Chapter Text
He listens to the loud squeaking of the wooden carriage as the wheels roll over uneven ground. It jostles him and the other nine men. Forcing them to bump their legs. Ew. The space is cramped and he doesn’t enjoy how they are all nearly pressed together like fish in a barrel.
His eyes find the back of the carriage, looking through the window's bars. At the village that was now in the far distance. Barely a speck. Barely visible under the night sky. He thinks of his mother and sends a silent prayer - for the first in a long time - to whatever being may be up there. He hadn’t been a believer. Not for many years. But at this moment he still cannot help but pray that she will be okay in his absence. That she will not die of loneliness. That she will wait for his return, should he return.
He sighs. There were a lot of things he was able to predict in his life. Things he saw coming, so he prepared for them. But this?
This hadn’t been one of them.
He mulls over how he got here.
. . .
That morning had started like any other. Warm twilight in summer.
His feet tap quickly against the cobblestone road as he runs past the homes surrounding him. The sun barely peaked up over the horizon and the orange glow of the sky reflected off of his bronze skin. The satchel flows behind him against his hip. He sharply turns a corner and his eyes narrow on the building ahead. He rushes forward barreling through the door with a heavy pant.
The tall slender white woman behind the counter perks up, her warm blue eyes narrow on him.
“You're here quite early dearie.” She says, with a familiar smile.
He takes a breath straightens his back and brushes himself down. “Yes well, as Mama says. Early is on time.”
“Hmm.” She takes him in with a considerate look. “I say you should mind your appearance.” She gestures to his wild red hair and his mucked-up clothes. A dark brown tunic that has gray leather pants - that have dirt stains on them - tucked into flat shoes that look overused. “You won’t be catching any woman with that.”
He scoffs, she sounds like his mum. Nonetheless, he combs his hands through his hair slicking it back. It's not hard to do, the beads of sweat trailing down his brow acting as a natural gel of sorts. Although he forgets the grime on his hands. “Apologies, I was working early in the field Ms. Rosie.” As he does every morning.
Rosie was a petite white woman adorning a long-sleeved white dress. Her vibrant blonde hair tied back into an elegant bun. She merely smiled at him. She’s about his mother's age, if not a bit younger. “Oh, think nothing of it. You are here and that's what matters.” Clasping her hands together she says “Now hurry along and freshen up.”
The 28-year-old nods.
He walks behind the counter through the door and to the back, setting down his satchel and opening its flap to peer in it. There is a metal flask containing water and a small half-loaf of bread. Or as he calls it, his lunch for today. He wasn’t thin by choice.
Lifting the satchel he hangs it on a hook sticking out from the wall. He hurries out back behind the building to a small yard with a stone ground. He walks over to the water pump and makes quick work of cleaning his hands-free of any dirt or grime. He runs the water through his hair just enough to clean the dirt he’d accidentally woven into his red strains out. He doesn’t attempt the same for his clothes. Knowing it would be pointless. As he heads back in he grabs one of the brown aprons hanging on the wall. Drapes the top over his neck and securely ties it in the back. It hugs him snugly. And hides the dirt on his tunic and pants.
He presses his hair down with the water still left on his hands and makes it way back out to the front.
Rosie - who was in the middle of organizing some clothing hanging on a wall - turns to him. She smiles appreciatively. “There we are, cleaned up nicely.” She chuckles, “I’m quite sure the ladies will adore you now.”
Alastor rolls his eyes. “I hardly have the time to think of such things madam.” And he didn’t, not when he had so much already on his plate. The idea of finding a woman much less being with one was too much. A woman and thus children weren’t on his agenda. It never had been. How was a man supposed to have a family if he could hardly support himself and his mother? Much less convince a woman he was worthy behind his charming appearance.
In short, he had nothing to offer.
She chuckles, “Come now Alastor. All women enjoy a bit of eye candy. After all I hadn’t hired you only for your work effort.” Her words are met with an unimpressed expression. “Oh don’t give me that face. You ought to look your best all the time.”
He sighs. “Quite true. But difficult for someone of my status.”
“Nonsense, there is always a solution.” She shakes her head, “but that’ll do for a mere shopkeeper.” Rosie walks back to the counter and checks the register as she opens it. “And that aside, who knows if we may one day receive a visit from the royal family.”
At this little shop? In this bottom-feeder town? Unlikely.
“Indeed,” Alastor says instead with a smile.
He doubted the king, his wife or his daughter would be caught dead in such a place.
“What do you suppose the king looks like? I bet he’s quite the looker.” Rosie swoons.
