Chapter Text
Ballister Boldheart was born with nothing to his name. Which was a big fat lie, because he wasn’t born with a name at all.
Ballister’s name was made of two different parts. His surname was of much greater pride, but it took much longer to find. His first name, however, was the product of being a small child, alone on the streets, who knew he needed a name.
Well, he wasn’t quite in need of a name. Street kids had no need for names. To have a name was to have someone worthy of speaking it. Someone who cared enough to use it.
Hardly anyone had someone like that when growing up a stray. Even those who worked together, fought together, didn’t always use names.
A “hey, you” would suffice. Or nicknames, often attributed to appearances or actions cemented in memory. These nicknames were often mistaken as real names, but they never were. One person could call a kid Red, while another could call them Squirrel, and they’d equally work just as well as simply calling them “that kid”.
To have a name was to be permanent. To be someone worthy of note, and to be tied down. They were someone who could be found, and was unafraid of it. To be named was to be known.
Thus, Ballister had no name for the first nine straight years of his life. Had his mother ever named him, he never knew, and likely never would.
But then, there came the Institution. There came its knights, its nobility, its Director, its Queen.
He’d never wanted anything more in his life. Which did not seem much when taking into account he was nine. But for a nine-year-old, it was a big deal.
Ballister, to put it frankly, hadn’t been very good at being a street rat. He was an expert stealer, sure, and when it came to running away and hiding, he’d mastered it long before he understood speech. He knew how to be rough and tumble, how to be scrappy and stubborn.
But in the personality department…on that front, Ballister often got mistaken as a ‘new kid.’ Some poor sap who’d just been kicked out, who didn’t understand how this homeless wandering worked. Someone to take advantage of, or pity, or steer clear of, for he would only lead to ruin with his naivety.
Ballister wasn’t naive. He didn’t think so, at least. But he wasn’t cutthroat, couldn’t snip and sneer at kids trying to steal what he’d gotten for himself. He wasn’t deceiving, knowing how to get exactly what he wanted from others by making them believe he desired something else. He wasn’t…very good at being alone. At gathering others for one cause, then taking what he needed and running with it.
Those wandering the streets of the kingdom had an odd comradery among them. It was every man for himself, every food and scrap of cloth for oneself, unless they were foolish (or lucky) enough to have someone to work with. But they were not enemies, not unless directly stated.
If there was a shop owner who was particularly cruel, word was passed on to keep everyone away. If there were kind hands passing out food, everyone knew to run there for safety. If there was some kind of information, one that could harm or help any child, it ran through the grapevine like a raging wildfire.
Even the children who left, who were lucky enough to scrape by enough money for their family to purchase a house or even a tent, or some child who was taken in by someone kind (however rare that was. Ballister had only known three times it happened. Twice it turned out to be a farce), everyone would know. But, more commonly…it was known when a child was left lying somewhere, in need of dirt to be piled over them.
Strays held no funerals. But they mourned all the same, whether or not they knew who had been lost. Ballister had mourned a dozen lives by the time he chose his name. He only ever personally knew two of them. Even then, he could barely tell you what nickname they preferred over another.
But that was getting off-track. Ballister didn’t live for sob-stories. If he did, he wouldn’t have named himself in the first place, because then he would’ve put that name to waste.
Ballister was, well, he wasn’t fit to be a vagabond. He couldn’t be as quick to draw a knife or resort to violence as others. Couldn’t lie his way out of an open dumpster with nothing blocking the exit. Couldn’t just snatch what he needed out of others hands when the job was done.
No, he had to turn to reason, or ducking his head. Had to be honest or accept defeat at being caught. Had to sigh and let the other kid run off with what he needed, because a little voice in his head knew why he needed, thus knew why they needed it, and he couldn’t leave them with nothing after all that work. It was unfair.
As if this life is fair, another voice whispered, and it sounded like every kid who ever saw him fail to live like them. It was a miracle, they’d say, he was still alive at all.
On that front, they were right. The fact that he was still alive, when so many others fought so much harder, was injustice at its fullest.
And so, he decided to make himself worthy of this life.
But that wasn’t entirely true, either. It was a partial truth that could still be counted as the truth. It was one of many truths. For Ballister was an awful liar, but he was remarkably good at choosing the right pieces of honesty.
The biggest truth, the root of it all, was this: he was eight years old, and he’d just been kicked in the ribs.
He wouldn’t say he deserved it, but it wasn’t entirely out of the blue. He was stealing from what was some kind of fish restaurant, one that a couple kids had been trying their luck with over the last few weeks. The chefs had been getting increasingly pissed about this, so the then-unnamed Ballister decided to try his luck before it’d become too much for them.
