Chapter Text
The Knightess was surely sent by the Lord himself. No other thought permeated Sister Fiona’s mind as she huddled behind the monastery’s water well. All around, the green grass was bloodied by men’s insides, which had been tactfully ripped out of now-disemboweled corpses. Danish shields and axes littered their quiet front yard, along with the contents of Fiona’s stomach. Mother Eira and the others were lucky enough to have been inside when the invaders showed up, but she had not been so fortunate. Yet—ever the protector that He was—God had provided when she begged for a savior.
Far be it from her station to criticize a woman for knowing swordplay, much less so when said lady had expertly fought off a dozen Danes without taking a singular blow. The remainder were now trembling in fear of His wrath, caught being the instinct to flee and the murderous rage their kind was infamous for. Fiona peeked over the cracked cobblestones again, gently shuffling a shattered shield aside to get a better look. The Knightess stood tall, glimmering black armor hidden beneath a pristine white cloak. The nun knew not what the stitched tree motif symbolized, but every golden thread eagerly glinted in the sunlight. That cloak alone was worth a king’s fortune, and this woman not only took it into battle, but miraculously managed to keep it entirely unstained.
God’s work, most certainly. Fiona barely dared to peek as another Dane roared in fury at his slaughtered comrades, with the other five suicidally choosing to charge into battle. The Knightess remained impassive as they formed a shield wall, hitting their axes against wooden shields. Her helmet fully covered the woman’s face, and Fiona lacked the battle experience to tell her next move. Then, a tiny sigh of annoyance shrived clean through the angered cries. “…very well. If thou insist on behaving like animals, then I shall reveal the marrow of my sword, and stitch you unto death,” she scoffs loudly, tone colder than even the harshest of winter nights.
No Dane manages verbal response—lacking either the civility or manners to do so—instead charging her six to one. It takes precisely as many seconds until the courtyard falls quiet again. First, the Knightess jabs out with her long, slender blade, immediately batting aside a shield with the tip before running a black-haired Dane through the heart. She rolls on the ground to avoid an axe to the back, clenching her left fist as she absent-mindedly flicks her right wrist, slitting another’s throat. The remaining four shift backwards, but she gives them no chance to even breathe their final words. In a blur of white and gold, a Dane is beheaded. Then, she catches a glancing axe blow on her gauntlet, impaling the brute in an instant before backhanding her shimmering blade and ripping out another’s heart. The final invader looks at the Knightess with true fear in his eyes, and were it not utterly ungodly, Fiona would allow herself no small measure of satisfaction at the sight.
However, the man does not die immediately. In four simple seconds, his comrades have all perished. In the next, she raises her slender blade aloft…and golden needles appear in all directions, before being directed through the Dane and ripping through both armor and flesh as if it were mere air. This alone—without the sword itself ever cutting him open—is enough to spell death, and he slumps over as a corpse long before he’s hit the ground. The Knightess turns to the watering well, slowly approaching Fiona’s hiding spot. Without the horrifying possibility of defilement assailing her faculties, she manages to get a better look at the woman’s plated armor.
Even on the black plates hidden by her radiant cloak, the motif of golden stitches permeated every inch of her figure. The helmet’s visor did not allow Fiona to see her eyes, yet she assumed it must not be so from the inside out. Another blink allowed the nun to focus her gaze, marveling at the sublime, intricate patterns woven into the white fabrics the Knightess wore. Not a single drop of blood had stained it, as if unable to dare besmirch such a masterpiece. Suddenly, the woman is leaning on the well’s broken cobblestones, extending a hand to help her up.
Fiona feels a flush of warmth redden her cheeks, and the sheer admiration she feels for this gilded savior causes her to stumble, falling directly onto her breastplate. The Knightess catches her, generously allowing the nun to feel the softness of her cloak for a moment before lifting her upright. “You’re truly fortunate to be alive, Maiden. What madness hath befallen those fools who attacked holy ground? And where are your protectors?” she asks in a kind tone, one which Fiona has only heard from the sweetest of ladies passing by during pilgrimage.
She cannot bring herself to immediately answer, utterly lost staring into the immovable visor of the black and gold helmet. Then, words are forced out her mouth failing to conceal a slight stammer. “T-thank you for saving us from those godless brutes,” she hurriedly breathes out, cheeks reding further at the squealing tone her voice is accented with. As if Fiona were a blushing young girl, and not a devoted woman of faith. It’s embarrassment of the highest order, and she is beyond grateful that the others are all hiding inside the Abby still.