As Alastor grabs a broom and begins tidying up he once again, rolls his eyes. This particular line of conversation was nothing new for Rosie. She often theorized upon the appearance of the king. He had never been seen by anyone outside the castle - which was located quite a way from their little backwater town; they had been blessed by the queen once and only once. Alastor never knew why and didn’t personally see her. He’d only heard that she was as beautiful as the tails said and she was blonde.
But the king?
He hadn’t the faintest idea of his appearance.
Nor the faintest care for it. He had better things to do frankly.
“-I bet he’s big and strong. Or perhaps he’s fat and lazy. He is a king after all.” Rosie had been going on. Mostly talking to herself. While he didn’t mind her ramblings sometimes, right now it was like a dog in his ear. Barking. He’d just got out from the fields, a moment of peace and quiet was obviously too much to ask. “Some even say he’s cursed but I doubt such a silly notion-”
“Isn’t it high time you open the shop, madam?” Alastor says politely.
She perks up, “Ah yes I believe you're right.”
. . .
It's a slow day, it usually is. Not many people can afford clothes in the village. Rosie, despite creating beautiful attire, never charged too heavily for them. In his opinion, she’d make a good seamstress for a noble. But then again he’d never truly seen a nobleman. Not in person.
Regardless, it's not surprising that those who do come into the shop are mostly men. The articles of clothing they choose are either for them or a dress for their woman or daughter. Only a handful of women come into the shop and that's still hardly any. When they do enter it's for their husband or father anyway. All that enters gives Alastor the same obvious look. He’s used to it by now. The way they pause in their words, their eyes sharpen and cloud over. Their cheeks dust a light pink as he works his charm on them encouraging them to buy something and not simply window shop.
In retrospect, Rosie was clever for this.
She - like himself - was well aware that Alastor, despite being a mere peasant, was quite the looker. Even though Rosie was in her late 40s - or so she says - she certainly didn’t look it. For the men that entered the shop, Rosie would give them a coy smile, cock her hips a bit and sway them. He’d watch the way the men's eyes would follow as she tempted them to buy more than they’d entered for. Then there was him, doing something of the same for the woman that entered.
Yes, she was smart that woman.
It was sometime near noon when the rusty old door groaned as it opened once more. Rosie had stepped out for something, leaving Alastor alone to tend to the shop. Alastor was standing by a shelf, fixing a stack of cloth that was messed up - for the upteenth time now - and didn’t immediately look at the door. “Welcome, how may I assist you today?” He says with a turn, a polite smile already on his face.
His brows raise curiously as he meets the blue-eyed stranger. They were dressed like travelers or perhaps someone poor. At first glance at least. They wore a black cloak with the hood up. They were short, shorter than him and he assumed it to be a woman. The cloak hides any sort of figure beneath with its baggy frame.
When they lift their head however, they are taken aback to find an adam's apple bobbing against a milky white throat. His eyes trail up to the sharp angular jawline and finally to the round(ish) face of the man. His surprise continues as he sees strands of blonde hair peeking out from underneath the cowl.
They simply exchange a look for a moment.
In those few seconds, Alastor realizes two things. Two crucial things.
The stranger's skin is flawless.
Their cloak is clean.
Even he himself had a few blemishes on his face, and he kept himself quite neat most of the time despite working early in the fields then running here to work.
Interesting.
The stranger does something else. It's not out of place. Everyone who enters the shop the first time does it towards him. Their eyes are all narrow on his hair. The bright red color of it. It's unnatural and he knows it. Hates it at the best of times. And wields it like a weapon the rest. He waits for the stranger to say something about it, like most women have ‘Oh my word your hair-’ or ‘Wow your hair is like blood’ or perhaps ‘good lord you have the hair of the devil.’ You know, the usual.
The man clears his throat and speaks, “Good day. I was looking for something for my daughter.” He does not attempt to pull his hood down. Nor comment on Alastor’s bright red strands.
Alastor smiles, putting on his best salesman face. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find something nice here. We have all the likes, dresses, skirts, bonnets- you name it and we’ve got it.”
Faint surprise crosses his face, “Oh this is a clothing-” before he finishes his sentence he takes in the surrounding shop. “Ah, my mistake. I was…looking for souvenirs?”
“Souvenirs you say?”
They blink. “Ah yes, I come from a village far from here. I’m traveling actually and I wanted to take something back home to my daughter. She’s also so curious about the world.”
Alastor - not willing to let them go - persists “My my, and if you don’t mind me asking, what might be your profession?” His eyes narrow on the cloak, once again noting it's far to clean. Especially for a traveler.