Apparently, he was the last straw.
Caught wet-handed by the fish tank, he tried to flee as a chef ran for him. Red in the face the chef was, snagging Ballister by the wrist just as he’d attempted to flee down the alleyway and into the main road. Where people were, and he could slip away.
He had long since forgotten the words the chef had screamed at him. Thief, bastard, no-good rotten trash, any were possible, and all would be expected. But he knew the chef was loud, and he was scared, because the chef wouldn’t let him go, no matter how many apologies he stuttered out and yanks he gave to his arm.
He remembered he got slapped. Berated for his thievery, for stealing from a poor business such as themselves. Ballister would have a million things to say to that when given an hour to think on his comebacks, such as a business being significantly less poor than an individual kid.
He recalled that he’d spat when he was slapped. For Ballister was not ferocious, but that was not by a lack of trying. Ballister was bad at being ruthless because he never enjoyed it, never found a solid purpose in it that he could justify.
This did not mean it was impossible for him to bite back.
For this crime, the added crime, that is, of spitting and barring a tooth when being slapped, he was shoved down the steps into the alley, collapsing right on his side. The wind was briefly knocked from him, and he wiped at the grime on his face from where he lay—before that foot made contact with his side.
The chef had perfect health-code abiding shoes. Close-toed, nicely cleaned, and fitting his big feet like a glove. Thick, heavy-duty, black leather clogs. All aimed with the force of a fifty-something adult into the side of an alarmingly scruffy and emaciated eight-year-old.
You do the math.
It was far from the worst pain Ballister had experienced. He wasn’t sure what the worst at that time in his life had been, but a probably-cracked rib wasn’t unbearable. Still hurt like a bitch and a half, though.
There was more yelling, but his vision was fuzzy through the pain. Clutching his side as he wheezed and curled into a ball, the side of his face pressed into the cement ground. It was disgusting and cold in the shade.
He knew he was kicked again. That it struck the hand over his side, and he rolled slightly. He forced himself to not roll all the way around, to not let his back be exposed to the chef, even as his hand stung, and his gut ached.
He just knew, through the haze of pain, that he couldn’t let the chef get his back. He could always recover from an injured rib or stomach. He’d heard horror stories of what had happened to those whose spines were bared to one brutal attack too many.
These days, he remembered the scene like one from a storybook. Light shining down on him, in one sudden moment. When the yelling finally ceased, and he looked up to find there was no more monster above him.
It wasn’t, not really. In reality, he noticed the shouting had changed, not stopped, through his foggy brain. In reality, he saw more than just the chef approaching, and he was terrified.
The attire was still pale, and so he feared it was another chef. His terror made him finally try to push himself up and away, because he had seen the aftermaths of those ganged up on and kicked relentlessly. He’d mourned a child whose last moments had been in such a circumstance.
A weight fell on his shoulder. He knew this clearly, because he jerked his head up and back as he jolted, head colliding with the wall on the other side of the alley. He squeezed his eyes shut, and knew he blabbered and pleaded out as many apologies as he could.
“Hey, hey,” A voice came, much softer, but firmer, “easy there, kiddo. You’re alright.”
And when he cracked open an eye, he sucked in a breath so fast his lungs nearly burst.
A knight, in all her glory. Armor silvery, polished, and bright.
He’d always adored how polished they looked. How they held themselves without fear. Whenever he had the time to play with other kids, he always loved to grab a stick and pretend to be a valiant knight, here to rescue them all.
And here one was, right before him, and he could only think that he was about to be arrested.
“I’m sorry,” He started, tucking his hands up to his chest, “I–I swear I won’t ever—”
“Hey, hey, what’d I just say?” The knight chuckled, not unkindly at all, tapping her fingers over his shoulder. “You’ve apologized plenty, kid.” She reached up a hand, and Ballister flinched back, expecting a blow. Instead, she pushed the visor of her helmet up. “You alright?”
Her face had faded over time. Dark, he knew, though not as much as his own. Were her eyes brown, or were they hazel? A lighter brown like shriveling leaves, or dark like rich earth?
He knew not every detail over the years. But he remembered she smiled, so genuinely, and he wondered how anyone could ever look genuine around him.
“Kid?” She tried again. “You okay?”
“Um,” The not-yet-Ballister stuttered, eyes darting past her, to where another knight was speaking with the chef. He could tell immediately the knight was not happy, head occasionally tilting back towards them.
