Chapter Text
“No way, mate, I’d have you in the dirt in a second,” Charles crows, easily dodging the swipe his mate Paul aims at him. There’s no real force behind it, but Charles is the fastest of the whole lot of them, and they could do with a reminder. He plays his next card and passes turn to Nicholas.
“Is that a challenge I hear, Rowland?” Theo asks, nudging Paul in the ribs. “Look out, lads, I think we have a duel on our hands!”
“Piss off, Theo,” Charles groans good-naturedly. “You know we’re not meant to go at it with each other unless it’s drills.” The barracks-master had made very sure all the boys knew the rules as soon as they joined up. No fighting in my barracks, or you’ll be out on your arse before you can cry ‘uncle’, he said, and meant it.
There’ve only been a couple incidents in the three-ish years Charles has been training with the Royal Guard, and each time the perpetrators had been summarily dismissed and thrown back to the gutters they came up from.
There’s no way in hell Charles is risking it for a stupid dare between mates, is what he’s saying. They’ve only just been allowed proper swords, too, instead of the shite dull blades of early training. Charles has his on his belt right now, an unfamiliar weight, but he needs to get used to the balance and heft of it on his hip if he’s going to be any good.
“You’re such a kiss-arse,” Theo complains. “If I was you, I’d show Paul what for. Bam! Bam!” he shouts, raising his fists and punching the air. The rest of the boys laugh.
“Come on, then!” Paul shouts, and tackles Theo to the floor, nearly upsetting the table where the boys have set up their game of cards. The two boys wrestle for a few minutes, egged on by the shouts and cheers of the rest of them, until finally Paul has Theo pinned well good.
“Yeah, you really showed him what for, mate,” Charles laughs, playing referee and helping Paul off Theo when he taps out. “Bloody marvel of a fighter, you are.”
“He cheated! Those pointy little elbows of his, man,” Theo exclaims, but dissolves into laughter alongside the rest of them. Charles loves these lads, he really does. Three years ago, he never could have imagined having a group of mates like this, lads who train together during the day and sleep together at night, always giving each other shit but just as ready to draw a sword in their defense. Most of them are sons of noblemen, but there are commoners like Charles mixed in too. They don’t even bring it up that often, which is nice.
“Boys!” comes the sudden voice of the barracks-master, booming through the hall.
“Shit, shit! The cards, get the cards—fuck, the beer—” Nicholas says, sweeping the cards off the table and under the bed. Gambling is common among the guards, but it’s definitely not something they’re supposed to be doing in the barracks, and especially not at their age. The beer is another huge problem—Theo’d bribed a kitchen boy to bring them some, and they’re all in for it if it gets found out.
Charles helps to hide the cards, stuffing some down his tunic, but it’s too late—an imposing figure looms in the doorway. Charles has an uncomfortable flash of a memory—his father doing the same thing in the door to his room back at the docks.
“What are you lot doing up at this hour—” A very dangerous pause as he sees the rest of the cards they haven’t managed to hide in time, along with several half-empty cups littered about the table. Charles cringes, his heart racing.
There’s a very explosive lecture that follows, during which all the lads do their best to appear sorry, and then they’re all summarily sent to bed with instructions to report to the training grounds at sunrise.
“But it’s rest day tomorrow!” Paul protests, not the brightest of the lot, instantly quelled with a look from the barracks-master. “Sorry, sir.”
Charles, who long ago learned when to keep his mouth shut, escapes to bed as soon as he’s able. Despite the truly legendary talking-to, and the threat of drills in the cold autumn morning tomorrow, he can’t quite bring himself to regret the night they’ve had.
Of course, he thinks differently the next morning when his blankets are cruelly ripped away from him before the sun has even risen. He groans, burying his face into the pillow. “Get up!” a stern voice barks, and then Charles remembers.
“I’m up, sir, I’m up,” he promises, raking a hand through his messy hair and groping blindly under the bed for his boots. His tormentor thankfully moves on to the next victim. Charles dresses sleepily, though he could pull on his armor blind by this point. Soon all seven of them are stumbling out of the barracks and into the weak morning light, some still nursing headaches from overindulgence. Charles is lucky he’s not one of them.
They trudge to the training yard, not talking much. Charles himself is still half-asleep, though that changes as soon as he sees Lord Mould standing in the center of the yard waiting for them. His heart drops down to his stomach. “Oh, we’re fucked,” he mumbles. He doesn’t know why Lord Mould pulled himself away from protecting the king just to teach them a lesson, but Charles can tell it’s not going to be a pleasant morning.
“At attention, boys!” Lord Mould barks, and they collectively scramble to form themselves into a straight line. He makes them stand there for several long minutes, inspecting every inch of their posture. Charles kind of wants to throw up the longer he stands at attention, though that may also be the beer.
After that, he makes them run. Laps and laps, until their legs turn to jelly, and then he has them draw their swords. First up is forms—Charles is glad for muscle memory, because if it weren’t for three years of training, he would have dropped his sword several times over.
