stood Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, a hulking brute of a man clad in heavy armor, his expression obscured by the darkness of his helm. Across from him, Prince Oberyn Martell stood poised, his lithe figure exuding confidence as he twirled his spear, its tip gleaming ominously in the light.

You sat with Tywin on the raised dais, your seat elevated to overlook the proceedings. Despite the warmth of the day, a chill crept through you as you clutched your hands tightly in your lap, trying to mask your growing unease. To your left, Cersei sat with a smug smile, her gaze flicking between Tyrion, standing silently below, and the arena, where her chosen champion loomed like a mountain of death.

Ellaria Sand stood with the rest of the spectators, her dark eyes fixed on Oberyn. She radiated both confidence and worry, her hands clasped tightly as she watched him move with the grace of a dancer.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the courtyard. “This is a trial by combat. The gods will decide the guilt or innocence of Lord Tyrion Lannister.”

Tywin’s face was a mask of stoicism, his piercing gaze fixed on the combatants. When he leaned slightly toward you, his voice was low and sharp. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I couldn’t stay away,” you replied softly, your voice trembling ever so slightly. “I had to see this through.”

He said nothing more, his focus returning to the arena.

The duel began, and Oberyn darted forward with the speed of a serpent, his spear striking out in quick, precise movements. “You killed her children!” Oberyn’s voice rang out, clear and cutting as he danced around the Mountain. “You raped her! You murdered her!”

The Mountain swung his massive sword with brutal force, but Oberyn evaded each strike with practiced ease, his movements a blur of agility. The crowd murmured in awe as the prince’s spear struck again, grazing the Mountain’s exposed flesh. A faint hiss of black liquid followed, the telltale sign of poison.

Ellaria’s voice cut through the tension. “Elia! Say her name!” she called out, her hands clenched tightly as she urged him on.

Oberyn pressed his advantage, his spear slicing through the air. “You raped her! You murdered her! You killed her children!” He repeated the accusations with every strike, his voice rising in a crescendo of righteous fury.

The Mountain faltered, his movements slowing as the poison began to take its toll. Blood seeped from his wounds, staining the sand beneath him. The crowd erupted in cheers, sensing Oberyn’s victory.

But then, it happened.

In his fury and determination to extract a confession, Oberyn stepped too close. The Mountain, with a final burst of strength, lunged forward, grabbing Oberyn by the ankle. The courtyard fell silent as the massive knight pulled the prince down, pinning him to the ground.

“ELIA OF DORNE!” Oberyn screamed, his voice desperate as he struggled against the Mountain’s crushing weight. “You killed her—!”

The Mountain slammed his gauntleted fist into Oberyn’s face, silencing him mid-sentence. The sound was sickening, a sharp crack that echoed across the courtyard. The Mountain struck again, and again, until there was no sound left but Ellaria’s piercing scream.

Your breath caught in your throat, and before you could fully register the horror before you, Tywin moved. He stood abruptly, shielding your view with his broad frame, his hand gripping your shoulder firmly as if to steady you.

“Don’t look,” he commanded, his voice cold and unyielding.

But you had already seen enough. The blood pooling on the sand, the lifeless body of Prince Oberyn, and the Mountain, staggering but victorious.

Ellaria’s scream tore through the silence, raw and guttural, her hands reaching out as if she could pull Oberyn back from the abyss. “No! No!”

Cersei’s smile widened, her satisfaction evident as she glanced toward Tyrion, who stood frozen, his face pale. “The gods have spoken,” she said softly, though her voice carried the venom of triumph.

You swallowed hard, trying to suppress the bile rising in your throat. Tywin’s hand remained steady on your shoulder, his face as unreadable as ever, though his lips pressed into a thin line as he returned his gaze to the arena.

Tyrion’s voice broke the silence, trembling but laced with bitter humor. “So much for justice.”

Cersei’s gaze snapped to him, her smile faltering as she stood. “You will pay for what you’ve done.”

Tyrion looked up at her, his expression weary but defiant. “I did nothing but exist, dear sister. And that, it seems, is my greatest crime.”

Tywin raised his hand, silencing them both. “Enough. This trial is concluded.”

As the crowd began to disperse, whispers of horror and awe rippling through the spectators, you remained seated, your hands trembling in your lap. Tywin’s grip on your shoulder tightened briefly before he let go, his voice low.

“Return to your chambers,” he said. “There’s no more for you to see here.”

You nodded numbly, rising on unsteady legs as Ser Barristan stepped forward to escort you. The image of Oberyn’s shattered face lingered in your mind, a haunting reminder of the cost of vengeance and the cruelty of fate.

The corridors of the Red Keep seemed longer and darker than usual as Ser Barristan Selmy walked beside you, his ever-watchful eyes scanning the shadows. The clinking of his armor was the only sound that accompanied your footsteps, though you moved silently, still reeling from what you had just witnessed. The gruesome end of Prince Oberyn Martell replayed in your mind like a nightmare you couldn’t shake, the sickening crunch of bone and Ellaria’s scream echoing in your ears.

“You’ve been quiet, my lady,” Ser Barristan said softly, his voice breaking the silence. “Are you alright?”

You glanced at him, his weathered face lined with concern. Barristan had always been loyal, an unwavering presence of honor in a world full of treachery. “I’ve seen far worse, Ser Barristan,” you replied quietly, your voice steady though a shadow of exhaustion crept into it. “Under my father’s reign, such sights were common. His justice was… cruel.”

Barristan’s expression tightened, his mouth forming a grim line. “Cruelty is something no one should grow used to, my lady. Even the strongest heart has its limits.”

You offered a faint smile, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “Perhaps. But survival often demands otherwise.”

He nodded, but the concern in his gaze didn’t waver. “If you need anything, my lady, know that I am here.”

“Thank you, Ser Barristan,” you said sincerely. His loyalty was one of the few things you trusted implicitly in the Red Keep.

The two of you continued in silence until you reached your chambers. Barristan opened the door, allowing you to step inside. A nursemaid was gently rocking Damon, your son, in a cradle near the hearth. At the sight of you, she rose and bowed her head.

“You may go,” you said softly, your tone leaving no room for argument.

The nursemaid hesitated for a moment, glancing at Damon, but then nodded and quietly left the room. The door clicked shut behind her, and you exhaled, crossing the room to where your son lay. Damon’s tiny face was peaceful, his silver-golden hair catching the firelight as he stirred slightly in his sleep. You scooped him up carefully, holding him close to your chest. His warmth was a balm to your frayed nerves, his steady breathing grounding you.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to forget the horrors of the day, focusing solely on the precious life in your arms. “You are my light,” you whispered to him, your lips brushing his forehead. “And I will protect you, no matter what.”

As you turned to sit by the hearth, your gaze caught something out of place on your writing desk. A piece of parchment, its edges slightly crumpled, lay atop your neatly organized papers. You frowned, your heart skipping a beat as unease crept over you. The note hadn’t been there earlier.

Moving carefully so as not to disturb Damon, you approached the desk, your free hand reaching for the note. The script was uneven, the letters crooked and hurried, as though written by an unsteady hand.

High Heart.

Your breath hitched, and you turned the note over, finding nothing else written. The words alone sent a shiver down your spine. High Heart—a place whispered about in old tales and riddled with superstition. It was no place for the faint of heart, and it had been where you were heading before you were captured and taken to Harrenhal. The memories flooded back, the ambush, the desperation to avoid the main roads, and the fleeting hope that High Heart might offer you answers before you were snatched away.

A sudden tapping at the window startled you, and you turned sharply, clutching Damon closer. A raven perched on the sill, its beady black eyes fixed on you. It tapped again, its beak striking the glass insistently. You stared at it, your heart pounding, before it let out a sharp caw and flew off into the night, disappearing into the darkness.

Turning back to the note, you read the words again, their meaning sinking in. Someone—perhaps something—wanted you to return to High Heart.

Your grip on Damon tightened as you whispered, “What game is this now?”

The room was silent save for the crackling of the fire, but the unease lingered, the note in your hand feeling heavier than it should. You placed it carefully into the folds of your gown, determined to keep it safe. Whatever this message meant, you would uncover the truth—though the thought of what might await you sent another shiver coursing through you.

The soft glow of the fire in your chambers danced across the walls. Damon lay in his cradle, his small chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm as he slept. You sat in a chair near the hearth, the note tucked away in the folds of your gown, your mind preoccupied with the day’s events. The omen from the trial and the cryptic message lingered heavily in your thoughts, leaving little room for rest.

A knock at the door startled you. Before you could answer, the door opened, and Tywin entered, his stride deliberate and his presence commanding as always. Dressed in his usual black and gold, he seemed wearier than usual, though his sharp green eyes betrayed none of the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face.

“My lord,” you said softly, rising from your seat. “Is everything alright?”

He closed the door behind him, his gaze briefly flickering to Damon’s cradle before returning to you. “The Mountain is dead.”

The words struck you like a cold wind. “Dead?” you repeated, disbelief evident in your tone. “How?”

Tywin stepped further into the room, taking the chair opposite yours. He eased into it, his posture as straight and composed as ever, though there was a heaviness to his movements. “Poison,” he said bluntly. “From Martell’s spear. It seems the Prince of Dorne knew what he was doing.”

You sank back into your seat, the weight of the revelation pressing against your chest. “And Tyrion?” you asked hesitantly.

Tywin’s expression hardened slightly. “He remains in the dungeons for now. Justice will be served in due time.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you straightened in your chair. “Justice?” you echoed, your voice carrying a sharp edge. “This isn’t justice, Tywin. This trial was nothing but a setup orchestrated by Cersei. You know that.”

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze narrowing. “Cersei’s actions are irrelevant. Tyrion is responsible for his own predicament.”

“Is he?” you shot back, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Tyrion has been fighting against Cersei’s accusations his entire life. She wants him dead, and this trial was her way of achieving that.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his voice dropping to a steely tone. “Be careful, Y/N. You tread dangerously close to questioning my judgment.”

