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“You don’t have to do this, dearest knight.”
Lucatiel looked up from buckling her armor. Standing in the doorway was her beloved saint. The one who looked at a broken woman and saw only beauty. She didn’t ask her to be whole, didn’t try to force her recovery. Impure and corrupted and stained as the Mirrahian was, the saint of sleep loved her all the same, just as she did all other things.
Lucatiel didn’t have much experience with matters of the heart. They were always a distant priority on the battlefield and in Drangleic. She didn’t know if the light smile that played its way across her lips or the faint dusting of pink on her cheeks was romantic or simply the love any knight should have for their lady; platonic and born of pride.
Which very much did mean she had to do this. Someone had issued a loud, vain, lewd, and public defamation of her lady, her saint, her savior. If anyone was going to do so, their reward would be her steel. After all, it wasn’t like Thiollier was going to do much about it himself, and many of Trina’s other followers were too worried of repercussions to strike at this apparent important knight.
Excuses to her, a knight in her own right. Even if she was outmatched, she would never be outdone. She may not recall all her deeds — not in truth — she knew she was a peerless knight. She served her lord — or, in this case, lady — and acted nobly. The noble thing to do when someone insults your lady is to challenge them to a duel.
Lucatiel looked back down, focusing on getting the last blasted strap in place and tightened.
“I do, my lady. Your honor, your very character, has been called into question. As your knight, I cannot allow this.”
Trina’s soft footfalls padded across the rough wood floor of the cabin Lucatiel had set up in. She could have had a place in Elphael itself, but it was much too noisy and concerningly fae. While she adored her lilac fairy maiden, she was more wary of the horned and insectoid ones. The frog men were also exceedingly strange to her.
Trina lightly batted her hands away from the strap. Her nimble, impossibly fair and unmarred fingers worked at it with a dexterous ease Lucatiel found herself jealous of.
“Sir Folcwalda will not be honorable about this.”
“One man’s lack of honor does not diminish my own.”
Trina gave a strained smile. Lucatiel cursed internally; that was not the correct thing to say. She didn’t want to give her fairy maiden, her beloved saint, any cause for concern. Or any further cause for it, in this case.
“I… I have fought dishonorable men in the past. I have little to fear from a knight with an overblown ego.”
“I will never understand knights, it seems. I want only for you to be safe, and you run off with the slightest provocation…”
Lucatiel bit her cheek. She didn’t quite know what to say to that. Something was bothering her, but the knight was stumbling in the dark on what to do about it. She had only been in Trina’s little covenant for a year and a half. She couldn’t just even begin to think that she knew the way her mind worked.
She completely didn’t understand why her golden half built a fairytale city on a tree that was still growing and expected people to be with okay being that far up off the ground. Lucatiel never ventured up there, even on pain of death. Thankfully it hadn’t come to that.
In the present, she allowed her hand to find Trina’s arm, rubbing it gently behind the thick leather of her gloves.
“I… I will be fine. I doubt very much he will be much of a match for me.”
She had complete confidence in that. She had been training since she could hold a sword, and now with the Cleanrot Knights and Malenia. She was able to dodge and deflect at least five of the Waterfowl Dance’s strikes now; she doubted that Folcwalda would prove more of a danger than that. She also had experience fighting countless weapons, and in singular duels and in the quagmire of a pitched battle. From what Trina had told her of this land’s history, few living warriors could claim such a thing.
If nothing else, she doubted this adversary would be more difficult than a monster made of melted iron, wretchedly hot flames, and malice for all things.
With a strange and tense look on her face, Trina finally got the deviant strap to sit properly on the outside of her breastplate. Lucatiel always preferred to be lightly armored, and lighter on her feet. A small handful of sparring partners — Blaidd, Finaly, Radahn, Ansbach and, of course, Aslatiel — all said she had a fencer’s grace with her greatsword.
Lucatiel felt her teeth grit. She did not like the despondent expression on the fairy maiden’s face.
“Then you will boast only that you will return to me. More than anything, beloved knight, that is my wish.”
