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“So how’re we supposed to find him again?” Coën asks, looking around rather warily at the crowds of people thronging the aisles between the tents.
“He said to follow the swords, but fuck if I know what he meant,” Aiden replies, frowning. “They don’t exactly have signposts -”
“No, wait, they do,” Coën says, and takes Aiden’s elbow, towing him through the crowd. Aiden tugs his arm free and follows close on Coën’s heels so they take up less room, the two of them dodging around women in ample skirts and small children with wooden axes and swords and a man with a lute of all things hung across his chest, until they fetch up against one of the tall poles that holds up the strings of lights that line the aisles - unlit now, it being a beautiful summer morning, but probably very useful after dark.
“There!” Coën says, pointing triumphantly at the pole. Aiden blinks. There’s a shape carved into the side of the pole: a sword, its hilt painted yellow and its blade a dull silver.
“Huh,” he says, and circles around the pole curiously. On the opposite side from the sword is a gate, recognizably the one they came in by. “Huh! Arena this way, exit that way. Nice.”
“Handy,” Coën agrees, and they head down the aisle. Aiden keeps an eye out for more swords, and spots them on each pole. When they get to a crossroads, he stops to examine the nearest pole, and discovers that it indicates arena, exit, something that he figures out after a moment is a turkey leg and thus probably the food court, and a pair of stick figures that probably signify the bathroom. Which is useful.
“Onward,” he says. “Unless you want food.”
“Nah, not yet,” Coën says easily. “Lunch after, maybe.”
Aiden nods and they forge onward; the crowd is large and boisterous, and Aiden has to keep a careful eye out for small children, several of which only barely manage to avoid running headlong into his knees. Aiden would not have expected so many people to be so very eager about coming and pretending to be in the middle ages, but what does he know? He has to admit the costumes are fun, and the small children do look delighted with their wooden weaponry.
“You ever been to one of these before?” he asks, pausing to look at a stall run by a tall man who has apparently made all of the jewelry and leatherwork himself.
“No,” Coën admits. “My family were not much for frivolity, and this definitely would have counted as such.”
“Huh,” Aiden says. “Mine just didn’t have that sort of spare coin lying around.” He makes a mental note to maybe come back for a particularly nice leather bracelet, and nods to the vendor as they move off again.
“Mm,” Coën says. “I do like the clothes.”
Aiden eyes a stall that displays poet-style shirts, long-sleeved and loose. “Those do look comfortable. Think I could pull one of those off?”
“Sure, it’d look good on you,” Coën agrees. “I think I’d want one of those vests, though.” He points with his chin at a trio of men with leather mugs in their hand, standing off to the side and laughing together about something; all of them are wearing very handsome vests embroidered with flowers or symbols Aiden doesn’t recognize.
“Yeah, that’d suit you,” Aiden agrees. “Or one of the leather ones with the embossing.”
“Ooh, yes,” Coën agrees, eyes lighting up. “I should be taking notes, so I can come back with some actual cash next time. I’m going to kick Lambert for not telling us to bring money.”
“Same,” Aiden agrees. “This is every weekend this summer, right? I’m game to come back next week if you like.”
Coën nods. “That would be lovely - this is large enough that I don’t think we can investigate all of it in a morning!”
Aiden laughs, and then his attention is caught by a stall selling handmade soaps, and Coën is drawn into one that’s full of leatherbound journals. They spend the next hour or so wandering aimlessly, pulling each other into one stall or another to show off some particularly cool knife or chess set or brass pendant. Aiden definitely needs to come back with some cash.
“We’d better get moving if we want to make it to the arena in time,” Coën says finally, and Aiden pries himself away from a display of handmade silver jewelry. They follow the swords down the aisle until they emerge at last from the press of stalls and people, into a small open area surrounding the arena.
The arena is a large open-air amphitheater, with men and women in brightly-colored costumes at each entrance handing out flyers. “Come in, come in!” the pretty blonde girl at the nearest archway says as Coën and Aiden approach. “You’re just in time - the White Wolf fights the Black Knight in ten minutes!”