“I’m not questioning your judgment,” you countered, your tone softening but still firm. “I’m questioning whether this is truly about justice or about satisfying Cersei’s thirst for vengeance.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the crackling of the fire the only sound between you. Tywin’s gaze bore into yours, and for a moment, you wondered if you had overstepped. But then he sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“This is not a conversation for tonight,” he said, his voice losing some of its edge. “We’ll speak of it tomorrow. For now, I need rest.”

You studied him carefully, noting the faint weariness in his eyes. “Even you admit to needing rest?” you teased gently, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He smirked faintly, a rare expression on his otherwise stoic face. “Even I am mortal.”

The tension between you eased slightly, and you allowed yourself to relax. Tywin stood, crossing the room to Damon’s cradle. He gazed down at his sleeping son, his expression softening in a way you had only seen a handful of times.

“He’s growing strong,” Tywin said quietly, his voice almost tender. “He’ll be a fine heir.”

You rose from your chair, moving to stand beside him. “He’ll need a strong family to guide him,” you said softly, your gaze fixed on Damon. “That includes Tyrion.”

Tywin glanced at you, his eyes searching yours for a moment before he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re relentless,” he murmured, though there was a hint of admiration in his tone.

“I have to be,” you replied, your voice steady. “For Damon. For us.”

He nodded, his hand lingering on your cheek for a moment longer before he stepped back. “Come,” he said, his tone more commanding. “It’s late.”

You followed him to the bed, the familiar routine of sharing the space with him no longer feeling strange. As you lay down, Tywin settled beside you, his presence solid and steady. For a brief moment, he reached over, his hand brushing yours in an unspoken gesture of comfort.

The firelight danced across the room as the two of you lay in silence, the weight of the day still heavy but eased by the rare moment of affection. For now, the questions and the fears could wait. All that mattered was the quiet peace of the present.

The darkness of Maegor’s hidden passageways wrapped around Tyrion like a shroud, the damp, musty air pressing close against his skin. He moved carefully, his mismatched eyes scanning the narrow path illuminated only by the faint glow of the torch he carried. Jaime’s words echoed in his mind as he navigated the labyrinth: “Go, brother. Before Father wakes.”

But it wasn’t just escape that lingered in Tyrion’s thoughts. It was the pull of something unfinished, a need to see—to confront—before he disappeared into the night. He hadn’t chosen this passageway by chance. The secret knowledge of the Red Keep, long whispered among its denizens, had led him here.

The passage ended abruptly, revealing a faint outline of a door. Tyrion pushed gently, the hidden mechanism creaking as the panel slid open. He stepped carefully into the dimly lit chamber. The fire in the hearth had burned low, and everything seemed muted. He stopped, his gaze falling on the bed where Tywin and the reader lay. The Lord of Casterly Rock, formidable even in sleep, lay on his back, his features stark in the flickering light. Beside him, Y/N’s form was turned slightly toward Damon’s cradle, her expression peaceful in her rest.

Tyrion hesitated, his thoughts swirling. How often had he been dismissed, disregarded by the man who now slept soundly mere feet away? How many times had he begged for approval, only to be met with disdain? And now, here lay the child Tywin always wanted—a perfect heir, untainted by deformity or disgrace.

The faintest sound drew his attention, a soft cooing from the cradle near the bed. Damon was awake.

Tyrion’s heart twisted as he moved closer, his steps quiet and deliberate. The child’s violet eyes, so eerily familiar yet strikingly unique with their flecks of pale green, stared up at the ceiling. Damon waved his tiny hands, his golden-silver hair catching the faint firelight.

Tyrion crouched beside the cradle, his torch set carefully aside, and looked at the boy. He studied him in silence, noting the fine features of his face, the unmistakable blend of Targaryen and Lannister blood. Damon blinked, his gaze catching Tyrion’s for the first time. For a brief moment, the child stilled, as if recognizing the stranger before him.

“Well,” Tyrion whispered, his voice barely audible. “So you’re the one he waited for.”

The boy gurgled softly in response, his small fists curling and uncurling as Tyrion leaned closer. “You’ll never know the man he truly is,” Tyrion murmured, bitterness creeping into his tone. “To you, he’ll be a great father, a legend. But not to me. Never to me.”

Damon let out a soft coo, his tiny hand reaching toward Tyrion as if to grasp something unseen. Tyrion’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he hesitated before reaching out, allowing the boy’s fingers to wrap around his own. The gesture was small, insignificant even, but it felt like a tether to something Tyrion could barely comprehend.

“You’ll have everything I never did,” Tyrion continued, his voice cracking slightly. “You’ll be the heir he’s always wanted. You’ll never know what it feels like to be hated by your own father.”

He paused, the weight of his own words pressing down on him. The boy’s hand tightened around his finger, and for a fleeting moment, something softened in Tyrion’s heart. “Perhaps that’s for the best,” he said quietly. “The world is cruel enough without that burden.”

The sound of a faint rustle from the bed made him freeze. Tywin stirred, his brow furrowing slightly, though he didn’t wake. Y/N shifted as well, her hand moving instinctively toward the cradle as if sensing her son’s wakefulness. Tyrion pulled his hand back gently, standing and retreating a few steps.

He lingered for a moment longer, his gaze fixed on Damon. “Good luck, little brother,” he whispered, his voice tinged with both sorrow and resignation. “You’ll need it.”

With that, he turned, slipping back into the shadows of the secret passageway. The panel slid shut behind him, and the room returned to its quiet stillness. Damon let out another soft coo, his small hands waving in the air before settling back into the cradle. The fire crackled faintly, its light flickering over the figures in the bed, none the wiser to the visitor who had come and gone in the night.

The wind whipped through the trees as you urged your horse forward, its hooves pounding against the dirt road. The night was thick with shadows, the sky above shrouded in clouds that blocked out the stars. Every sound seemed amplified—the rustle of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, the creak of your saddle—as you pressed on, driven by a pull you couldn’t fully explain.

High Heart. The name echoed in your mind like a drumbeat. You didn’t know why you had to go there, only that you must. The dreams had started weeks ago, vivid and unrelenting. A man with white hair and an empty socket where one eye should have been appeared each time, his voice smooth and commanding.

"Come to High Heart," he had said in your dreams. "I must show you the truth. You must see what is hidden."

The urgency in his voice was impossible to ignore, and so you had left the safety of your hiding place, traveling alone through the Riverlands, avoiding main roads, and keeping to the shadows.

As you approached a clearing, you slowed your horse, scanning the area. High Heart wasn’t far now; you could feel it, a strange energy tugging at the edges of your consciousness. But as you moved forward, the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. Something wasn’t right.

The sound of snapping branches reached your ears, and before you could react, a sharp voice rang out from the darkness. “Halt!”

Your horse reared slightly, and you pulled the reins tightly, your heart pounding in your chest. From the shadows emerged a group of men clad in crimson and gold—the colors of House Lannister. Their leader, a man with a scar running down the side of his face, stepped forward, his sword drawn.

“Well, what do we have here?” he sneered, his eyes narrowing as he took you in. “A lone rider in middle of war? That’s a bold move, my lady.”

You straightened in the saddle, your expression defiant despite the fear coiling in your stomach. “I am no one of consequence,” you said, keeping your voice steady. “Let me pass, and I will trouble you no further.”

The man’s smirk widened as his eyes swept over you. “No one of consequence?” He tilted his head, studying your face more closely. The firelight from a torch one of his men held flickered, catching the pale strands of your hair that had slipped from your hood. His gaze sharpened. “Silver hair… violet eyes…”

You cursed under your breath, instinctively tugging the hood back into place, but it was too late.

“A Targaryen,” the man said, his tone dripping with disdain and triumph. “Well, well. Looks like we’ve caught ourselves a dragon.”

The men around him murmured in surprise, a mix of awe and malice in their tones. The leader stepped closer, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “What’s a former Targaryen princess doing riding alone in the Riverlands? Running from something, perhaps?”

You straightened in the saddle, refusing to let him see the fear that threatened to overwhelm you. “I am no threat to you,” you said firmly. “Let me go, and you won’t regret it.”

The man chuckled darkly, his companions exchanging amused glances. “No threat? You’re the last of the dragons—a relic of a dead house. Lord Tywin will be very interested in meeting you.”

The mention of Tywin Lannister sent a wave of dread crashing over you. You clutched the reins tightly, your mind racing. “You have no right—”

“Dismount!” the man barked, his tone sharp. One of his soldiers grabbed your horse’s bridle, forcing it to still. You had no choice. With trembling hands, you swung your leg over and slid to the ground.

As soon as your feet touched the dirt, the man’s soldiers seized you, binding your hands tightly with rough rope. “A Targaryen,” the leader said again, his smile growing wider. “Lord Tywin will be pleased. I hear he’s got quite the interest in your kind.”

You kept your head high, refusing to let them see your fear. As they dragged you toward their camp, your thoughts turned to the dreams. What had the man—Brandon Rivers—wanted to show you? Why had he called you to High Heart?

Whatever the answer, it was lost to you now. The dreams that had driven you here felt like a cruel joke, and as the Lannister soldiers laughed and jeered, you couldn’t help but wonder if you would ever learn the truth.

In the distance, the wind howled through the trees, carrying with it a faint whisper. “Not yet… but soon.”

You shivered, unsure if the voice was real or a figment of your imagination. Either way, it offered little comfort as you were marched toward Harrenhal, toward Tywin Lannister, and toward an uncertain fate.