Lucatiel caught the deep purple of her eyes and felt her heart skip a beat. There was a deep well of emotions behind those eyes — more than usual. She was afraid for her? It was strange to think about. She shouldn’t be worried about her life. She was the superior warrior, she had no doubt, and putting herself at risk of injury was part and parcel of the job. That being the case, and for a reason that extended beyond simple honor that she didn’t quite understand, Lucatiel was happy to do all she could to support and guard this strange and wild fey maiden.
From behind her mask, it was easy for Lucatiel to imagine herself kissing her. Instead, she planted a firm hand on her lady’s shoulder.
“I will return to you, safe and whole. I will fight with all the honor of my knighthood. That is all I have ever done.”
Lucatiel thought it a decent enough boast. She was not her brother — he once actually committed to a duel with one hand behind his back to prove a point. She knew that other knights frequently boasted even stupider things before battles and duels. She must have never worked for a lord that expected it from her, because she couldn’t remember or feel her way to anything more impressive.
Trina picked up her hat. The base of its plume had been decorated in a garland of the pale purple lilies that bore her name; a sign that Lucatiel proudly served the Saint of Sleep and acted in her name.
The fairy looked up at her, attempting to discern something. Then, as she went on her toes to place the hat on her flaxen hair, she pressed a light peck on her mask’s cheek — inches above her own (now incredibly flushed) cheek.
“Let that be a small part of your reward, Lady Lucatiel. You will have the rest upon your return.”
Said lady was trying to clear the shock from her mind. That had been much too forward to be simply her lady’s favor. Lucatiel had never gone into a battle with any such thing, but Aslatiel — ever popular twin of hers — would ride into battle with a maiden’s veil on his lance.
Lucatiel shifted on her feet, unsure of how to proceed. She… she wanted the rest of the reward. She didn’t want to dishonor her beloved Saint either, though…
“You… you honor me, Saint Trina.”
The fairy maiden gave a light and mischievous smile. The kind she had come to expect, the one she had long thought belonged only to the fair folk of her mother’s stories.
“Then you have greater reason to protect yourself.”
﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏ ✿ ﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
Lucatiel was surprised to meet Sir Folcwalda so soon after entering the Altus Plateau. There was a decently sized town not far from the walls of Leyndell. She had come to the town to ask for information, thinking she would have a bit more work to do. As she might have expected of a knight that declared a pure, pious, and benevolent saint to be a ‘seedbed for any willing to deposit their own’, he was loudly and bawdily declaring his exploits in the public house of a town large enough to have an audience but unlikely to have any fact checkers.
A faint memory stirred. The contents of them were hardly important, but it told her something important. She’d dealt with braggarts like this before. For her own honor, more than likely. Most of his fellows were wise enough to quiet themselves when they saw her approach, the sable-clad stranger with a garland of Trina Lilies on her hat and a large blossom of a sleep-giving miranda flower and an effigy mask on her face.
Folcwalda was not so easily stunned into silence by her mere presence.
“Another witless vagabond here to test your mettle against the Runebear Slayer, eh? Well, piss off lad. I don’t duel nobodies.”
‘How cute.’ Lucatiel reached into her pocket and produced the ‘ballad’ Folcwalda had distributed to every corner of the Lands Between. With a firm hand she slammed it down onto the table, noting the brief flinch that shook her mark’s body.
“This is your ballad, Sir Folcwalda?”
The fair man took a singular look at the parchment, noted the title, and gave a loud and vain laugh. Were it not for the laws of propriety and her oath to her maiden, Lucatiel would have slain him then and there.
“Oh! You wished to commission me for another truthful ballad!”
“No.” Lucatiel straightened, and crossed her arms. “On the honor of the Saint of Sleep, I am here to demand satisfaction for this waste of parchment.”
Folcwalda’s blue eyes shrunk for a moment. Just long enough for Lucatiel to tell he had never expected someone to come and challenge him over this. His posture tensed, his hand reached for a weapon he did not have.
‘A coward. As I expected.’ Lucatiel shook her head in disappointment. She had expected at least a passing challenge.
“I shall wait for you outside the establishment. If you flee, your cowardice will spread far wider than the filth you so brazenly attached your name to.”