More drills. The sun rises, and there are even more drills, and Lord Mould critiquing every slight error he can find, which is many. By noon, Charles is about to collapse, and then thankfully the Lord Protector calls for a break. “You boys are worthless to me like this,” he bites. “Disgraceful. Get some water in you, wash away the stink of your hangovers, then be back here in an hour.”
The boys gather up their fallen swords and discarded armor and trudge off to the kitchens, hoping for some food to fill their growling bellies. Spoils in hand, they return to the training yard, claiming a shady patch of dirt to flop down into while they replenish their strength.
Charles is too tired to join in the other boys’ moaning about their treatment so far. He privately thinks this is a bit much just for some cards and beer, but also, he knows when to keep his mouth shut and take what he’s given. Theo doesn’t have quite the same sense, and the rest of them are forced to listen to the laundry list of all the things his father, a minor nobleman, would do if he were here.
Charles tunes him out, picking at his food. His eyes wander around past the edges of the yard, out to the gardens, which are just beginning to bloom. The queen takes pride in the wide variety of flowers and artfully sculpted shrubs of the palace—though of course the palace staff does all the work.
He thinks his mother might like to garden, if she ever had the time, or if anything of worth could grow in the overcrowded mud pit down by the docks. When he’s older, a proper guard and everything, with a salary and permission to leave the palace grounds on his days off, he’ll make sure she has all the flowers she could ever want.
He’s snapped out of his thoughts by the return of Lord Mould. “Up, you layabouts,” he orders. “Pair off. If you’re ever to become true knights, you’ll need to know how to hold your own in one-on-one combat.”
A ripple of excitement goes through the boys. The knights’ tournament is one of the most anticipated events every year, when they’re given leave from training to watch the captivating feats of physical prowess and skill. Only the very best of the Royal Guard become knights.
They scramble to form pairs, but seeing as they have an odd number, one of them will be left partnerless—and it happens to be Charles this time. At a loss, he hangs back, thinking that maybe they’ll rotate through, switch out. It isn’t to be. Lord Mould motions him over, and Charles sets his shoulders as he approaches. “Sir.”
“Rowland, isn’t it? You’re with me,” he says, and promptly draws his sword. Charles does the same, trying not to think about how disadvantaged he’ll be in this sparring match. He’s faced foes bigger than him before—most notably, his own father. He’s got the reflexes and speed to prove it.
Lord Mould strikes first. Charles brings his sword up to deflect, but miscalculates the strength needed, and his sword goes wide, almost unbalancing him. He has to dodge the next swift blow, hot on the heels of the first, and ends up somersaulting in the dirt to recover. “You’ll have to be quicker than that, boy,” Lord Mould taunts, once again going on the offensive.
He’s a tough opponent—it’s clear why he was named Lord Protector. Charles is barely holding his own, and he doesn’t even suspect that Lord Mould is using his full force. Within minutes, he’s panting with exertion, not having yet managed to score any hits, though Lord Mould has himself left dozens of his own tiny nicks and marks on Charles’ armor.
A sudden commotion at the palace gates draws his attention, costing him precious seconds as he’s forced to duck under yet another quick attack. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a horse and its rider entering the grounds—it’s the prince, returning from some errand or journey. He’s alone, which is an uncommon sight. Normally one or both of his parents accompany him everywhere.
“Focus, Rowland!” Lord Mould growls, and sweeps Charles’ feet out from under him. He hits the dirt in a heap of limbs. “A distraction like that can cost you your life. What will you do when you’re sent to patrol the borders of Infernus? Will you let the first pretty thing you see cause your doom?”
He swings again, and Charles rolls out of the way of the sharp edge of his sword. There’s dust in his eyes, and he’s trying to scramble to his feet, but it’s difficult to do that and avoid getting hit at the same time.
“When you’re on the front lines, every moment counts,” Lord Mould lectures. “The forces of Infernus are cunning and deceitful. You must remain vigilant!” He finishes with a boot pinning Charles’ shoulder down to the ground, his sword hovering inches away from Charles’ neck. “The match goes to me. Wise up, Rowland, and keep your eyes to the dirt where they belong,” he warns, before finally letting him up. He leaves Charles sitting in the dust, rubbing at his sore shoulder, and goes to dismiss the rest of the boys.
Charles spends a moment longer sitting there, watching the prince’s retreating back as he rides to the stables. He’s only gotten a scant few glances of him since coming to live at the palace, but he treasures every moment of them. He commits this one to memory, his dusty riding cloak whipping in the breeze, his dark gloves glinting in the sunlight, the flick of his wrists as he directs his horse. Then he’s gone from sight, and Charles gathers himself up.
The other boys razz him as they return to the barracks, teasing him for being unlucky enough to have gotten his arse beaten by the Lord Protector himself. Charles plays it up, giving as good as he gets back. His heart isn’t in it—he’s still thinking about the future. He’s going to keep training, and he’s going to get so good he gets knighted, and he’s going to get his mum out of the Port District and somewhere nice, not under his father’s thumb anymore.
And he’s going to spend all that time hoping for the impossible—being assigned to guard Prince Edwin, so that one day he can return the boy’s kindness from so many years ago.
It’s a nice dream to have, one that makes all the difficult days like this one worth it.