98 notes · View notes

larluce · 5 months ago

Text

Arthur and Merlin travel back in time without knowing the other is from the future too AU

Tagging @aceauthorcatqueen , @fallenxjas , @smileytrinity ,@lucifertookmyshoe , @an-entity-i-think , @thecornerofbelu , @griffonskies , @odinjm , @cinnabon-sweetroll-tiramisu , @thelady-mary , @bennedict , @nightninjaboy , @st8-of-grace , @star-rie , @error-username-not-available , @dogberryrowan , @jamieweasley13 , @tansyuduri , @tercais , @robynnemrys , @evadne01 , @serasvictoria02 , @hairdryerducks , @hopeaha , @curiously-lazy , @ harriettesthings , @andrealux16 , @wacko-weirdo , @greatdonutenemy , @yougottobekittenme , @anxiousosaurus , @kinkforwings , @someweirdassnamee , @impracticalantlers

LINKS TO THE OTHER PARTS OF THIS AU HERE: PART 1 , PART 2 , PART 3 , PART 4 , PART 5 , PART 6 , PART 7 , PART 8 , PART 9 , PART 10 , PART 11 , PART 12 , PART 13 , PART 14 , PART 15 , PART 16 , PART 17 , PART 18 , PART 19 , PART 20 , PART 21 , PART 22 (You're here) , PART 23

In "Excalibur"

The black knight arrives as expected. Arthur this time lifts the gauntlet before any other knight can do so, much to Merlin's dismay, but at least he now knows what to do.

Kilgharrah: (watching Merlin arrive) Oh, until you finally deign to see me, young warlock.

Merlin: I'm sorry I didn't answer your calls. Many things happened.

Kilgharrah: (analyzes Merlin and realizes) Another old mind in a young body.

Merlin: (confused) What?

Kilgharrah: You are not from this time, are you young warlock?

Merlin: (sighs) I should have known you'd notice. Look, if you're going to give me the destiny and coin speech, I swear that-

Kilgharrah: I find it useless to talk to you about something you already have very present. However, I'm sure you didn't come here just to greet me. If so you would have come much sooner.

Merlin: (takes out the sword Gwen gave him) Arthur, the Once and the Future King of your prophecy, is going to duel with a wraith. It's not in your best interest for him to die, so I need you to reforge this sword so that Arthur won't die in combat-

Kilgharrah: I'll help you.

Merlin: I remind you that your revenge is with Uther, not with… Wait, you'll help me? 😧

Kilgharrah: You have a very strong argument. I can't deny that.

Merlin: And you won't try to convince me to free you in exchange either?

Kilgharrah: I don't want you to see my help as conditional, young warlock. I imagine that's why you've avoided coming to see me. I'll just ask you one thing. Where you come from, am I free?

Merlin: Yes… (Thinking) After you almost turned Camelot into ashes.

Kilgharrah: That's all I need to know. (Raises the sword towards him with magic) A sword forged with my assistance will have great power.

Merlin: I know.

Kilgharrah: Normally I'd say you can only guess, but in this case I know you are very aware, and yet there's still so much you don't know.

Merlin: I know that in the wrong hands this sword can cause great evil. I won't let that happen.

Kilgharrah: That's not what I meant. (comes closer) Do you know why you and Arthur are two sides of the same coin?

Merlin: (rolls his eyes) Yes, yes, the prophecy. We are the half that makes us whole. Arthur is my destiny. I already know all that. 😒

Kilgharrah: Indeed, but the curious thing about the sides of a coin is that, despite being literally glued together, they never see each other.

Merlin: (tired) I don't have time for this. Are you going to forge the sword or not?

Kilgharrah: (forges the sword) Hear my words, the sword must be wielded by Arthur and him alone. You must promise.

Merlin: I promise.

Kilgharrah: (returns the sword already forged to Merlin with magic)

Merlin: (looking at it wistfully) It's just as I remember it (looks up at Kilgharrah again, smiling) Thank you, Kilgharrah. (leaves)

Kilgharrah: Any time, young warlock. (Thinking) It is when the sides of the coin see each other that tragedies occur.

Time skip. Right after Merlin gave the sword to Arthur and just before he duels the black knight.

Merlin: (finishes putting Arthur his armor on) Ready, sire.

Arthur: (smirking) Won't you give me a hug?

Merlin: What?! 😳

Arthur: For luck, of course.

Merlin: (very red and confused) Since… since when are you so fond of hugs? (thinking) You were never this affectionate before...

Arthur: (opens up) I admit I didn't always like them. Wrong, I always liked them, but, as a prince, I'm not supposed to be affectionate. At least that's what my father always said. "Physical contact with royalty is a privilege, it cannot be given lightly" that was his phrase.

Merlin: (realizes, sad) The king doesn't… doesn't hug you much, does he? (Thinking) Now that I think about it, I don't remember a single time he did it.

Arthur: (thinking back) I think the last time he did it I was… 5 years old? Oh, don't look at me like that. I understand why he thought that was the best way to raise me, but it wasn't until recently that I realized… that's not how I want to live the rest of my life, or how I would raise my kids, you know? I don't want to deny myself the giving or receiving of affection, at least not when it comes to the people I care about.

Merlin: (understanding) That's why you hug Morgana more often now.

Arthur: And you. (Extends his arms) So? Will you give me my lucky hug or not?

Merlin: (laughs softly) As if you need it. (but he hugs him, thinking) I'm glad you trust me enough to tell me this and that you want to change. We've never... we've never hugged this much before... It's... it feels good. (melts in the hug)

Arthur: (thinking) I thought I'll never have you like this ever again... (pulls him closer) I don't want this to end. Gods, let me hold him forever. Please

Merlin: (thinking, scolding himself) Stop it! What will Arthur think? (gently separates the hug and says) There, you can go now.

Arthur: I don't think that's enough luck.

Merlin: (confused) Huh?

Arthur: I'm going to need this too (takes Merlin's neckerchief off)

Merlin: What?! 😨 What are you doing?! (He tries to get the neckerchief back from him) Give it back! Arthur! 😠

Arthur: (raising the nekerchief and dodging all of Merlin's attempts to take it from him) I need all the luck I can get, Merlin. And what's luckier than a favor?

Merlin: (very red, but pretending to be upset) Yes, but that's supposed to be with the favor of a lady! Not my-That's not how it works!

Arthur: Would you prefer that I ask a Lady hers?

Merlin: That's not... You don't need it! 😡

Arthur: I could die.

Merlin: (raises his voice in sudden panic) You are not going to die! (Composes himself) Sorry.

Servant x: (enters) Sire, they are waiting for you.

Arthur: I'll be right away. (puts the neckerchief around his arm) Merlin, help me, will you?

Merlin: (ties the neckerchief around Arthur's arm, blushing)

Servant x: (gives Merlin a knowing smile and then turns to Arthur) Your highness (bows and leaves)

Merlin: (sighs, thinking) Great... more rumors...

Arthur: Will you be cheering for me? 😏

Merlin: (snorts) You wish. (Softens his expression) But I'll be there. Just to make sure you don't ruin my neckerchief, of course.

Arthur: (starts to leave, but turns to Merlin) My lady (bows with a flirtatious smile and leaves)

Merlin: (in shock with eyes wide open) What the…? (turns red with fury and embarrassment) This clotpole is making fun of me! 😡

Arthur wins, of course. Merlin was definitely not clapping and cheering loudly and he definitely did not blush furiously when Arthur decided to give back his neckerchief publicly.

"He is taking this joke too far" is all Merlin can think when he gets back to his chamers, but he sleeps with a smile on his face and the neckerchief curled in his hand.

In "The moment of truth"

In Arthur's chambers. Arthur writes at his desk.

Merlin: (enters without knocking) Arthur!

Arthur: (startled, spills the ink with which he was writing on the parchment)

Merlin: Sorry... 😅

Arthur: (sighs, thinking) Some things just never change. (Says) Be useful for once and bring me another scroll, will you?

Merlin: (hurries to take out another scroll and gives it to him)

Arthur: (takes the parchment) Any special reason why you decided to burst into my chambers so suddenly or did you just miss me? (moves his eyebrows flirtuosly)

Merlin: (blushes) I...(thinking, freaking out internally) WHAT IS HE DOING?!😳😱😫. (Says, nervous) I just wanted to ask you if you could give me a few days off so I can visit my mother, sire. (doesn't look at him in the eye)

Arthur: (frowns, concerned) Is something wrong? You seem anxious.

Merlin: It is nothing, my lord. I just miss seeing my mother. I haven't been able to see her since I came to the castle.

Arthur: I see, that's understandable. (He puts the parchment aside and stands to look Merlin right in the eye, seriously) Now the truth.

Merlin: (thinking) Damn it! (sighs, giving up and says) I got a letter from her recently. The village I come from, where my mother lives, is being attacked by raiders. I promise I won't be gone for long, just until I'm sure she's save. She's my mother, Arthur. I need-

Arthur: I understand. You have my permission.

Merlin: (smiles) Thank you, Arthur (About to leave)

Arthur: Oh, take this (throws him a bag with supplies)

Merlin: (looking at the bag) What...?

Arthur: (Searches the room and grabs another bag) And this (throws it at Merlin too) and this (goes to Merlin and hangs the last bag around his neck). Yep, that's all, let's go.

Merlin: (confused) Go where, Sire?

Arthur: To Ealdor together.

Merlin: What? No! (Drops all things) Arthur, you can't come with me. The king will not allow it.

Arrhur: Did you really think I'll let you go alone?

Merlin: (thinking) I mean, you did came with me before, but no so soon! (Says) But, Uther-

Arthur: Don't worry about it. I'll solve it.

Merlin: But I need to go alone!

Arthur: Why?

Merlin: (thinking) Because I need to be able to use magic without you watching me! (Says) I…

Arthur: (thinking) I don't know how advanced you are at your magic, I'm not going to risk something happening to you... And I have to reduce numbers. (snorts) I know you think highly of yourself, Merlin, but I don't think you can take down a mugger patch all on your own.

Merlin: (thinking) If you only knew... (Says) You don't have to do it.

Arthur: True, but I want to.

Merlin: (smiles) I know and I really apreaciate it. Truly. But it's not just a matter of want. Ealdor is in another Kingdom and if there was a word that the Prince of Camelot went there- (thinking) The treaty with Cenred will be broken and it would be my fault again.

Despite Arthur never telling Merlin this in his other life, he knows Arthur going to Ealdor to help him played a great part in that to happen. He remembers Uther was furious with Arthur when he got back and throw him in the dungeons for a week. When Arthur finally got out he had several bruises on his skin. It was the first time Merlin ever consider killing Uther if even for a moment. Arthur never hold any of that against Merlin but that didn't make him feel any less guilty. He can't make Arthur go through that again.