Lucatiel turned, looking to the now reverent crowd. While she usually eschewed crowds, they’d prove useful as the final nail in his coffin.
“You are all named as witnesses to my challenge. If Sir Folcwalda is half the ‘honorable’ man he claims to be, then he will meet it with the steel he slew a family of runebears with. Though I would advise you, sir,” Lucatiel glared back at the increasingly flustered and blustering at her disregard for whatever noble house was emblazoned on his surcoat, “steel bites harder than an animal’s claws.”
Her piece spoken, Lucatiel turned on her heel and marched out of the public house. Once she was out of the building, she began to hear his boastful voice again, claiming it was not fear that had paralyzed him so, but rather indignation that a ‘lowly knight errant’ would dare challenge him and that he would accept it in due time.
It brought to memory a confrontation she had assisted Blaidd out of not too long ago. Then, like now, it was assumed the pair were nothing but errant knights searching for an easy contract. How wrong those soldiers were.
Lucatiel took up leaning against the side of the stable. Trina had attempted to get her to take a horse — Miquella’s spirit horse specifically — but Lucatiel preferred to walk. Horses were expensive. She couldn’t quite recall if she had many horses during her tenure as a knight of Mirrah. If she did, it was almost assuredly a beast of burden and not much else.
Soon enough, Folcwalda marched out of the tavern, flanked by three cronies. The three yes-men were lightly armored in cloth. Folcwalda himself was armored in a very plain-looking plate harness. A part of her was envious of the simplicity of it. But she also knew it was likely thick and cumbersome. At his waist was a longsword that looked fresh off the forge.
His armor was complemented by a tabard that proudly displayed a split field. On one side was a representation of the Erdtree, while the other side displayed a roaring lion. It looked vaguely familiar, but she didn’t quite have it in her to care. If he didn’t survive the duel it would be his own fault.
He had been crude, crass, insulting to her fairy maiden and her. If he got away with broken bones she’d be letting him off lightly.
She marched out to meet him and his posse. He scoffed from behind his thick helmet, glancing back to his fellows.
“Look at this knave, fellows. She travels here alone to face me. Nothing more than a peasant claiming to act on behalf of the Saint of Sleep.”
“Or I am confident enough in my swordplay to not need to have a second. Or, a second, third, and fourth, as in your case.”
That seemed to bring back the previous bluster from inside the public house. He drew his sword, went to make some witless boast, only to flinch when Lucatiel produced her own steel.
“I am afraid I have better things to do than to listen to you boast about nothing. Raise your steel; let our binds be our boasts.”
The lowly knight swallowed hard, but stepped forward regardless. He raised his sword in a fairly textbook guard. The blade looked as fresh as the hilt and guard. Lucatiel chuckled lightly at the sight.
“O-Oh! Do I hear fear on the air?”
“Aye, your own.”
His fellows chortled at the response. That seemed to have been the final straw, because he threw himself at her with a raised weapon and aggressive style. Lucatiel felt out his experience and technique only to find it hollow. Style, not substance. His form was drilled, not a fluid flurry of strikes. His aggression did not complement them, and frequently her hop or refusal to meet the blade caused him to overcommit. To a woman reared in ceaseless conflict, he might as well have been a child swinging a stick before a drake.
With a chuckle, she twisted her blade to catch the longsword on the flat of the blade. Quicker than thought, she pushed the blade at an angle, forcing the blade to go wide. As she had expected, he couldn’t keep it in his hands and the knight’s sword flew from his hands. Lucatiel caught movement to her right and hopped backwards in time to dodge the two daggers. His fellows had been a cowardly tactic, then.
“How quaint.”
“You would do well to surrender now, you bitch,” Folcwalda chastised, rubbing his hand as the third handed him his sword back, “If you get on knees, maybe we’ll let you go with just a slap on your ass.”
Lucatiel chuckled, flourishing her blade and letting it rest next to her head.
“You have violated the sanctity of this duel. You stand before Lucatiel, Knight of Trina. You would do well to surrender, and maybe I’ll let you all go with one less hand.”