He watches him carefully, but he doesn't seem nervous. Without missing a beat he says, “I craft things and sell them to towns I pass through.”
He raises a brow, not believing that in the slightest. He knows a liar when he sees one. “How interesting, have you anything on you now?”
His brows crease. “I’m afraid not, but if I should pass through again I’ll stop here.”
His smile widens, “I certainly hope you do. My mother is the type to enjoy the finer things in life as well. I’m sure she’d appreciate something from a traveler who's seen much of the world.”
He laughs nervously. “Well, I ought to be going then.” He says, walking and pausing at the door. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find a place like that?”
Alastor hums. He takes a moment to genuinely think about it. Their town was no such place honestly, not one for travelers looking for things to bring back home. So he shrugs and says, “I’m sorry. I can’t say I do. But this town isn’t very big, so perhaps a bit more exploration is in order?” He says with a raised brow.
The blonde-haired man nods, “Thank you.” He says and reaches for the handle.
Alastor notices one more thing that seals his suspicion.
A gold ring on the man's finger.
As he leaves. Alastor comes to one conclusion.
He’s from the castle.
But who is he? And why is he in his village?
He shouldn’t care, truly but…nothing interesting ever happened around here.
. . .
When Alastor returns home it's nearly sunset. His home is on the outskirts of town. Out by the numerous fields, one of which he works on in the early morning hours. He lets out a yawn, reminding himself that he would be rising once again with the sun in only a few hours. His body had gotten used to the routine by now, and for some reason, he didn’t wake, his mother would surely wake him.
As he treks down the dirt path, the small log cabin comes into view. It's no bigger than Rosie’s shop. And it wouldn’t be a stretch to call it a hut. It's constructed of wood and the roof of straw. There’s also a concrete chimney on the side. To prevent them from being smoked out whilst cooking. Unfortunately, it is not very warm in the winter. And the thought does cross his mind as he draws closer. Noting that he will have to make sure they have firewood to last them the winter. Lest the snow dampen the logs. Fortunately for them, it was summer.
He opens the door, it creaks loudly. His mother is kneeling by the fireplace, stirring a mixture in the metal pot overhanging the open flames. His mother was a darker brown than he. Her heritage is more obvious. Thick black curly hair was tied back into a bun and she wore a long brown dress with obvious seams. Thankfully her sleeves were pulled back. One day he’d buy her something nicer from Rosie’s shop. One day. Their cabin wasn’t much more than a single room with a concrete floor. The house was supposedly built by his great-great grandfather. It was finished by his grandfather. Or so his mom said.
Truthfully he had no memory of meeting either.
Against the left wall was the fireplace and cooking area. And by cooking area, he truly meant just the metal cooking pot hanging over the fire. A barrel sat beside it, filled with produce. Mostly vegetables and a few fruits. Any meat they bought would have to be used that day, and it wasn’t as if they could afford it every day. In the middle of the cabin sat a small table, with a wooden chair each. Only big enough for two people. There was a waiting bowl and spoon there. Their main cutlery,. To the right side of the cabin, on the floor were the two beds. Bed was an exaggeration. Rather it was two piles of straw made to form something of a mattress. A blanket that appeared rugged and overused on both their beds. There was one pillow, a thin case made of sheep wool. Filled with straw. It was on his mother's bed. That had been Alastor’s choice. He rubs the back of his aching neck. It's more noticeable compared to the rest of his sore body.
His mother finally looks up as he takes a step into the hut. She gives him a tired smile.
“Hey baby, how was work?”
He walked over to her and knelt. “It went well.” Even though hardly anyone had come by. He reaches into his satchel and pulls out 3 bronze-colored coins. “For you mama.”
She gives him an appreciative smile. He can see the guilt in her eyes. Knows she feels bad for not being able to work herself. But it's truly not her fault. People are too quick to judge her simply for being a woman. And more so for her skin color. She’d raised him on her own, and he turned out fine. If only they’d give her a chance she’d outshine any man. Instead, she’d been stuck at home, tending to a small but flourishing garden in what he guessed he would call their backyard. It was a miracle nobody noticed he’d swiped a few seeds from the fields. He’d thank whomever was up there if he believed in such a thing. No, if anything of that sort existed then his mother would be living high and mighty in a castle. Never having to look so tired again.
He sighs.
Alas, only a dream.
“Thank you, baby.” She says giving him a kiss on the cheek and taking the coins. She leans down moves a bit of straw out of the way and pulls open a small wooden hatch in the floor. It's not much bigger than his hand. She pulls out a stone jar and opens it, dropping two of the coins into it before handing one back to him. Holding it up she says, “For the market tomorrow, Get you something nice to eat for once.”