Arthur: No one has to know I'm the Prince. Plus we could take it as a trip to Ealdor and I can finally meet your mother.

Merlin: (confused) Why do you want to meet my mother?

Arthur: Can't I meet my manservant's family?

Merlin: (shuts his mouth helplessly, thinking) Oh, well, at least it'll just be Arthur and me.

Time skip. Outside the castle.

Merlin: (yelling at Arthur) YOU BROUGHT YOUR KNIGHTS?! 😡

Knight 1, 2, 3 and Leon: (standing awkwardly a few meters away of Arthur and Merlin)

Knight 1: He's yelling at the prince.

Knight 2: I think the servant doesn't like us very much.

Knight 3: I feel bad third.

Leon: I'm not even surprised anymore.

[Welcome to: ✨breaking the fourth wall space✨

Me: Hi!😊 I'm the author of this crazy story! An I created this little space so the characters can break the fourth wall, without affecting the trama! They will mostly use it just to complain to me though.

Knight 1, 2 and 3: (to the author) Hey! when are you going to give us names?! 😡

Me: (to the audience) See? (to the nameless knights) Well, I would but, you see. Normally I just give names when they... last.

Knights 1, 2 and 3: (who literally die in the "Le Morte d'Arthur" part) What does she mean? 🤨

End of ✨Breaking the fourth wall space✨]

Arthur: (To Merlin, but raising his voice so the knights hear him) Of course! We are going to carry out a formal inspection of Camelot's border (looking at Merlin meaningfully), or did you expect the King to send his only Prince and heir to the border alone, Merlin?

Merlin: Oh... Oh, right!(nods exaggeratedly and turns to the knights smiling, then looks back at Arthur with too much enthusiasm) Then we better hurry, my lord. (He gets on his mare)

Arthur: (gets on his horse too)

Time skip. Merlin and Arthur riding ahead and the rest of the knights riding a few meters behind.

Merlin: (Just loud enough so Arthur can hear) Did you tell them?

Arthur: Tell them what?

Merlin: 😑

Arthur: Of course (pauses) not.

Merlin: Do you realize that technically we will be invading the territory of a neighboring kingdom? Not only is it a delicate matter, it could escalate into a diplomatic conflict! That's why I told you-

Arthur: Don't worry, I have a plan.

Merlin: (opens his mouth)

Arthur: (cuts him) Before you ask me what the plan is, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. (Turns to give a look at the knights) That way they will have no choice but to obey me.

Knights: (feeling a chill down their spine)

Time skip. After two days of travel, they finally arrive at the border.

Knight 2: Uhm… Sire? Isn't this the border?

Arthur: No, it's ahead.

Knight 1: I'm sure we've already crossed the border.

Arthur: Do you claim to know more than me, Sir Innprudence?

Knight 1: No, sire (shuts up)

[Knight 1: (to the author) Sir Innprudence?! 😡 That's the best name you could come up with? Really?!

Me: (laughs a little) He he, yeah, I forgot I already named you in part 16.

Knight 1: I prefer Knight 1 😒.

Me: Too late, I already changed it 😈.

Sir Innprudence: NO! 😭]

In the forest of Escetir, near Ealdor. Arthur stops and dismounts his horse, so the others do too.

Leon: Have we reached the border yet, sire?

Arthur: Actually, we are technically in Escetir.

Knights: WHAT?!😱

Arthur: Yes, we're on a deck mission. I'll explain. Merlin, bring the bags.

Merlin: (brings the bags)

Arthur: (To the knights) Do you see the village there? (points to Ealdor)

Leon: Yes, sire.

Arthur: This is my manservant's home village and it's under attack by raiders. Our mission is to slay them all and protect this village.

Knights: ...

Merlin: Oh gods 🤦‍♂️

Arthur: As you know, it would be catastrophic if they were to find out the Prince and the Knights of Camelot were here. So (takes some clothes out of the bags) We're going to pretend to be mercenaries. (throws the clothes at each of them) and we will tell the villagers that we were paid to defend them.

Sir Innprudence: And who paid us?

Arthur: Merlin, of course.

Merlin: What?!😨 Arthur, no one is going to believe that!

Arthur: Why not? This is your native village, your mother lives here. You have more than enough reasons to want to protect Ealdor.

Merlin: And where did I supposely get the money from?!

Arthur: From your benevolent master, of course. That pays you very generously.

Merlin: You are mad! Completely mad! (Pointing to the knights) THIS is MADNESS!

Leon: Sire, you know that I support you no matter what, but you do understand you are basically asking us to betray the king, right?

Arthur: That's only if he finds out, which he is not going to do.

Sir Innprudence, knights 2 and 3: (hesitating whether or not to inform the king of what is happening)

Arthur: After all, everyone here crossed the border, so everyone here would be in trouble if the king ever found out. Although, of course, I would not receive such a severe punishment because I am the prince and unlike others I am not replaceable.

Knights: …

Leon: Count on us, sire 😊.

Merlin: (shouts) NO! (To Arthur) You are not going to do this! 😡

Arthur: (with feigned confusion) But, Merlin, it was you who asked for my help strongly, don't you remember?

Merlin: (jaw drops at Arthur's audacity, thinking) This son of a- (says) That's not true! (To the Knights) I didn't ask for anything, I swear!

Leon: Don't worry, Merlin, we understand how things happened. (wraps an arm around Merlin) Surely you only asked him for money to hire the mercenaries, but his highness decided to come himself to defend the village for you.

Merlin: No! I didn't ask for anything at all!

Knight 2: (to Knight 3) He is the favorite for sure.

Sir Innprudence: (to Leon, making him let go of Merlin in panic) Don't touch him! Do you want to die?!

Knight 3: We better change.

Knights: (start changing)

Merlin: I'm not...! I didn't...! (tries to explain, but no knight listens)

Arthur: (smiling, amused) What are you waiting for, Merlin? (Points to his mercenary clothes so Merlin dresses him)

Merlin: (goes to Arthur and changes his clothes, thinking) Oh, you're going to pay for this Arthur Pendragon.

Meanwhile in Ealdor.

Kanen: (on his horse, grabbing the harvest sacks) What's this? Where's the rest of it?

Village chief: (on the ground, picking up the vegetables they made him drop) I only kept back what we need to survive.

Kanen: (mockingly) Survive? (threatenly) I'll be back in one week, farmer, and I want to see all of it.

Hunith: (Runs furiously to Kanen) You can't take our food! Our children will starve! I won't let you do this! (Tries to take the harvest sacks) You're not taking any of it!

Kanen: (hits her and Hunith falls to the ground)

Merlin: (arriving on his mare, shouts) Mom! (Furious, mutters a spell) Miere hors.

Kanen's horse: (gets upset, raising his legs, making Kanen fall off him)

Hunith: (hurries to grab the harvest sacks and runs)

Arthur and knights: (just behind Merlin, they get off their horses and attack the raiders)

Merlin: (gets off his mare and runs to Hunith) Mom! (cradles her face) Are you okay?

Hunith: (very surprised and happy) Merlin! What are you doing here?

Kanen: (gets up and rushes towards Merlin and Hunith with his sword, about to sly them)

Arthur: (blocks the attack with excalibur) Don't you dare... (Breaks Kanen's sword with excalibur) even think about it!

Villagers: (looking between fear and amazement)

Kanen: (seeing himself outmatched, decides to retreat) You will pay for this with your lives! (gets on a horse nearby) All of you! (Looks down at Hunith and smirks) I'll see you later, sweetheart.

Merlin: (about to jump beat Kanen up, enraged)

Arthur: (Stops him by putting an arm in front of him)

Kanen: (leaves with the raiders that survived)

Arthur: (Thinking, coldly) He'll be back with more, perfect. (Looks at the bodies lying there, thinking) 295.

Hunith: (hugging Merlin) My son, how good it is to see you, but you shouldn't be here.

Merlin: I came as soon as I knew what was happening (points at Arthur) and I brought help.

Arthur: (introduces himself) Nice to meet you, Hunith of Ealdor, my name is Arthur. Merlin hired me and my men to defend this village.

Hunith: Arthur? Like Prince Arthur?

Arthur: A very popular name, indeed.

Hunith: (smiles) I sincerely thank you for what you're doing, Arthur. You are very chivalrous for a mercenary. (sees the knights in the distance, who are helping the women and children) You all seem very chivalrous to be mercenaries.

Arthur: Uh... We get paid well.

Will: (approaches Merlin) You're still up to the same old tricks? I thought I told you we don't want your kind here.

Merlin: ...

Will: (confused) Merlin?

Merlin: (suddenly breaks down crying)

Arthur: (angry, to Will, ready to beat him up right there) What's wrong with you?! 😡

Will: (in panic, worried) I was kidding! Merlin, that's how we always mess with each other! I did not mean-

Merlin: (his crying turns into laughter) Ha! I got you. (Hugs Will) I missed you too, Will. (Thinking) I missed you so much.

Arthur: (coughs, definitely not jealous) Merlin, gather the villagers, I need to talk to them.

Merlin: (pulls away from the hug) Yes, right away. (about to leave)

Will: Wait. You let him give you orders? I thought you hired him.

Merlin: (in realization and smiles evilly) It's true. (hits Arthur arms) You! How insolent! Is this how you treat your employer? You gather the villagers!

Arthur: (About to yell at him, but remembers that Hunith and Will are there and stops himself) Sorry, I thought you might want to do it yourself. I'll do it right away. (Thinking) Wait until we return to Camelot, you dollophead.

Merlin: (thinking) Oh, this is going to be fun.

...