The Knightess tilts her helmet with surprising empathy, gently raising her left hand. Inside she clutches a small talisman, one resembling something akin to a thick leaf with a hole carved in the middle. It too is made of gold, and has a small chain which she’s wrapped around her fingers. Seeing Fiona’s gaze linger, the Knightess quickly slips it beneath her armor’s folds, and awkwardly pats the nun on the head, as if miming a gesture of comfort without understanding it’s true meaning. “You…thou are most welcome. Still, sacred grounds always have guardians. Have yours been slaughtered already?” the woman asks bluntly, with as much calmness as someone commenting on clear skies. Who was she, to see death so frequently that it meant no more than a sunny afternoon?
“N-no, milady. We’ve no soldiers stationed here. They pass by sometimes for supplies, or when accompanying pilgrims, but none stay long.” It’s both a blessing and a curse, this semi-guarded state of existence. Soldiers mean security, yet drain through supplies carelessly, even if the men themselves aren’t malicious in the slightest. A small Abby like theirs—or rather any lone church—simply doesn’t have the ability to continuously feed so many mouths. Not when donating to pilgrims and the poor who come to bed for food. Fiona has even been forced to turn a few away with only a few fruits or stale bread, whenever Kind Alfred’s war with the Danes takes a particularly hard toll on the land.
The Knightess scoffs in clear disapproval, and only now sheathes her sword. The stench of dried blood fades only by a hair, but is still noticeable to Fiona’s nose. The blade’s golden hilt rests comfortably on the woman’s belt, and upon closer inspection, utterly reeks of that iron scent. Still, it’s carrier seems entirely unaffected, and it would be incredibly rude to insult their savior by commenting on said matter. “A pity then. This land must be in worse shape than I had thought…” comes a thoughtful kind of musing, before the Knightess shakes her helm and extends a hand for Fiona to shake. “Forgive my poor manners. I am known as Leda, proud servant of—” she begins with appropriate confidence for a woman who’d just survived a bloodbath, only to pause in an instant, falling entirely silent as her gaze falls to the ground.
Fiona cannot help but hold her breath, instinctively running a hand through her dirtied brown hair. She’d fallen over in surprise when the Danes marched into the courtyard, and was half-certain a twig might be stuck between her locks. Indeed, she extracts it a moment after, just as Leda shakes herself back into the present time. “It’s good to meet you. Though, never have I seen a warrior who can…” the nun perks up shyly, using her free hand to mime raising a non-existent blade aloft and swiftly bringing it down.
Upon her very life, she swears Leda’s soft chuckle holds a tinge of madness beyond God’s power to heal. “Ahh, that’s truly nothing special. Simple proof of my undying devotion!” she exclaims again, though the words ring rather hollow in the brunette’s ears. Perhaps she ought not to question the matter, but she cannot help feeling concern. Before Fiona can get out her first words, Leda shakes her helmet and walks over to the Abby’s front gate, knocking on the hard wood with her armored fist. “Your assailants have been vanquished! It’s safe now!” the Knightess calls out, and slowly but surely, the brunette’s fellow nuns open the door and peek out into the courtyard.
More than half seem deathly ill at the sight of so many disemboweled corpses, gagging improperly from the putrid stench of blood. Almost two dozen bodies litter the now-copper grass, and upon sensing their discomfort, Leda marches over to the nearest one, grabbing it by the legs and letting the slaughtered Dane’s guts drag along the dirt as she carries it to the other side of the small road at the Abby’s entrance. Mother Eira—an old woman with snowy hair and winkled fingers—trembles at the sight, but the Knightess continues her work for nearly an hour. Leda carefully disposes of each and every body, occasionally needing to pin their hanging guts on the tip of her slender blade. By the time she’s done, a thick trail of dried blood leads out the Abby’s main entrance, and to a rather substantial pile of corpses.
“God have mercy…” Mother Eira mutters under her breath, clutching a small wooden cross inside her pocket. The other nuns huddle around or behind her, unsure of what to think or do. Only Fiona dares smile at the Knightess, receiving the slightest tilt of the helmet in return. Leda then slowly begins to make her way over to them, hand tightly wrapped around her bloodied blade’s hilt. “My most sincere thanks for rescuing us,” the head nun bows as deeply as her old bones allow. “Only, child, was this violence truly necessary?” she asks, trying to conceal disgust in her tone. The elder woman’s eyes shift uncomfortably between their savior and the corpse pile she’s created, but do not elect any sense of hostility.
Leda approaches cautiously, stance far more guarded now than when she’d been in the midst of bloody battle. “My L— former Lord wished only kindness upon the world. A gentler existence for all who accept his gift. Though…some would shun such pure intention, and others are merely animals. Tis my duty to reveal the marrow of my sword, and stitch a tapestry of warning in their blood,” the Knightess answers in an utterly impassive tone. Even beneath her black helm, her chilling gaze is obvious to the Abby’s head nun.