“It’s four on one you dumb cunt. Or did your whore not teach you to —“
Before the thug could finish his sentence, Lucatiel was on him, steel cold and meticulous despite her fury. He raised his curved knife to block her swing but was caught off guard by the force she could leverage in it. Once her blade hit flesh, she pulled back out and cut him from hip to shoulder. He barely had time to strain out a final curse before she punched him with her free hand, crumpling his body to the floor.
There was a scream from a peasant. Lucatiel ignored it, correcting her grip on her sword.
The sounds of running alerted her that she would not be allowed to talk the others down. She wondered why some were willing to throw their lives away for a bit of gold they’d waste in a month at most.
With a confident turn, she held her greatsword in both hands, pointing the tip straight up this time. Her blue eyes fell on their weapons. The one that had helped Folcwalda, who was rushing a few paces behind them, had produced a cruel bit of steel. The sword was nicked and chipped, but he held it like an actual experienced warrior.
She’d need to be careful of him. Folcwalda was nothing for her to be concerned about; as soon as she cut down another of his mercs he’d jump back. He was too cowardly to put himself at risk like that.
‘All the better,’ Lucatiel chuckled, taking out a throwing knife and throwing it at the center of the final dagger-wielding mercenary. He dodged it with a side hop, lining him up perfectly for her to run him through. When he looked up to deliver his own petty insult, she was already too close for him to do anything. Burying her greatsword halfway through his flesh, she twisted it and swung it out, carving through cloth and flesh alike with practiced ease. The hot red blood and viscera splattered against the floor, leaving the idiot clutching his side fruitlessly as he fell to the dirt. Folcwalda yelped in fright, his sword shaking in his hand.
As she expected, he was moving to keep the one-eyed warrior between him and her. He had been quiet, eying her fight. She hadn’t quite hit the bottom of her toolbox, but if he was as experienced as she estimated, chances were good he would be able determine what her skillset was built around.
The mercenary’s gold eyes took her in for a few more moments before shaking his head with a sigh.
“If I put up my sword, can I walk away?”
Lucatiel raised an unseen eyebrow. When the silence went on a bit longer, she tilted her head to show she was confused.
Folcwalda began blustering, “Bu-but… But I paid you dou— you can’t just leave!”
She considered the offer. She kept her blade pointed at him, and he seemed relaxed enough to go either way on it. It was clear whatever the knight was paying him to be a retainer was not enough to throw his life away.
“You’ll spread the word of this piece of filth?”
“Filth? I will have you know that I am of—“
“Most assuredly. The craven’s only virtue was his deep pockets.”
“Craven?! I am the blood of dragons, you curs!”
Lucatiel didn’t trust the one-eyed man as far as she could throw him. Yet when she gestured for him to move, he sheathed his ugly and beaten sword and did so, picking a wide path to his fellows. A part of her thought it would be best to stop him from picking the wounded’s pockets. She decided against it; one good turn deserved another.
Her eyes dashed back to the blustering and stamping knight, clearly intent on embarrassing himself more than her blade ever could. She approached with her sword held outstretched with a single hand. Folcwalda seemed to understand that she was coming to end the duel as it should have always been — one on one — and raised his sword to an overhand grip.
He rushed forward, no doubt intending on delivering a heavy downward slash to beat her in a ‘single stroke’. Lucatiel smiled, continuing to walk slowly until he was within striking distance. Just as his arms began to lower for the cut, she crouched, dashed forward, and slashed him in the gap between the thick plates of his armor.
She checked the blow; something between a debilitating wound and a flesh wound. She knew well that he’d immediately fold.
His wailing was immediate. As she removed her sword, he began cursing in very creative ways. In truth she hardly gave herself the need to listen to it. As he was clutching at the blood leaving his body, she straightened and struck his helmet as hard as she could with the pommel. The force was enough to get the helmet to smack him hard in the head, and that shut him up and sent him crumpling to the ground, landing in a rather undignified position.
“Not a bad piece of work.”
Lucatiel glanced up to see the mercenary had already taken the daggers and coin purses off his fellows. He seemed relaxed; was she that easy to read?