I know this kind of feels like a filler, but it's important I swear! What did Kilgharrah meant? Can Merlin save Will this time? Will the rest of the Kmights get to have names? Find out in the next episode of ✨"Merlin: the Mistress in denial" ✨

#merlin bbc #bbc merlin #merlin #merthur #merlin fanfic #merlin fic #merlin prompt #merthur fic #merlin and arthur #arthur and merlin #Arthur and Merlin travel back in time without knowing the other is from the future too AU #merthur fanfiction #merthur fanfic #merthur prompt

310 notes · View notes

terkmc · 2 months ago

Text

G-Jitsu, grappling in spaaaace

While comparatively rare, melee combat in low-to-zero-G has proved a massive headache for early combatants in space, as much of the underlying principles of terrestrial martial art no longer work properly without solid ground and footing. For example, the turning of the hip crucial to throwing a proper punch of a slash instead results in the fighter spinning in place while in zero G, and direct strikes will often result in both the attacker and defender floating harmlessly away from each other. Early space melee combat was a messy affair and doubly so for unarmed combat, resembling wild flailing more than any proper techniques.

But as with almost everything else, time was needed for adaptation to take place, and slowly but surely various forms of dedicated zero-G martial arts started to appear, chief amongst them G-Jitsu. Originally a series of ad hocs techniques invented by station security and interstellar marines, G-Jitsu is a primarily grappling based martial art, anchoring the user to their opponent instead of the ground in order to do anything effective in space. Comprising of a vast series of grapple, throw, joint locks and close ranged strikes incorporating elbows and knees, G-Jitsu resembles old Cradle Judo and Jiu Jitsu preserved from the Vault, with the lack of gravity opening up a vast arrays of free form grappling maneuver impossible planet side.

G-Jitsu core tenet is often phrased as “Never Let Go��, representing its extreme focus on grappling and always having a hand on the opponent, as well as the importance of endurance conditioning. Spacing is almost non-existent in G-Jitsu, and a bout of G-Jitsu will almost always start and end with the fighters never being more than an arms length from each other. A G-Jitsu fight is a brutal affair, a long drawn out brawl leaving the loser with broken joints and shattered helmets, and the winner bloodied and bruised.

G-Jitsu is extremely popular among various space station security forces, allowing practitioners to grab, apprehend and force compliance through its various locks and holds, as well as Trunk security and marines, who are expected to sometime be forced to engage in melee combats inside the cramped corridor of a ship with gravity being a luxury.

Due to its spontaneous origin, there’s no central authority on what G-Jitsu actually consists of, although there is a list of almost universally agreed on basic techniques that forms a basic foundation, and there exists dozens of schools all claiming to be the original and true inheritor of G-Jitsu. As a side effect of this, G-Jitsu has no certification or quality control, making assessing the quality of any particular G-Jitsu training wholly dependent on word of mouth and reputation.

KAY

Kay deserves a special mention due to it being a formalized dueling ritual in what is otherwise a free form and unformalized martial art. Named after the original K1 Safety Tether used during early space combat, a Kay is a 1-on-1 duel between two combatants, willingly tied together.

The initiator of a Kay will initiate a challenge by locking eyes with their opponent, and tap on their tether system (commonly waist mounted) twice before pointing at the opponent. If this proverbial gauntlet throw is accepted, the challenged party will also tap on their tether system twice, and both will then launch their tether at the opponent. Once launched, these tethers are grabbed by the opposing party and looped around the waist before being reeled in, officially locking the two in a mortal struggle from which there's no retreat.

While mostly relegated to official competition or personal fights, the use of Kay has been noted to sometimes happen during active combat, almost always as a form of honor duel between fighters who have a history, and with a noted increase in frequency the closer one gets to the Karrakin Trade Baronies’s space.

#lancer #lancer ttrpg #lancer rpg

126 notes · View notes

armthearmour · 1 year ago

Text

A shielded Dueling Gauntlet with a folding blade,

Length: 37.8 in/96 cm

Width:10.6 in/27 cm

Depth:9.3 in/23.5 cm

Weight:4.6 lbs/2.1 kg

Italy, before 1596, housed at the Kunsthistorischesmuseum, Vienna.

#weapons #armor #dueling gauntlet #gauntlets #europe #european #italy #italian #renaissance #khm #art #history

737 notes · View notes

bathtubbbbbbbbb · 1 month ago

Text

Can we talk about for a minute the similarities/parallels between Ambessa & Vi? Like both of their main color schemes are red & black, they both have ‘the wolf’ thing going on, & they both wield duel hand held weapons — gauntlets & dual chakram.

Also a thought branching off from this — I feel like Jinx is much more of a lamb than a wolf if you’re comparing her to the different sides of Kindred — first she wields long range weapons, guns, comparable to bows, & she has excellent aim — & second she’s pretty apathetic in the face of death & very accepting of it, actively seeking out her own at times. When Vi & Powder find their dead mom although it looks like Powder had been crying at one point it’s Vi who visibly breaks down when faced with death.

Edit: OH & how could I forget both Vi & young Ambessa have red hair.

#arcane #arcane season 2 #vi arcane #arcane meta #arcane ambessa #ambessa medarda #blood sweat and tears #kindred #jinx arcane

95 notes · View notes

leo-interactive-fiction · 2 months ago

Text

Progress Report 10/2/2024

Hello all! I hope you're having a good week so far. For my part, things have been calming down a bit, and I've been enjoying the small extra free time developing the upcoming scenes.

They are turning out well, as I've progressed about 1/5 of the way as I'm finishing up one of the father's scenes, with 3 more to go, along with Rachael's specialization scenes.

I'd like to go a little more in depth on these scenes, as they will basically flesh out the MC's personal development going forward. I wanted to give some hints at how the MC's S.T.E.M. ability will generally progress going forward. To this end, all of the scenes have a combat oriented focus, but I also wanted to focus on giving a bit more story and lore to the fathers and the organizations they occupy.

For MC's that have chosen to follow their military origin and hone their swordsmanship, your father will request a duel to see what you have learned from Lin, and determine whether or not you are ready for the path ahead. It will not be the practice and training you have undergone with him before. You will have to bring your all to bare against the full martial prowess of a seasoned war hero.

For MC's that have chosen to follow their scientific origin and seek to research S.T.E.M. in Rosaline's facility, your father will conduct his own tests to see if this newfound power is worth the risk, or an endangerment to you. Though this isn't the peaceful, carefree life he wished to give you as a father, he will spare no cost to at least ensure your safety against every unknown he could think of, even if it means disregarding protocols.

For MC's that have chosen to follow their performing heart and find themselves ingratiated in Simon's troupe, your father will be interested in seeing what new tricks you've come up with in his absence. With less and less guards to patrol the city, opportunists have set their sights on raiding and stealing from the seemingly defenseless Bermuda troupe. They could not have expected the troupe to contain its own secrets.

For MC's that have chosen to follow their parent's legacy of covert operations, Hoft leads them to the underground catacombs where a final initiation of the Faction of Beggars takes place: The Lightless Gauntlet. Overseen by a faceless jury, your actions will be the determining factor on your placement as either a clandestine Operative or a lethal Agent.

And for MC's that have chosen to pursue Rachael's offer, the fathers will be present as Rachael conducts tests to push the MC's limits and fully measure the potential of the S.T.E.M. product she's developed, even should there be pain and possible chance of dysmorphia involved. Depending on the father present, they will comment or even intervene in different ways. Thankfully, Rachael is not so crazed to risk everlasting harm or death to their subjects! On a good day, at least...

I'll be very interested to see how these new scenes will be recieved. I've also thought to implement some new stylistic choices in the writing with giving the character's named skills. It gives it a bit more of a gamey feel, and I will have to see how it feels going forward, I'm mostly using this as a test. I will probably cover that at a later date once it is closer to release haha.

I hope you enjoy what I have in store!

#triaina academy #progress report

96 notes · View notes

scary-grace · 3 months ago

Text

Expiation (Chapter 3) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Even after slaying the High Kingdom's greatest enemy and sparing its people from a terrible fate, Shigaraki Tomura's past crimes make him an outcast in the castle. Still, someone has to attend to him, and that someone is you -- and unlike the maids who came before you, you're not afraid to ask a question. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapters: 1 2 3 4

Chapter 3

Since you’re new to this, and Sir Tomura has no squire, Itsuka is kind enough to tell you which pieces of equipment a knight requires for a duel. Gauntlets, vambraces, pauldrons. A breastplate, but Sir Tomura’s is damaged. A shield, but Sir Tomura fights without one. And of course, a sword.

Most knights have auxiliary weapons, less valuable than the named swords they carry into important battles. Sir Tomura has no sword other than Decay, but Itsuka assures you it’s all right – Sir Katsuki intends to fight with his own magic sword rather than an ordinary weapon. You gather up Sir Tomura’s equipment, wrap the sheathed sword in a swathe of fabric to further protect yourself from its edge, and chase after Itsuka, tripping on your skirt with every step.

It’s been raining on and off all day. The training fields are a sea of mud and wet sand, but the walkways and viewing platforms are dry, and the nobility of the High Kingdom is arrayed upon them, peering down into the largest arena. On one side of it stands Sir Katsuki, attended to by his squires and friends. On the other side, attended by no one, stands Sir Tomura.

You’re sure there’s a proper way to get down into the arena, but you can’t see it at first glance, and the need to reach Sir Tomura before Sir Katsuki’s finished arming himself overpowers everything else. You pick a likely spot, squeeze through the railing, and slide and stumble the ten feet or so into the arena. It’s all you can do to keep your grip on your Lord’s armor and weaponry, and keep it out of the mud in the bargain. The sound of it clashing together in your arms draws everyone’s attention, but most importantly Sir Tomura’s. You pick yourself up and hurry towards him.

“I didn’t call for you,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“A squire told me,” you say. Sir Tomura’s eyes narrow. “Did my Lord intend to fight unarmed?”

“If necessary.” Sir Tomura lifts one pauldron and moves to secure it over his shoulder.

He’s slow. You can see that the movement pains him. “Let me,” you say, and he nods once. Once you have the laces firmly grasped, you admit the truth. “I don’t know how.”

“Secure them loosely. Then place the other, connect them, and tighten both.” Sir Tomura speaks so quietly that you can barely hear him, but you follow his instructions to the letter. “Tighter than that. If I must wear them, I’d rather they didn’t slip.”