Alastor frowns and pushes it back towards her. “I have bread. That’s plenty.” He says with a bright smile.
She frowns. Her nose scrunching and her eyes narrowing. “Bread all the time ain’t good for you. You can’t work if you are too weak. Now here.” She says grabbing his hand and forcing the coin into it.”
With a heavy sigh, Alastor begrudgingly accepts it. She has a point. “Thank you, mama.” He says holding it close to his chest like a lucky charm.
Clasping her hands together she stands, “Come on dinners ready.” She gingerly walks over to the table and grabs the bowls.
Alastor already knows what dinner is. It's what they’d had for the last several nights and he’d be lying if he said he wasn't sick of it. But food was food. He helps his mother ladle the mixture into the wooden bowls, its warmth against his skin.
“There’s plenty of it so have at it.” She says grinning. Although the light in her eyes is dim. As they sit at the table, he looks down into his bowl.
The greenery floating around in the water. The familiar aroma.
Cabbage soup.
It was only cabbage in water. And hardly palatable, but still as he takes up the spoon dips it into the mixture and carries it to his lips he smiles widely. Letting out an appreciative hum “It's wonderful.”
His mom seems to see the lie behind his smile. “Once dem potatoes and carrots grow I’ll start adding them in too.”
He shakes his head, “It's wonderful mama.” He repeats. As they eat he mulls over his thoughts. Mainly that maybe he should take a 3rd job. If his body would even allow it. But then he’d have hardly any time to sleep. But it would be worth it if he could just make his mom's life a bit better. In the end, he knows it wouldn’t be doable. He’d fall apart before the week's end.
. . .
He goes to bed that night dreaming of a better life for them. For his mom. He doesn’t sleep well, he never has. Living on the outskirts of town so close to the woods he practically sleeps with one eye open. Any small noticeable noise stirs him awake. That's why it wakes him. It’s by no means quiet, the loud footsteps crunching against pebbles and dirt. He bolts up in his bed and his eyes narrow on the door. A flimsy thing keeping them from any dangers that lurk outside. He quickly rises out of bed and reaches for his longbow that's positioned by his bed. It's meant for hunting in winter. But it can be used for this too.
Watching with bated breath as the silhouette dips underneath his door, he aims with the bow. Eyes flickering briefly to his sleeping mother.
Then…
A slip of paper is slid underneath his door.
And the step retreat.
Alastor lets out a breath only after the steps have disappeared entirely, and with them, there is the subtle trotting of a horse's hooves.
He stays in his position for a while. Only walking over and taking up what he can now see to be a letter. He holds it between the cracks of the door, allowing the moonlight to provide the light he needs to see it. Squinting his eyes he can see something that makes his heart sink.
It's the royal seal. Pressed to the center of the envelope. Alastor immediately sets the bow down and tears it open unceremoniously. There’s a one-page letter in there and he takes it out quickly, fearing the worst. What had he done to obtain such a letter? Would they come for him? For his mother?
He takes a breath, calming himself as he unravels the paper and kneels down beside the door. Moving it under the moonlight to read it.
It says…
Dear commoner…
You among others of your standing have been invited to the castle to partake in a trial. The king requires a new knight, consider yourself lucky if this letter finds you. Should you pass the trial you will be awarded a position immediately at the king's side, your private quarters, delicacies beyond your peasant mind, and paid your weight in gold every week. However, this is voluntary at the very end of the day. It is up to you if you accept or not. Should you accept this invitation, a carriage will arrive for you on the morrow night at midnight sharp. Only you may come, any that accompany you will be turned away swiftly. Please keep this letter as it will act as your ticket.
Good day.
The letter is not signed. But the handwriting is neat. Belonging to someone of higher social standing. It's not lost on him that most people don’t even know how to read. A chill runs down his spine.
Has he been watched? Followed perhaps?
He looks up and around the dark corners of his cabin, half expecting to see someone peeking out at him from the cracks in the wooden walls. But there was nobody. Alastor sighs and looks back at the letter. There are a multitude of suspicious things about it. Namely, why would the kingdom send a letter to him, or more particularly to a peasant? If they need a knight why not simply take someone more qualified for the position? Someone who had been training for it their whole life, not someone like him who had only ever wielded a knife and that was to hunt.
And yet…
The seal is from the kingdom. He recognizes it. Their seal is on a few of the goods here in town. And he’d seen it in books as well. The few he had been able to during his lifetime at least.
But still, why him? Were there others in the village who received anything?
He stops in his thought process as something cuts through it all. The image of the stranger entering the shop in a black cloak is much too clean. Brandishing a gold ring.