“It was hardly a challenge.” She flourished her blade one final time, getting a good amount of the blood off with the fluid movement before sliding it into the sheath on her back.
“Not at all; ‘specially not fer someone who knows how t’ use the damned thing their swinging ‘round.”
Lucatiel sighed, not entirely sure what to do with the man before her. She hadn’t told him explicitly that he was free to go, but the intention was clear.
“If I find you working for another unscrupulous braggart…”
The one eyed man chuckled, showing his now empty hands, “You won’t see me set foot in Altus fer another few years I bet.”
Lucatiel scowled. He didn’t mean it as an insult to her spotty memory, she knew that much. He was likely saying that as a way of meaning he would stay out of her way. It still stung for the few moments she thought he meant that.
“I must depart. I am sure the Sentinels will be through soon.”
The man gave a wry grin, “Go on, then. Get your lady’s favor.”
Lucatiel gave him a firm punch on the arm as she passed him.
﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏ ✿ ﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
Lucatiel arrived late in the evening a few days later. By the time she reached Ordina, her deeds had outpaced her. Countless cheers for her swift dealing of the braggart son of Godefroy. She didn’t know who that was, nor did she especially enjoy being the center of attention. When she crossed over to Elphael, she found a much more subdued welcome. Most were at the feast hall with Miquella and Malenia.
Lucatiel requested one of the patrolling Cleanrot Knights to deliver the message she was back. She had sat in on the nightly feasts of the Haligtree a few times. They were much too loud and smoky for her to feel comfortable going there if she could avoid it. No one faulted her for it, least of all Miquella.
Since most were busy indulging in wider company, Lucatiel was able to wander through the streets of Elphael until her feet remembered the way down to the verdant soil at the base of the Haligtree and, more importantly, the small house she hung her sword at that was just in ear shot of the sea.
She supposed she couldn’t have been too surprised to see Trina sitting in the sparse sitting room, but she still melted at the joyful smile she gave her. She rushed over to her and wrapped her still-armored form in a tight embrace. Lucatiel gave a warm chuckle despite herself. She knew Trina to be many years older than her, yet at times like this it was difficult to see.
“You came back!” Trina beamed up at her, still holding her armored chest tight. Lucatiel supposed she should be happy she wasn’t touching her more directly; her body would have done something or her brain would have said something stupid otherwise.
“I told you I would. The knight shall speak no more ill of you.”
Trina gave another squeeze before allowing Lucatiel to fully enter her own abode, though she did place her hat on the hooks Miquella had thoughtfully installed and placed her sword in the weapon wrack as she passed.
“Was it a hard fight?”
“Not nearly. He outnumbered me four to one; it would take many more men than that to pressure me.”
“Are they… did you put any down?”
Lucatiel grimaced behind her mask, working the straps of her breastplate. Trina was not one for what she thought to be senseless violence. She knew that, and that was why she was proud to be the sword against those that would disparage her. She would save her purity and innocence from being stained with blood.
“I did. Two of them were common thugs. The last was more experienced, but I… let him walk away for choosing life over pay.”
Lucatiel spared a glance to Trina. She gave no indication of her thoughts on the matter. She should have received the mercenary’s name. If he did start trouble, she could at least clean up the mess she caused. She knew instinctively that ‘one-eyed mercenary with golden eyes and fair hair’ was a rather wide reaching descriptor.
“What of Sir Folcwalda?”
“I let him off easy. I left him a cut here,” she gestured with a hand on her own body as she moved to the other side of the breastplate to unstrap that side next, “that should be a simple fix if he isn’t too stubborn to seek the proper help.”
“He will live?”
“I dare say so,” Lucatiel shrugged, finally getting the last strap undone. After some light stretches of her abdomen, she began working on her pauldrons, “though his reputation will not. He was rather cowardly, though his swordplay was quite textbook.”
Trina moved closer, helping her with the opposite pauldron. A part of her whispered that she shouldn’t have traveled with it on. There were just too many things that could have happened, however. Her travels in Drangleic had taught her there were only a few truly safe places to be without one’s armor. Trina’s nimble fingers once again worked wonders on the thin but sturdy straps that kept them in place.