You pull them tight, the way Lady Nemuri made you pull her corset lacings when you used to wait on her, and Sir Tomura grimaces. “Better. What are you doing?”

“Hiding your laces. He’ll cut them if they’re visible.”

“You’ve seen Sir Katsuki duel before, I take it.” Sir Tomura’s mouth twists disdainfully around his opponent’s name. “Does he have any other endearing habits?”

“He aims for the face,” you say, and curse yourself. “My Lord, your helm –”

“I’d rather my vision was clear,” Sir Tomura interrupts. He’s putting on his vambraces and gauntlets – or one of his gauntlets. The gauntleted hand is too indelicate to accomplish the laces. H holds his arm out, and you slide the second gauntlet into place before tightening the laces yourself. “If you are entertaining notions about serving as my second, stop. I have no need of one.”

“I had no such notions,” you say. Sir Tomura gives you a skeptical look. “I have so little skill in combat that you would be better off with no second at all.”

One corner of Sir Tomura’s scarred mouth pulls slightly upwards. “If you continue to serve me, we will have to remedy that,” he says. He pulls his hand from your grip, flexes his fingers inside his gauntlets, and frowns as you hold Decay out to him. “I told you not to touch that.”

“I was careful, my Lord. It never left its sheath.”

“And it shall not.” King Izuku’s voice rings out from a platform higher than the rest, exactly midway down the field. “Sir Tomura, you may not wield that sword within Castle Ultra’s walls.”

Sir Tomura raises his eyes from the sheathed sword to meet the king’s. “I have no other weapon. Do you mean for me to face your champion unarmed?”

He said he would earlier, but – “Sir Katsuki does not speak for the High Kingdom in his challenge,” King Izuku says. His eyes are clear and hard. “In this castle are weapons of every kind. Any one of them is available for your use.”

“Any of them,” Sir Tomura repeats. Your stomach lurches. “What about that one?”

A shocked, scandalized gasp echoes through the training ground. Sir Tomura is pointing at the king. Sir Tomura is putting King Izuku’s word to the test. The offer of any weapon in the castle includes the king’s own sword, One For All, and no one wields One For All but the rightful ruler of the High Kingdom. Not even King Izuku’s most loyal councilors would dare to ask to hold it, and yet Sir Tomura is demanding it for his own use in a paltry challenge. If King Izuku refuses, he goes back on his word in public, proving that there are some things honor demands which he will not do. Sir Tomura doesn’t repeat the demand, and King Izuku doesn’t answer.

Finally, Sir Tomura laughs, a low, harsh sound that sends chills down your spine. “Your sword would ill suit my hands,” he says. “I will go without.”

“You think I won’t face an unarmed man? Think otherwise,” Sir Katsuki sneers from the other end of the field. “If you choose to fight weaponless, my victory will be even more certain.”

Sir Tomura ignores him. He rewraps Decay more surely than you had done, then catches you by the arm, pulling you towards the edge of the training field and the nearest viewing platform. He looks up and addresses the nobles there. “Does your distaste for me stretch so far that you will not help one of your own out of the mud?”

“I would help were she one of our own or not.” Lord Tenya crouches at the edge of the platform, hands outstretched for yours. “Hurry. Sir Katsuki is unlikely to wait long.”

Sir Tomura says your name, and you glance over to find him forming a step with his hands, ready to help you up. It doesn’t seem at all like the sort of thing a noble should do for a maid, and it crosses your mind to refuse – but then you hear Sir Katsuki’s battle-cry from the far end of the field and step up in a hurry, Decay cradled in the crook of your arm. By the time Lord Tenya has helped you over the edge, the battle has already begun.

You’ve witnessed Sir Katsuki’s duels before. Hard not to, when they occur so frequently. They’re cacophonous affairs, full of war cries and insults and clashes of metal against metal – and, of course, explosions. Explosions are difficult to generate and control with ordinary magic, but Sir Katsuki’s sword Dynamight generates them at will, in the exact intensity he desires. Sir Katsuki’s duels are noisy. And Sir Katsuki’s duels are brief. In the time it takes you to get to your feet again, most are concluded already.

But the battle with Sir Tomura is ongoing, and the battle is silent, other than a strange low crackling that occurs every few seconds. Ordinarily you would have nothing approximating a view, but Lord Tenya hasn’t ordered you away, and he’s at the edge, watching intently. He glances sideways at you, and you freeze, expecting to be banished to the servants’ viewing platform. Instead: “It was not chivalrous of the king to take Sir Tomura’s weapon and allow Sir Katsuki to keep his.”

You stare at him, as much as you can stare while keeping one eye on the field below, where Sir Katsuki has yet to generate an explosion or land a direct hit with his sword. “What other course of action could the king have taken?” Lady Momo murmurs. “Dynamight is a terrible weapon to be sure, but it cannot kill with a single touch as Decay can.”

“Then his Majesty should have removed both weapons.” Lord Tenya’s frown doesn’t fade. “If Sir Katsuki had refused, then we might have dispensed with this an hour ago.”

“My Lord,” you venture, and he looks at you, “may I ask what happened?”

“Indeed you may, as it concerns he whom you serve,” Lord Tenya says. A yes would have served to answer, but you keep your silence rather than saying so. “The council met to address the issue of the borderlands. Sir Katsuki was angered by Sir Tomura’s suggestion that we had sacrificed them deliberately in favor of a more defensible border, and challenged Sir Tomura after Sir Tomura stated that deliberate sacrifice was a more noble motivation for our abandonment than simple cowardice.”

“It wasn’t cowardice,” Sir Ochako says sharply from Lord Tenya’s other side. “We did not know.”

“We did not know because we did not wish to see,” Lord Tenya corrects. He glances down at the training field, frowns, and removes his spectacles, polishing them with a cloth before replacing them on his face. “I am surprised that Sir Katsuki has yet to strike in earnest.”

“He has not had the opportunity,” Lady Momo says. “Sir Tomura moves too quickly for an accurate strike, and Dynamight is not without its limits.”

Too quickly? To your uneducated eyes, your Lord appears to be standing still – aside from quick steps to one side or the other, which seem to cover far more space than they should. You never doubted that the rumors of Sir Tomura’s fighting prowess are true, but this is something else. “It’s magic.”

“Indeed. A most delicate and exacting magic – the brief folding of space, allowing one to traverse more distance than a single step can allow,” Lady Momo says. She’s a skilled magician in her own right. You’ve heard that when she and Itsuka fight side by side, Itsuka protects her from physical attacks while she casts enchantments that shield the king’s soldiers while striking out at his foes. “It is not the sort of magic one would expect the White Death to know.”

“It is a wise strategy,” Itsuka adds. You’re always amazed when squires speak out of turn, but you shouldn’t be. Nobles require much more from their squires than their maids. “Sir Katsuki is frustrated. When he is frustrated, he makes mistakes.”

You’ve seen Sir Katsuki frustrated before, but you’ve never seen him make a mistake. On the field, he lowers Dynamight, its edges smoking. “Damn you, Shigaraki. Why accept my challenge if you don’t intend to meet it?”

“You wish for me to meet it?” Sir Tomura sidesteps, then sidesteps again, appearing well inside Sir Katsuki’s guard. “As you wish.”

A feral grin crosses Sir Katsuki’s face, and he lunges forward, closing the scant distance between himself and Sir Tomura to strike at Sir Tomura’s head with the hilt of his sword. It’s a move you’ve seen him execute a dozen times, but Sir Tomura whips his head sideways to avoid it, then steps closer still. His body is angled, blocking the view from one side of the platform, but you can see it clearly – he’s trapped Sir Katsuki’s arm at its full extension, pinned between pauldron and vambrace. Then he raises the other hand, closes his fist, and brings it down.

Sir Katsuki roars in pain as his arm dislocates at the elbow, and a collective gasp rises from the onlookers, you included. But although you’ve never seen Sir Katsuki wounded, you know better than to think that a single wound will stop the kingdom’s most vicious knight. Sir Katsuki’s right arm is still trapped, but he curls his left hand into a fist and drives it twice into Sir Tomura’s unprotected ribs. Sir Tomura’s body jerks from the impact, but his expression doesn’t change – and you don’t understand. You know your Lord feels pain. You know Sir Katsuki’s blows must hurt. But Sir Tomura sidesteps as smoothly as ever, leaving Sir Katsuki’s arm limp and dangling, Dynamight all but useless at his side.

Sir Katsuki is ambidextrous. He switches Dynamight from his right to his left. “You should have finished what you started,” he spits at Sir Tomura. “Is the White Death so cowardly? Who’s the coward now?”

You don’t think Sir Tomura is a coward, but it’s strange that he retreated – and strange, too, that he’s holding still as Sir Katsuki charges him. There is nothing magical about his sidestep this time, nor about the strike to his torso that he blocks. Still, his expression doesn’t change, and you’re struck suddenly with a realization you can neither explain nor doubt: Sir Tomura doesn’t care about the outcome of this fight. He is not fighting as the White Death is rumored to. He’s barely fighting at all. And even when he’s barely fighting, he’s Sir Katsuki’s equal on the field.

Sir Katsuki swings at him in an overhand chop, and Sir Tomura catches Dynamight’s blade on his gauntlet before the strike can reach its zenith. Sparks fly as he tightens his grip and twists hard, and you hear the blade crack even before the first fault line appears. Faced with losing his sword temporarily or losing it permanently when Sir Tomura wrenches the blade from its hilt, Sir Katsuki chooses the former – but he calls up a final explosion as he’s letting go. The sword flies upwards, leaving both Sir Tomura and Sir Katsuki unharmed.

The explosion carries the sword high into the air, and on the ground, Sir Katsuki and Sir Tomura grapple for the best position to catch it. Sir Katsuki closes the distance between them, trapping Sir Tomura’s arm with his injured one and forcing it upwards, past the angle Sir Tomura would have needed to secure his pauldrons without help. “Fight through that,” Sir Katsuki snarls, and at last Sir Tomura’s expression shifts, “or yield now. I thought the White Death would give a better fight.”