(Many, many years later, he would wonder if the second knight was not so angry with the chef, but with the lady speaking to him. Because this had not only interrupted a thief receiving his due punishment, a brat learning his lesson, but had started a scene. A report to be written up. More work.)
“Guy hit you pretty rough, didn’t he?” The knight continued, sympathetic, patting his shoulder again, face pinched, and he realized it wasn’t because of him existing in her presence. “He didn’t break anything, did he?” She asked, something that looked like—no, was worry flashing in her eyes, looking him over.
“Er,” He stumbled, clutching self-consciously at his side again, even as his hand throbbed, “it—um, it’s okay, I–I don’t—”
“It’s not.” The knight said, firmly, brow pulling down. Ballister flinched at that, looking down and turning his head to the side.
“I’m sorry,” He repeated in a croak, squeezing his eyes shut, “I won’t do it again, I–I didn’t mean to start anything, y–you didn’t hav…” He swallowed when the tears threatened. “Have to—”
“Hey, hey, hey,” The knight shushed, “no, no, don’t apologize. I think you know by now not to steal,” She chuckled, and Ballister flinched, but then her hand gently squeezed his shoulder, “so you don’t need to apologize anymore. Whatever you stole, it wasn’t worth this.”
Not-yet-Ballister gaped at her. Eyes wide, stiff as stone. Because that didn’t make any sense. He stole, and getting beat up was a regular risk. Was a risk he knew would happen eventually, one he just wasn’t expecting to happen today. She was a knight, was she not meant to simply usher everyone back off and leave them as-is?
“Oh,” He mumbled anyway, “sorry.”
“You only say sorry?” She teased, gently, and he flushed under it.
“No!” He puffed, ducking his head again and mumbling. “I say other stuff.”
“Like what?” She smiled, all bright and kind. To him.
“Um,” He shifted on his feet, wincing when his ribs ached, “th–thank you.” He settled on. Because it was true, and it was polite.
“No need, kiddo.” She said, head turning to the side slightly, all soft. “I’d do it for anyone.” Her eyes glanced down to his side, as if her words had not struck him straight in the heart, and would not stay there for the rest of his life. “Let's get you to a medic and check you out, alright?”
“Oh, um, I don’t—it’s okay—”
“Nonsense, it’s best to check.” She said, waving him off, looking over her shoulder to give some gesture, a hand-signal to the knight with the chef. The knight still didn’t seem pleased, but they made a motion like they were telling the chef to go back inside, pulling out a radio. “Free of charge, too.”
“Oh,” Ballister blinked, for he hadn’t even remembered that doctors needed money for such things, “that—thank you.” He nodded jerkily.
“Anytime.” She said, paused, then slipped her hand off his shoulder. He missed it for a brief moment—until she raised it to her helmet, and she took it off.
He remembered only this: her hair was curly. Not if it was a deep brown, or black, or even if it was dyed some other color. Only that it was curly, and it bounced when she removed her helmet. That it looked kinda messy, but it may as well have been that of a model, because she was a knight, and she took off her helmet.
“You ever worn one of these?” She asked, holding it out. Her helmet.
Ballister shook his head, rendered mute. He was too busy staring in awe at the helmet, one that he knew cost a fortune. That he never thought he’d get so close to unless he was being turned in.
“You wanna try it on?” She asked, smiling like she was already imagining it, offering it further out to him.
Not-quite-Ballister almost said no. Almost snatched his hands up to his chest and declined, because someone like him was never meant to touch something so precious.
But, well, what other opportunity would he have for such a thing?
He was as gentle as he would be handling prized jewels, or the beautiful glass-blown figurines from that one shop he liked to sit by when he needed a quiet space. Hands curling around the sides of the helmet, staring in awe at the visor. At the metalwork, at the intricate details he had never noticed before. He’d never been close enough to ever notice them.
And the knight kept smiling at him, real and soft. That smile remained as she gently turned the helmet around, visor facing out towards her, and she lifted it high.
It was too big for him. Even before the top of the helmet rested atop his head, it was clear it was way too big for him. But the visor was still flipped up, and he stared in shocked awe as a real knight’s helmet was put on him. A real knight’s helmet!
“There you go.” The knight smiled, lightly flicking her finger against the open visor. “Now you look like a true knight. Whaddyou think?”
“This is the coolest day ever.” Ballister whispered, and the knight threw back her head and laughed.
It startled him so bad he jumped, and the visor flipped down straight over his face. And yet, the sudden darkness could do nothing to hide the blinding, beaming smile erupting over his face.
Like a true knight.
He’d never loved anything more.