“Awesome,” Aiden says, taking a flyer, and follows Coën into the amphitheater. It’s only about half full, and most of the people have taken seats on the side with plywood shields showing a white wolf’s head. Aiden and Coën exchange a glance and a shrug, and sit on the other side, under a shield that’s plain black without any adornment at all. They’re right up near the edge of the arena; a juggler is currently standing out in the center of the sand-covered ring, making beautiful patterns in the air with a rainbow of wooden balls.
“He’s good,” Coën says, eyebrows rising. “That’s got to be - what, ten or eleven balls.”
“Twelve, I think,” Aiden says after watching the juggler for a few minutes. “Damn. Impressive.”
“Yeah,” Coën agrees. “So, did he actually tell you what we were here to watch, or…?”
“Nope,” Aiden says. “Just said to be here by ten. Which -”
A clock somewhere strikes the hour, and the juggler catches the balls one at a time, neatly storing them in a sack on his belt, and goes scampering off out of the ring. He’s replaced by a handsome young man in brightly-colored clothing carrying a megaphone that’s been done up to look properly medieval.
“Hear ye, hear ye!” he intones dramatically. “The Black Knight, terror of the countryside, has been brought at last to justice - but he has demanded a trial by combat! He shall face the White Wolf, the Duchess’s own sworn knight, in single combat before you witnesses all!”
Everyone else cheers and applauds, so Aiden shrugs and joins in. “Guess we’re on the Black Knight’s side,” he observes to Coën under the noise of the crowd.
“I presume he was unjustly accused,” Coën says, straight-faced. This is why Aiden likes spending time with Coën: the other man can roll with anything, even the most batshit situations, and somehow seem utterly unflustered by it. It makes a good counterpoint to Aiden’s own occasional mood swings, and Lambert’s constant prickliness.
“Definitely,” Aiden agrees. “Justice for the Black Knight!”
Coën chuckles, and they both lean forward eagerly as the Black Knight and the White Wolf come out into the ring. The White Wolf is in shining chainmail and plate armor, of course, with a surcoat bearing his wolf’s-head sigil; the Black Knight, in contrast, has somehow dyed his chainmail black, and his surcoat is a plain black as well. He has very strange pauldrons, too; they sort of jut out in big half-moon shaped curves with a flat bit in the middle. Aiden can’t imagine that actually helps deflect anything.
Both knights are helmeted; the White Wolf has a big white plume atop his helm, while the Black Knight eschews ornamentation. They each have a long sword and a kite-shaped shield in their hands. They advance to the middle of the arena and the brightly-dressed man speaks to both of them, off mic, and then raises his hand high, a red handkerchief dangling from it.
“May the right prevail!” he bellows, drops the handkerchief, and gets the hell out of the way. He’s got a good turn of speed, Aiden thinks absently, and then is thoroughly distracted by the knights going at each other hammer-and-tongs.
Aiden assumes the fight is choreographed - which, if so, he has to compliment the choreographer, because it’s impressive as hell. The swords make glorious clanging and clanking noises as they glance off armor and shields, and the men are clearly putting some actual oomph into the blows. They chase each other around the arena, first the White Wolf pressing forward, then the Black Knight, and Aiden and Coën gleefully cheer every time the Black Knight pulls off some particularly impressive move.
Aiden gets the distinct impression that the Black Knight glances over at them at one point and then redoubles his efforts; the White Wolf gives back and back, and then falls to one knee, and the Black Knight disarms him with his next stroke. Aiden and Coën leap to their feet, hollering triumphantly.
“You have defeated me,” the White Wolf declaims - there must be a microphone hidden in his helmet. “Strike, then, varlet, if you dare!”
“No varlet I!” the Black Knight replies, and Aiden and Coën glance at each other in sudden wild surmise.
“Is that -” Coën hisses.
“I can’t tell,” Aiden whispers back - the speakers on the poles around the arena distort the voice, but he’s pretty sure they’re both right anyhow.
“The gods have witnessed!” the Black Knight proclaims. “I have been falsely and foully accused, but I am innocent!” He sheaths his sword and holds out a hand to the White Wolf. “Will you swear friendship now, and aid me in finding those who have unjustly accused me?”
“I will!” the White Wolf replies, taking the Black Knight’s hand and letting himself be hauled to his feet. “Let those who dared besmirch your honor flee in terror!”
“Even so!” the Black Knight replies, and lifts his free hand to remove his helmet.