A smile hundreds of times worse than any you’ve seen on Sir Katsuki’s face distorts Sir Tomura’s mouth, and a chill goes down your spine. “As you wish,” he says, and smashes the elbow of his supposedly trapped arm into Sir Katsuki’s face.

Sir Katsuki howls, staggers back. Sir Tomura shoves him the rest of the way without looking, sending him sprawling into the mud. The sword Dynamight plummets towards the ground at last, hilt first, and lands squarely in Sir Tomura’s hand.

It landed in Sir Tomura’s hand, but it’s the White Death who turns to face Sir Katsuki, that awful smile still fixed on his face. Sir Katsuki curses at him. “Dynamight will never bend to your will. You don’t know its true name.”

“I don’t need to bend it to my will to kill you with it,” the White Death says, and Sir Katsuki blanches beneath the mud. “But as it happens, I know its name, too.”

“What?”

“The same name they all share.” The White Death speaks a single word, quieter than the whisper of a shade, and Dynamight blazes to light in his grip. He points it at Sir Katsuki. “Yield.”

Sir Katsuki summons magic – a spear, or perhaps a shield. Whatever it is, the White Death blasts it aside with a flick of the fingers of his free hand. He takes a step closer. “Yield.”

“To a monster like you? Never.”

“Yield.” The White Death closes the distance completely as Sir Katsuki struggles to his feet. He smashes Dynamight’s hilt into Sir Katsuki’s face and knocks him down again. “Yield, or I will defeat you the hard way.”

“Do it, then!” Sir Katsuki says through gritted teeth, as blood flows from his nose. “What are you waiting for, White Death? Kill me and show everyone what a monster you truly are!”

The White Death considers for a moment, and for that moment only, you think Sir Tomura might relent. Then he raises the sword again, an explosion beginning to boil along its length. “When you reach Hell, true knight, tell them who sent you.”

Someone cries out from the crowd for the White Death to show mercy. Someone else curses him. Sir Katsuki’s blood-spattered face is frozen in defiance, his eyes flickering with fear. The White Death’s red eyes are illuminated by Dynamight’s flame, or by some mad light from within, so different from Sir Tomura’s empty, hollow gaze. Even as others beg for him to stop, he aims the growing explosion directly into Sir Katsuki’s face.

“Enough!”

The voice is King Izuku’s, and if he wasn’t already capable of bringing everyone in Castle Ultra to heel in a heartbeat, the fact that he’s thrown down One For All between Sir Katsuki and the White Death would silence all. Where the blade strikes the earth, there’s a brilliant flash of light, and each of the combatants are thrown back by it. Sir Katsuki skids a few feet through the mud and comes to a stop. The White Death, by contrast, is hurled nearly the length of the field, landing hard and sprawling out on his side, mud staining his pale skin and his armor and his hair.

“That is enough,” King Izuku says again. He climbs the railings on his platform and drifts down to the retrieve One For All. “This duel is concluded. The victory is Sir Tomura’s.”

Another gasp from the crowd, and from his place in the mud, Sir Katsuki protests. King Izuku ignores him and looks to the far end of the field. “Sir Tomura, what forfeit would you claim?”

For a long moment, Sir Tomura doesn’t stir. In spite of what you just saw him do, your heart goes temporarily still in your chest, only returning to life once he pushes himself to his knees. “I would claim nothing,” he says, his voice flat like it was when you first came to his rooms. “There is nothing in your kingdom that I want.”

To fail to claim even a nominal forfeit is already a breach in propriety. To reject one so harshly is unheard of, and a disapproving murmur runs through the crowd. “Back to your daily work,” King Izuku orders, and your fellow servants scatter. “Councilmembers, we will adjourn and resume debate in the morning. And someone call a healer. Sir Katsuki has need of one.”

You wait for him to make a similar call for Sir Tomura, but none is forthcoming, and just as Lord Tenya was displeased with the breach in chivalry, so too are you displeased with this. King Izuku ordered the servants back to work, but last night he made Sir Tomura your only task, so you choose another likely spot and slide back down to the training field at your Lord’s side.

His clothes are stained with mud. His shirt is ripped open along his flank by the spikes of Sir Katsuki’s gauntlet, and beneath it, you see bruises already beginning to form. “My Lord,” you say, and he looks up. “I’ll call a healer.”

“No need.” It begins to rain, and Sir Tomura lurches fully upright with a grimace. All traces of the White Death are gone from him. “Show me back to my room and leave me be.”

“Yes, my Lord.” You have the length of the walk to change his mind.

You say nothing, and neither does he, but he does not attempt to banish you again. When you reach his room, you leave him by the armor stand and hurry to the bathing chamber to draw a bath. You set out towels and the collection of soaps and oils you cobbled together based on what you’ve seen while cleaning other knights’ rooms. By the time you’ve finished that, Sir Tomura is out of his gauntlets and vambraces and working on the laces for the pauldrons. The sleeve of his shirt is pulled up and you can see a bruise blooming on his forearm, too. He’s grimacing as he pulls at the laces.

You remember how easily Sir Tomura shook off Sir Katsuki’s maneuver, the one that trapped his shoulder and forced it high, and a question leaves your mouth before you can stop it. “Do you not feel pain in battle, my Lord? I saw you raise your arm without flinching.”

“Pain doesn’t matter to me.” Sir Tomura says that, but once you come forward to help with the laces, he lowers his arm at once. “Sir Katsuki’s maneuver was reckless, and he made it believing that pain would prevent me from making him pay. Do you think I succeeded in breaking his nose?”

“Yes,” you say. “On the second blow, if not the first. He won’t forgive you for that.”

“I neither seek nor desire his forgiveness,” Sir Tomura says. “If there was justice in this world, your kingdom would seek forgiveness from me.”

You remember Sir Tomura alluding to a wrong done to him by the High Kingdom, but you’re unsure whether asking will irritate him, and whether he would answer at all. You have the sense that while serving Sir Tomura you will need to choose your questions carefully. You lift the pauldrons from his shoulders and set them on the armor stand for cleaning later. You’ll have to ask one of the squires how it’s done.

You step back from Sir Tomura and lower your gaze. “I drew a bath for you, my Lord. The water will remain warm as long as you desire it.”

Steam is leaking out of the bathing chamber already. Sir Tomura glances at it. “And where will you be?”

“There are more tasks I must complete,” you say. You’ll need to secure new clothes, first and foremost. “Otherwise I will be present, should you require anything.”

That’s something else you need to find, perhaps before you find new clothes – the tokens personal servants wear, by which their masters can summon them at all hours. You don’t give Sir Tomura the details, and he doesn’t ask for them. He nods and turns towards the bathing chamber, and you take off as soon as he’s looking away.

You find Mei first. Mei has already crafted paired tokens for you and your master, but she’s upset with you for failing to recommend her skills as an armorer, and not at all dissuaded when you tell her that there hasn’t been time. “The man just fought a duel against an armored knight. There’s no better time to discuss his armor,” she snaps. You reach for the wrapped objects she’s holding and she holds them out of reach. “Tell him. Or I’ll pay him a visit myself.”

You know he’s speaking truthfully; Mei is the most fearless person you’ve ever met, and nothing will stop her in pursuit of plying her trade. “I will tell him,” you promise, and she smiles and relinquishes the tokens. You unwrap them and get a surprise. “The colors were chosen just this morning. How did you –”

“The old king stopped by.” Mei shakes her head. “It seems there are there of us interested in the White Death’s welfare.”

Mei’s interest is less in his welfare and more in his armor, but you elect to set that aside for now. You thank her and set off in search of Hakamada. Hakamada has been hard at work. When you arrive at his workshop, he meets you at the door and thrusts a pile of clothing into your arms. “Here. This will do for now. I will have the rest within the week.”

“Thank you,” you say, then cringe. “I mean, my Lord thanks you.”

“I very much doubt that. In any case, thanks are appropriate for you as well – I have included your new uniform,” Hakamada says. You blink. “In your Lord’s newly chosen colors, of course. And since it seems you will be playing the roles of both squire and maid, you will be wearing trousers.”

“Trousers,” you squeak. “I – what?”

“For your Lord’s dignity and your own, whatever remains of both. It’s shameful to see a maid carting around arms and armor through the mud,” Hakamada says. You wonder if he was watching the duel, or if news has simply spread at lightning speed through the castle. “Sir Katsuki was not honorable in his intentions or his conduct. Next time, recommend to Sir Tomura that he not rise to the bait.”

You nod and bow and back up into the wall by accident, nearly dropping the clothes. You manage another set of thanks to Hakamada before setting off again. You’ve spent more time sprinting around the castle today than in all the previous years you’ve dwelt here. It’s unwieldy enough to carry things and run at the same time without the complication of picking up a skirt.

When you get back to Sir Tomura’s room, he’s nowhere to be seen – but there’s a pile of filthy clothes just outside the bathing chamber and steam still billowing out, and if the White Death was wandering the halls naked, you’re fairly certain you’d have heard about it by now. You set the new clothes down on the end of the bed and inspect the old set. The shirt is ruined beyond your ability to mend. The breeches are salvageable, and the belt and boots as well, but all three are in bad shape. The boots in particular. They look like they’re falling apart. You sigh inwardly and add yet another item to the list of things that must be addressed.

But you’ve bothered the artisans of Castle Ultra enough for one day. The boots will keep until tomorrow. You wipe your muddy hands clean on your apron, then turn your attention to dusting out the wardrobe. Clean clothes won’t be much use to Sir Tomura if you store them in a place that’s coated in cobwebs and dust.

You’ve almost finished both the dusting and the storing of the clothes when Sir Tomura calls out from within the bathing chamber. It startles you badly to hear your name in his raspy voice – until this moment, you’d forgotten that he knew it. You calm yourself with an effort. “Yes, my Lord?”

“Bring me a knife.”

A sharp jolt of fear runs through you. “My Lord?”