None of them can do anything more than nod at her reply, so Fiona takes the proverbial arrow to the knee and offers to lead Leda inside, so they might feed and water her as thanks. She accepts nonverbally, simply following along in measured steps. She sits at the far side of a table, away from the door and with her back to the corner. The brunette does not know what could’ve made her so horribly jaded, and politely keeps her mouth shut regarding such questions. Instead, Fiona serves her fresh bread from this morning and a pitcher of water, impulsively deciding to sit by Leda’s side as she eats.
The Knightess doesn’t seem to mind her presence, and elects to take off her helmet. Beneath lies the most beautiful woman Fiona has ever seen, such that no number of songs nor masterfully-woven tapestry could ever do her real justice. A pale, gentle face lacking even one singular blemish, so utterly perfect it must have originated directly from pure fantasy. Striking grey eyes that cut deeper than any blade could hope to, and glimmering blonde hair braided over itself to fit under the helmet while still impressively long, were it to ever be let free. Leda’s gaze falls over every other soul in the Abby’s main room, sending instinctive chills down the nuns’ spines…until finally landing on Fiona herself.
She sets her helmet down—drenched in blood like the rest of her gear—and clears her throat with no small amount of awkwardness. “Forgive me…without His guidance, I’ve proved to be a deeply mistrustful person.” The Knightess says no more, always keeping one hand on her golden blade’s hilt as the other slowly moves bread and the water cup near her mouth. Eventually, she notes the disturbed looks from the other women, gazes fixed on the drying crimson upon her armor.
With a mere flick of her free wrist, a tiny speck of muted gold flashes over her form, and the blood vanishes as if it had never been there at all. Fiona can’t stop a tiny gasp from escaping her mouth, marveling at what can only be an act of God. Of course…she’s heard the Danes have witches on their side, and it’s a rumor as frightening as is it false. Or at least, King Alfred has denounced such things as paganist heresy. It hasn’t stopped the horror stories, but they’ve all held strong in their faith, even during these times of crisis.
Nobody else says even a whisper as Leda finishes her meager meal, standing up before Fiona can think to so much as offer a bowl of broth to the woman. She puts her helmet back on, vanishing her mesmerizing features under its impenetrable darkness, which is broken up only by the golden stitches designed across the unknown metal. Fiona isn’t sure her fellow nuns noticed the minor miracle amidst their own turbulent thoughts, and none dare comment regardless, leaving her to lead the breathtaking blonde to the Abby’s front door.
“Thank you again…for your help. We’d have surely been killed,” she says in a slightly subdued tone, not knowing what other words to speak. The Knightess doesn’t belittle her in the slightest, instead offering what must be a comforting look from under her helm. “Uh…please be careful on your travels. The roads aren’t safe anymore, especially not…” Fiona finds herself trailing off, unsure of exactly how to explain what happens to beautiful woman travelling by their lonesome in such days. In addition, she dares not admit how breathtaking Leda’s visage is, even from the small glimpse she’s been lucky enough to bear witness to. Such thoughts are improper for any woman, much less one who’s devoted herself entirely to Him and Him alone.
She receives a nod of understanding despite the poor warning at hand, and Leda turns, looking out towards the long dirt road. “Which way to this land’s King, if I may ask?” Her tone is more absently curious than genuinely quizzical, yet Fiona nonetheless points in the direction of Wessex. It’s the place many pilgrims come from, and even more flock to in times of great danger.
“Three weeks by horse, Lady Leda. A-are you sure it is wise to leave so soon? If thou are in need of shelter, I could offer my room—” Fiona extends her hand gently, not wanting to spook the Knightess with such a blunt, horrendous proposition. She may be no lady, but were Leda a man, Mother Eira would kick her out the door for daring to suggest this ungodly thought! The nun doesn’t wish to admit it, yet feels her face begin to burn in what must surely be shame.
The Knightess blessedly takes no offense, and by God, Fiona wants to bury herself in the nearest ditch for ever speaking those words! “That shan’t be necessary. My legs are far from feeble, Sister. A good day to you, and may His light shine everlasting upon thine coven,” Leda says in a calm voice, tilting her helmet to let it gleam against the sun’s blinding rays. Then she’s off, turning on her heel and walking down the road with the march of a trained soldier, hand never leaving the hilt of her shining blade.
Fiona whispers a meager goodbye under her breath, knowing in the very depths of her soul they shall never meet again. Still, this mysterious knightess had answered her prayers, saving them all when she was sure no one would come. While the idea of a woman knight might baffle most, Lady Leda’s perplexion at their lack of security struck a deep gash into the brunette’s soul. Shuffling away from the dirt road and back into the courtyard, Fiona gingerly picks up a discarded spear which had belonged to a Dane not a day earlier. She holds the weapon out like the warrior had done, jabbing at the air experimentally. It’s heavy, but not entirely unwieldly thanks to her years of carrying water buckets to and from the well. And as Leda’s pure white cloak vanishes in the distance, the nun thinks that next time, death shall not find her entirely defenseless.