Red curls fall free in sudden profusion, and Aiden sits down hard.
“Holy shit,” he says. He suspected, but there’s suspecting and there’s actually seeing his best friend in full armor, having just beaten the crap out of his opponent and now looking like he ought to be in a shampoo commercial or possibly a medieval romance film.
The White Wolf takes his own helmet off, revealing a craggily handsome face and a long white ponytail, and he and Lambert grasp each other’s forearms and swear eternal brotherhood or something like that - Aiden is a little distracted, okay?
Lambert looks good in armor, with a sword at his side. Looks comfortable in a way he so rarely does in khakis and a polo shirt, stuck in an office doing battle with pencil and calculator instead of sword and shield.
“This suits him,” Coën says thoughtfully, sitting down beside Aiden as Lambert and the White Wolf go off through one of the doors in the side of the arena, and the older man comes down into the middle of the ring again to give a short speech of some sort.
“So did you know our Lambert has a secret side gig as a medieval warrior?” Aiden asks.
“No,” Coën admits. “I figured he did something martial arts related, from the way he moves, but I was figuring MMA or maybe boxing, actually.”
Aiden nods. Lambert is always perfectly balanced, beautifully steady on his feet, even when very, very drunk. It’s quite impressive, actually.
“I bet there’s a stage door,” Coën says. “Want to go ambush Lambert when he comes out?”
“Do I ever,” Aiden says, hopping to his feet, and they head down to ask the pretty blonde lady where the knights come out when they’ve gotten changed out of their armor. She directs them around the arena to the left, and they find a decent spot under a tree - the day is heating up fast - and are waiting impatiently when a door in the amphitheater’s side opens and two men come out, chatting amiably: both tall and fair-skinned, one with white hair drawn back in a tail, the other is red haired.
The redhead stumbles to a halt, staring at Aiden and Coën. His companion laughs and claps him on the shoulder.
“So your friends did come,” he says, and steps forward, offering a hand. “I’m Geralt.”
“Oh!” Aiden says, stepping forward to shake it. “Lambert’s brother! I’m Aiden, this is Coën.” He knows Lambert has a pair of foster brothers, but has never met either of them - they live three hours out of the city, on a farm that they inherited from their father. Geralt, if Aiden remembers correctly, is the middle one, who loves horses and has a precocious and adorable daughter. The other one, Eskel he thinks it is, prefers goats. Lambert has brought goat cheese back from trips up to see his family; it’s actually very good.
Lambert always says he gets on with his family better when he only sees them once a month, but he also brags about his niece’s accomplishments at every opportunity and has a group chat with his family that seems to go off every five minutes, so Aiden figures at least some of that grumbling is Lambert’s usual bluster, covering up what he really cares about by pretending it irritates him instead.
“Yeah,” Geralt says, and shakes Coën’s hand, too. “Good to meet you. Lambert talks about you a lot. First time he’s beaten me in a while,” he adds, winks, and goes wandering off, leaving Lambert flushed nearly as red as his hair, hands stuffed into his pockets and shoulders hunched.
“So, uh, you watched,” he says.
“We did,” Aiden agrees.
“It was very impressive,” Coën says. “You’re good. Very good.”
Lambert goes, if possible, redder. “Yeah. Uh. I. Figured you’d cheer for the White Wolf. Everybody does.”
“I’m glad we didn’t,” Aiden says. “You earned that win. It isn’t choreographed, then?”
“Nah,” Lambert says, shrugging. “Geralt really is a little bit better. We’ve got scripts for him winning or me winning, though, and one for if one of us gets actually hurt and we have to call it a draw.”
“Huh,” Coën says. “Smart. Do you fight again today?”
“Yeah, we’ve got a melee at three, but I’m off until then.” Lambert swallows. “Since you’re not laughing at my stupid hobby, uh, d’you want to get lunch?”
“Lam,” Aiden says, very gently, “we wouldn’t laugh at your hobby. It’s kind of awesome, actually. You’re really good.”
Coën nods. “It was a pleasure to watch you fight,” he agrees. “Actually, I would be interested in any advice you might have on finding lessons - I’ve thought wistfully of being a knight, now and again, but I didn’t realize it might be possible.”