“You heard me,” Sir Tomura says. He sounds rough, frustrated. “Beneath the mattress, on the right side. Now.”

You go to investigate, moving on shaky legs, and discover the knife. No magic radiates from it; other than its hilt, crafted to resemble clasped hands and interwoven fingers, it’s completely ordinary. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself, before you make your way into the bathing chamber. Why does Sir Tomura need his knife in the bath? You’re about to find out.

When you part the clouds of steam, however, you find nothing out of the ordinary occurring. Sir Tomura sits in the raised basin, the water deep enough that only his head and shoulders and the tips of his knees when he draws them up are visible. Another man might look relaxed, but your Lord looks uncomfortable and angry. He’s wrestling with his long white hair. As you come closer, you see for the first time that it’s full of knots.

He doesn’t look at you, but he extends his hand for the knife. “Give it here.”

You hold it out in response, but you’re hesitant, and Sir Tomura notices. “What?”

“Do you intend to cut your hair, my Lord? I can summon a barber, or find some shears.”

“I need no help.” Sir Tomura frees his fingers from the knot they’re trapped in with a sharp yank, one that has you wincing, too. “I will do it myself. I should have done it –”

He curses, and although you shouldn’t speak, you find yourself – once again – opening your mouth. “If you untangle it first, it’ll cut easier. And look cleaner, in the end.”

“Untangle it,” Sir Tomura repeats. “You see how well that has gone.”

“I can help,” you say. Sir Tomura looks up, eyes wide – shocked, or maybe affronted. You’re unsure which, and you can’t withdraw your offer. “If you would like, my Lord.”

He continues to stare at you, and you wonder if what you’ve offered is really so strange. When you waited on noblewomen and lady knights, they often expected help with their hair, in the bath and after. It’s not so different. If you set aside your Lord’s monstrous nature, and the fact that he’s your Lord and not your Lady, there are very few differences at all. After a long hesitation, Sir Tomura gives a curt nod, and you kneel alongside the basin. “Wet your hair first.”

“I tried that.” Sir Tomura sinks beneath the surface again regardless, then sits up. “Now what?”

You uncork one of the vials of oil and empty it over your hands. “I thought you intended to use magic,” Sir Tomura says warily. “You do not fear to touch me?”

“My magic doesn’t work that way,” you say. You reach out slowly towards him. “May I, my Lord?”

He nods again. You lift a section of his hair, one containing several knots, and run your oil-slicked hands over it before beginning to tease the knots apart from the ends and upwards. “You did not answer me,” your Lord says from where he sits with shoulders stiff and back hunched. “You don’t fear to touch me?”

“I touched you yesterday, my Lord.”

“Yesterday you had not watched me fight.”

The smaller knots come undone easily, if not quickly. You’re moving with the utmost care to avoid pulling even slightly. “My Lord expected the duel today to change my opinion?”

“Yes.” Sir Tomura’s voice hardens. “If you cannot give me a reason, you are simply addled, and I will dismiss you in favor of someone in their right mind – or no one at all.”

“I know little of fighting,” you say. Little about the mechanisms, the maneuvers and exercises, at least. “But I know a little of honor, and it was not honorable of King Izuku to bar you from using your sword, nor of Sir Katsuki to attack an unarmed man.”

“I was far from unarmed.”

“The nobles I observed with were impressed with your skill,” you say. “Some of them agreed that the duel was not conducted honorably. And it seemed –”

You trail off, fingers working mindlessly through Sir Tomura’s hair. “What?” he demands. “Speak.”

“It seemed you did not care about the outcome of the duel,” you say. “Not as your opponent did. At least not at first. Once you did, it was different.”

“Yes,” Sir Tomura says. “My opponent, in spite of an advantage in arms and armor, chose to strike at a perceived weakness. He did not fight with your oh-so-precious honor. It freed me from my self-imposed obligation to do the same.”

It’s quiet for a moment. “The High Kingdom wished to see the White Death. I simply gave them what they wanted.”

You haven’t heard Sir Tomura speak his own epithet before. His voice is bitter, mocking, cruel, and it leaves no space for a response. You continue to work your fingers through his hair, smoothing out the tangled section, then reaching up to his scalp, checking your work along the length of the strands. Once you’re sure, and you’ve tucked it away over his shoulder, you pick up another set of knotted strands and get to work once more. You try to get your thoughts in order in the bargain.

“You have yet to answer my question,” Sir Tomura says after a little while. Another bruise is darkening on his shoulder. “Why are you still here?”

You have an answer for him, maybe. “May I speak freely?”

“I am not some highborn fool. You do not need my permission to speak.” Sir Tomura’s voice crackles with frustration. “You do not need theirs, either. If you continue to serve me, you will speak to me as you would speak to those you consider your equals.”

The idea of speaking casually to a noble makes you anxious, but you choose your words carefully as a rule. Perhaps this is not so different. “My Lord, I do not doubt your past deeds, good and bad.”

“More bad than good.”

“That said,” you continue, smoothing out more strands from scalp to end, “I think that a man who was nothing more than the White Death would not have spent the first half of an unfair fight behaving otherwise.”

Sir Tomura makes a discontented sound. “Perhaps I was simply denying my true nature.”

“If it was your true nature, my Lord, you would feel no need to deny it.”

Sir Tomura says nothing in response, and you come to a knot that’s a true struggle to untangle. Your own thoughts are sorting themselves out slowly, and you share them as they go. “A person can be more than one thing at a time. Sir Katsuki is a valiant defender of the high kingdom and a cruel man. King Izuku is a kind man, and still dishonorable in his conduct if it will smooth his way. Most people are many things, all at once.”

Part of the knot comes loose, but the other is even more tightly wound than before. “I believe you are the White Death, my Lord. I do not believe that is all you are. Have I answered to your satisfaction?”

“Yes,” Sir Tomura says. “I am convinced that you are not mad. At least no more than I am.”

A small flare of triumph blooms in your chest, even as you give up the fight against the second half of the knot. “This piece is more than I can undo. May I cut it?”

“And any others you find.” Sir Tomura raises one hand from the water, grasps the sheath, and holds it steady as you draw the knife. It’s sharp enough to sever the strands neatly an inch above the knot, and a twist of matted white hair falls to the floor. “Cut it all, if you choose.”

“Is there a reason you chose to grow it out, my Lord?” You spill another vial of oil over your hands and begin untangling the newly cropped strands of hair, beginning at the scalp this time. “I only ask because long hair is more difficult to manage than short, and with a helm involved –”

“I fought without a helm more often than not.” Sir Tomura’s head tips ever so slightly back against your hands and you freeze. You don’t know if he even knows he’s doing it. “What would you suggest I do with it?”

Your chest feels tight. You don’t know why. “I will have more of an idea once I know how many more knots must be cut out,” you say. Sir Tomura nods. “Do I have your leave to continue?”

“If I’ve given you leave once, continue the task until it is complete or until I tell you to stop.” Sir Tomura glances at you over his shoulder. “That you feel the need to ask my leave for breathing in my presence speaks poorly of the freedom your realm is famed for.”

You nod and go back to your task rather than admit the truth – you’re more deferential to him than you’d be to anyone else, simply out of fear of arousing the White Death’s infamous rage. But now it seems that you’re more likely to irritate Sir Tomura with continued deference than by speaking your mind. You have no response to Sir Tomura’s statement, so you don’t waste your breath, and eventually he turns away again, staring off into space as you continue to untangle his hair.

It’s a slow process, made slower through pauses to add more oil to your hands and pauses to cut free the knots you can’t untangle and the fact that Sir Tomura’s head continues to tip backwards into your hands while you work. At first it confuses you, but then you notice that he’s no longer sitting hunched, that his shoulders aren’t quite so tense. He’s relaxing. He’s relaxing for you.

No. You push the thought aside at once. Baths are relaxing. Being tended to is relaxing. You’re incidental. You could be anyone. Any of the five maids who fled from him, any of the squires who refused the role. Sir Tomura fought a duel today against the kingdom’s fiercest knight and won. Relaxing now is a natural response. It has nothing to do with you.

But something catches in your thoughts when you consider the duel, something that slips to the forefront of your mind. “My Lord, when you bent Dynamight to your will, you said that all swords bear the same name.”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“I suppose you should know, if ever you should need to turn one aside.” Sir Tomura leans back against the side of the basin, looking up at the ceiling. “The true name of any weapon is Death.”

He speaks the name in the language of magic, and a shiver runs through you. You know only a few scattered phrases – your own magic requires none – but it’s impossible to mistake words of power when you hear them. “Repeat it back to me,” Sir Tomura says, and you stumble through the syllables. Match my inflection. Death.”

“Death,” you say hesitantly, and Sir Tomura nods. “My Lord, what sort of magic is this?”

“It’s not dark magic, if that’s what worries you,” your Lord says. “Dark magic is not the only magic without mercy.”

That’s not difficult for you to believe. Alchemy is a kind of magic, too, and you’ve seen how cruelly it can be wielded. You go back to your work, this time evening out the length of the strands you’ve untangled to match the spots where you had to cut knots away. It’s not until sometime later, when you’re setting out towels and bringing in a set of clean clothes, that it occurs to you that you’ve forgotten something.

You dither for far too long over whether to speak, then decide that late is better than never, and throw it over your shoulder as you scurry for the door. “Thank you for the lesson, Sir Tomura.”

“Save it for when it counts,” Sir Tomura says. He has yet to rise from the bath. Instead he’s running his hands through his hair, first one hand and then the other. You wonder if he’s displeased. “And to you in turn, for – this.”

Nobles don’t often thank their servants. Acknowledging a job done well is not the same as offering thanks, as thanks implies that whatever service was provided was more than expected. But you’re learning quickly that you cannot treat Sir Tomura the way you would treat another noble. Telling Sir Tomura not to thank you will provoke frustration. So instead of accepting or refusing, you bow your head. “It was my honor.”

#shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura x you #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x you #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #x reader #reader insert #fantasy au #man door hand hook car door #a bisquared production

44 notes · View notes