“Then you have honored me with your service, my beloved knight. It sounds as though you fulfilled your duties with skill and dignity. ”
The Mirrahn knight felt her face flush at the praise. She turned her head, trying to not look directly at the fairy maiden as she lifted the metallic pauldron and placed it down next to her.
“I… I am unworthy of your praise, my saint.”
Trina giggled, poking her toned arm slightly, “You are, and you will receive it. If you would but remove your mask…”
Lucatiel felt her throat go dry. She should say something, but she didn’t know exactly what to say. With a practiced ease, she removed the funerary mask she wore in her grandfather’s honor. The straps were relatively easy to work for her, even with her gloved fingers.
Once she had removed it, she felt herself immediately bristle. She… disliked appearing without her mask. While Trina and Miquella had taken great strides in preventing her curse form getting worse, she still bore its mark. It was possible she would for the rest of her life.
If this bothered Trina, she never expressed so. She never turned away in disgust or fright, and had never thought less of her when she first arrived in the Lands Between, half-Hollow and two feet firmly in the grave.
Her impossibly soft and delicate hands found her chin in her reminiscing, and turned her face toward her. Lucatiel felt her breath escape in a light quiver. She had little understanding of intimacy, much less on this level…
Before she could think of anything else, her world fell away. Trina pressed her lips to her own, soft and delicate on her chapped and scarred lips. Lucatiel found herself immediately melting into the liplock, though it was brief and fleeting. There was a faint aroma in the air — Trina’s lilies, Lucatiel immediately identified — in the space where Trina was, mere inches from her face.
She did not know how long Trina had intended the kiss to last. Indeed when Lucatiel found her footing again, nowhere near as long as she thought had passed. Yet for those magic, electric few moments Lucatiel felt nothing but bliss. Love and compassion and countless other emotions poured from Trina into her, bloomed from deep within her breast and filled her just as much and (she hoped) filled Trina’s Soul as well.
Lucatiel almost staggered into the space that Trina left behind, with only sheer force of will stopping her from fully falling onto the ground like a buffoon.
Trina giggled, no doubt well tuned to her thoughts from her bare face. It was difficult for her to conceal her emotions; her grandfather’s embossed face suited that task.
For a few moments, however, Lucatiel of Mirrah wasn’t afraid to show the flush of her cheeks or the wide eyed look on her face.
“Miquella wants me to return soon,” Trina acknowledged with a soft timbre, padding up to the door, “but I imagine I won’t be long away. Hopefully my kiss was payment enough for your services, beloved knight of mine.”
Lucatiel nodded slowly. Her chest was heavy with a longing, empty with a hunger she had never experienced before. All she wanted was to be close to her beloved saint, and yet…
“I… I understand,” Lucatiel kept her eyes locked on the fairy raiment that Trina embodied, “I shall be here for when you desire my presence.”
Trina gave a soft giggle, though her expression remained lined with worry and sorrow. They both knew it would forever be like this, Trina constantly needing to return to Miquella before too long.
Lucatiel clenched her gloves. She didn’t care regardless. She was her knight, and she was honored to serve her. To… feel these strange emotions with her. She would not let the inconvenience known as Miquella stand in her way.
“Good night, Saint Trina.”
Her lips felt hollow as they moved. A piece of them had gone missing, it seemed to her.
“Good night, beloved Lucatiel,” Trina’s moved with the same slow sorrow of her own, “I shall be at your side again before you grow to miss me.”
Lucatiel remained up for a few hours after that. Mindlessly maintaining her equipment (a task she did not need to dedicate her entire mind to), she found that now and again her fingers would trace her lips, ever mindful of where the saint had bestowed her blessing.
Lucatiel fell asleep in her rough cot (which she much preferred them over the more lavish beds nobles enjoyed), wondering if Trina gave such love to all her followers. She supposed she had no way of knowing; no follower of the Saint of Sleep remained in the same place for too long… except her.
Lucatiel rolled over onto her side. Her first kiss… It seemed to her that the memory would forever haunt her.
‘Yet… need all hauntings be wretched?’ were her last thoughts as she drifted off to sleep.