Was it him?
Alastor grips the letter, he takes a shaking breath. Maybe it was real. But…should he take such a risk? What trials would await him? It was the castle after all?
His eyes skimmed over the words…paid your weight in gold.
He turns to look at his mom. Sleeping on a bed of hay. Wearing a nightgown that had obvious seams and was made of uncomfortable material. He looks around at their shabby hut. Think of how they are practically shivering every day during the winter. How they had to huddle together just to stay warm during the nights. How many times during his childhood they’d gone days without food? His mother never told him how she took care of him back then and refused to, only telling him not to worry about it.
The letter crinkles at the side, he takes a breath before he accidentally rips it.
No matter how slim a chance, he had to try. For her.
. . .
“I see.” Rosie hummed, looking over his letter as they stood in the backroom of the shop. They didn’t have to open just yet. Alastor stood in front of her, hands behind his back and trying not to look too anxious. He wanted to notify Rosie of his plan, as she needed to know considering he would be leaving. But besides his mother, she was a woman with wit and smarts. It would do no harm to get her insight on it. Her nimble finger points at the ciel, unbroken while the top is ripped off from where he’s taken the letter out. “This looks like the real thing.” Her eyes look up at him, “but surely you know the risks of going through with this? I heard tales of the queen being pretty ruthless to her knights. If she’s the one who issued this, you know the trail won’t be a cakewalk.”
“Naturally.” Alastor nods. Gripping his hands tightly. He looks at her, determination in his eyes. “But I have to do it, for my mother.”
“And if you don’t return?”
He frowns. “I must try.”
Rosie nods. “Well, I hate to see you go.” She says handing him back the letter. “But I understand you have to do what you must.”
“Will you fare well in my absence?”
“Oh I’ll do just fine, don’t you worry dearie. I did well before you and I will do well after.”
He nods. “Thank you for everything, Rosie. Truly I appreciate it.”
She waves her hand, “Thank nothing of it. But you better write if you make it out. You hear me?” She says wagging a finger at him.
He chuckles. “Of course.”
“Ah, wait here a moment.” She said disappearing into a small room that was hardly bigger than a closet. Alastor raised his brow curiously when she returned with something folded up. With a pair of boots laid on top. “For you.”
His eyes widened. “No no, I couldn’t. I haven’t the money to afford-”
“It's a gift.” She says. “At no charge.” She smiles.
“Ms. Rosie, I couldn’t honestly. You-”
But she shakes her head, “Now none of that. It's quite rude to turn down a gift, especially from such a beautiful woman, don't you agree?”
Alastor huffs, not doubting that she and his mother would get along just fine if they had the chance to meet. Begrudgingly he takes the clothes. “I truly appreciate it.”
“We can’t have you showing up to the castle in rags.” She says pointedly. Gesturing to his dirt-stained clothes that were a bit tattered.
Alastor gives her a little bow, “Truly I am grateful. Thank you.” And he meant it.
…That night when Alastor returned home and had dinner with his mother, it was going to be the last one for a while. Maybe forever. But only he knew that. Once he knew his mother was asleep he got to work writing the letter to her. Telling her about the invitation he got from the castle. Telling her that he would go and he WOULD return. But he also loved her. He told her that he would give her a better life, the one she deserved for raising him. And that he would be safe.
He left the note beside her and gathered his belongings.
He was a coward for this. He knew. But he couldn’t stand to tell her to her face, he knew that if she pleaded for him to stay and not to go he would relent immediately. But he couldn’t do that, he had to do this.
In the quiet night, Alastor changed out of the rags he called clothes. And adorned the gift Rosie had given him. It was smooth against his skill so unlike the rough craftsmanship of his previous clothes. He pulls on the boots she’d given him, they reach to his ankle. They feel so different and it makes him realize how worn his previous shoes were. Where before he felt like he was walking on the ground now he felt elevated. Walking on air. He leaves his bag, only taking the flask of water but no food. His mother would need it more. Especially if he didn’t return.
Opening the door it creaks softly and he chances a look over his shoulder, but his mother doesn’t stir. Always a heavy sleeper. He steps outside into the quiet night and finds his reflection in a puddle. He gets a proper look at the attire Rosie gave him and how it looks.
He wears a dark red tunic that dips into a long V-neck secured by ropes - it matches his hair - the tunic extends down into something of a skirt around his hips. It's secured in place by a leather belt. They go well with the black trousers that are tucked into the black boots.
The only thing he can think as he stares at his reflection is…
He looks nice for once.
With nothing else to do and no clear indication of time, he waits.