Lambert stares at both of them, startled and baffled and shyly, uncertainly pleased. “Yeah, sure, my dad gives lessons, I can give you his card,” he says slowly. “Uh. I. Didn’t actually expect this to go this well.”
“You idiot, we wouldn’t give you shit for this,” Aiden informs him, slinging an arm over Lambert’s shoulders. “Come on, I want a turkey leg and then you can show us the rest of the fair, and then this afternoon we can watch you win the melee.”
Lambert’s smile is a gorgeously sweet thing. “Yeah, alright. I want to see how you do at the knife-throwing booth.”
“You want to give this chaos kitty knives?” Coën asks, raising his eyes to the heavens in mock despair. “Lambert, why?”
“Because it’ll be fucking hilarious, that’s why,” Lambert says, as they head for the food tents, following the line of turkey legs carved into the poles. “Also I think he’ll be good at it. Maybe axe-throwing, too.”
“Axe-throwing,” Aiden enthuses. “I’m gonna throw all the pointy things!”
Lambert and Coën both snort, and the last of the tension drains from Lambert’s shoulders. “On second thought, maybe Coën’s right and this is a terrible idea,” he teases.
Aiden obligingly squawks in mock offense, delighted by the way his companions laugh.
*
Aiden leans on the wall of the arena, looking down at the knights clustering below. The Black Knight and his new boon companion, the Golden Griffin, are shoulder to shoulder, helms under their arms, jesting with each other while they wait for the rest of the warriors to assemble for the start of the melee.
The Black Knight looks up and catches sight of Aiden, and grins. “Have you favors for us, good sir?”
“Of course I do,” Aiden says, and drops the handkerchiefs he brought for just this occasion down into the arena. The Black Knight catches them, looking a little gobsmacked, and he and the Golden Griffin help each other tie the cloths around their wrists, pale against their dark armor.
“For your honor!” the Golden Griffin says, saluting Aiden formally. The Black Knight just runs gauntleted fingers over the handkerchief and continues looking stunned and delighted.
“Triumph gloriously,” Aiden says, and then the herald comes out into the middle of the arena, and Aiden leans back as the knights put on their helmets and draw their swords.
It’s a good melee - he’s gotten to be rather a connoisseur over the last year or so - with several very dramatic duels that break off from the main fight; the cheerful young bard who does the announcing over the speakers is kept very busy for a while. Eventually, however, there are only five warriors left standing: the Black Knight and the Golden Griffin, back to back, surrounded by three others.
Aiden cheers himself hoarse as his champions defeat their opponents, and the bard actually squeaks in delight as the Black Knight and Golden Griffin turn to clasp arms in brotherhood, claiming the victory together.
And then they both turn, pulling their helmets off in well-practiced unison, and salute Aiden, who obligingly performs a dramatic swoon against the nearest pillar, to the laughter and applause of the crowd.
He makes his way downstairs as the knights clear out of the way to make room for the next show - bardic singing and maypole dancing - and waits under the tree by the side door.
Coën and Lambert emerge after half an hour or so, jostling each other and looking very pleased. To Aiden’s surprise and delight, they’ve got his handkerchiefs tied around their wrists.
“My champions,” he greets them, grinning.
“That’s us!” Lambert says proudly. “I deserve a turkey leg and a shoulder massage - that bastard Clovis hits like a bear.”
“I would not turn down a turkey leg,” Coën agrees. “Nor a massage, come to think of it.”
Aiden laughs, throwing his arms over their shoulders. “Two turkey legs coming up, but I think you’re gonna have to take turns on the massages - I’ve only got two hands. Are you coming to the knife-throwing exhibition tomorrow?”
“I would not miss it for the world,” Coën says, as he and Lambert wrap arms around Aiden’s waist.
“You’re gonna kick ass,” Lambert agrees. “Should we give you our favors?”
“I’d like that,” Aiden says. “What sort of favors do a pair of knights give their chaos cat, though?”
Lambert snickers, and he and Coën lean in, in perfect unison, to press kisses to Aiden’s cheeks. “How’s that?”
“Good,” Aiden says, sounding a little strangled to his own ears, feeling very warm and very pleased indeed. “That’ll do very well.”
“Lovely,” Coën says contentedly, and they follow the signpoles onward, arms around each other, as the sunset turns the streaky clouds a vivid orange and the lights along the aisles start to shine.