Chapter Text
In medieval times, a new sport arose. Although embraced by noble and peasant fans alike, only knights of noble birth could compete.
The sport was jousting.
For one knight, an over-the-hill former champion, it was the end. For his squires, it was merely the beginning.
—
Buzzing flies.
The stench of shit and piss.
That’s what five-time World Champion, “The Golden Lance” Sir Albus had been reduced to. It was the final tilt of the tournament and he was up two-nothing with only one pass to go, but after a couple of brutal blows to his head and chest, he slid himself off the horse and walked away, saying he needed a minute. Then he came here, by the creek, sat down without taking off his helmet or any of his armor, and stopped moving.
Resting. Just resting. A necessary repose to rejuvenate the spirit.
He’d get up in a minute, walk back to the list, and finish it out. Win the tilt, win the tournament, win the gold. And then they could finally buy some dinner.
Sirius peered down at the knight from where he and James were standing at the top of the riverbank, about twenty feet away. The summer heat was doing nothing to lessen the smell of Sir Albus’s emptying bowels.
“D’you think we should help him?” James asked, all nasally from the bits of rag he had stuffed up each nostril.
“He told us not to bother him,” said Sirius.
“Yeah, but he’s gotta get back or it’ll be a forfeit.”
They couldn’t afford a forfeit. It had been three days since they’d eaten. At least since he, James, and Peter had eaten. Sir Albus must have eaten something, otherwise where would all that shit have come from?
“Alright, give me them,” Sirius said, indicating the rags.
James pulled them from his nose and handed them to Sirius. “Left. Right.”
Sirius stuffed the rags into his nostrils as instructed, then side-stepped down the bank. He squatted next to the little tree Sir Albus had propped himself up against and tapped the knight on his shiny shoulder plate.
“My liege?”
No response. A deep slumber, then. Deep enough to shit himself and not wake up.
Sirius grabbed Sir Albus’s shoulder and shook it.
“My liege?”
With a horrible squelch and several clanks, Sir Albus collapsed into the dirt.
Sirius scooted closer, breathing through his mouth (the rags were really just for show this close up), and took Sir Albus by the wrist. He held his fingers there. Waited. He pressed harder against Albus’s skin. Waited.
“Dead,” he called up to James.
“What?!”
Sirius dropped Sir Albus’s hand with a thud and clambered back up the hill. He ripped the rags from his nose and shoved them into James’s hand.
“He’s dead.”
Huff, huff, huff–
Peter was jogging up the road, breathing heavily and kicking up dust with every step.
“Is he ready yet?” Peter panted. “They want to get this over with. Last pass is just a formality, really, all Sir Albus’s got to do is stay on the horse.” He grimaced and reeled back like a gnat had flown up his nose. “What’s that smell?”
“Sir Albus,” said James. “I don’t think he can sit upright, let alone on a horse.”
Peter blinked at him. “What?”
Sirius nodded. “He’s dead.”
“No,” said Peter. He pointed at the crumpled knight. “He’s just there. He’s resting.”
“Nah.” James shook his head. “Stubs just checked.”
Stubs. Stubby. An idiotic mockery of a peasant name that only a sheltered, rich teenager could have come up with. Which was exactly what Sirius was twelve years ago when he ran away from home, changed his name, and joined up with James and Peter as a varlet for Sir Albus.
Sir Albus wasn’t an unkind knight – he never beat them or spoke cruelly to them like Sirius had seen other knights do to their squires. But he didn’t particularly respect them, either. He was old, a veteran of the tournaments, and his age and experience brought with them a certain haughtiness.
So, his demise wasn’t a shock or a tragedy, it just left them in a bit of a pickle.
Mm. Sirius would kill for a pickle.
“He can’t be dead!” Peter cried. “He’s got to finish the tournament! I haven’t eaten in three days!”
“Neither have we, Pete.”
“Well…” Peter deflated, joining Sirius and James in their defeat. “What are we gonna do?”
They all stared down at Sir Albus’s stinking corpse. They were one pass away from their meal ticket. All they needed was someone who could sit on a horse and hold on tight.
The only thing was you had to be of noble birth to compete. Peter Pettigrew came from peasantry as far back as his family tree could be traced, and James Potter was the son of, well, of a potter.
That left Sirius, a.k.a. Stubby Boardman. Long-time lowly squire, secretly the son of a duke.
Sirius had been lying to James and Peter for twelve years. It was easy at first, before he really knew them. But over time, over hard work, shared meals, shared lack of meals, they became his best friends in the world. His brothers.
That’s when the guilt started to creep in. Every time they called him “Stubby” his stomach would twist. Actually, my name’s Sirius, he wanted so badly to say. But, then what? What would they think of him, choosing the unforgiving life of a squire over his family’s castle and servants and an infinite supply of professionally-prepared food? Would it matter to them that they were more his family than Lord Orion and Lady Walburga had ever been? Or would it only matter that he’d lied? So he’d swallowed the guilt. Pushed it down and hid it away where he’d buried his elocution, etiquette, and literacy. Now, the twist in his stomach was almost exclusively due to hunger.
So, no, Sirius didn’t want to come clean. But what else could he do? They needed the money.
He took a deep breath.
“I’ll do it,” said James.
Or maybe he could keep his secret a little longer.
James stood up straight and lumbered down the hill to Sir Albus. He pulled Albus’s helmet off, then started stripping him of his armor.
“What?” Peter said, slack-jawed.
“We’ll say I’m Sir Albus,” said James. “I’m the right height, and I’ll keep his helmet on the whole time. Plus, I know what I’m doing. I’ve tilted with Albus loads of times.”
“In practice!” Peter shouted. “As his target! He never let you strike him. And you’re near-sighted!”
Sirius scoffed. “I’m sure he can see a man coming at him on a horse, Pete. Besides, all he has to do is stay mounted.”
“Exactly. I can do that, at least,” said James.
Peter shook his head and sighed. He could never argue with James for long. “Fine. I guess it’s just one tilt.”
“One tilt,” Sirius agreed. “Then we collect our prize and get out of dodge.”
James pried off Albus’s shin guard with a grunt. “Are you two going to keep standing there gawping, or are you gonna help me?”
—
As soon as James was dressed in Albus’s slightly-soiled armor, helmet and all, they ran as fast as they could back to the tournament grounds.
It was a hot day in Flanders. The blazing sun beat down on the townsfolk who made up the crowd along the edge of the list, while the local duke, his lady, and their noble friends sat in a roofed grandstand facing the center – comfortably shaded, with a perfect view of the point of impact.
“He’s here! He’s here!” Sirius shouted as they arrived at the starting line, panting, sweat dripping into his eyes. Even his hair felt hot, sticking to the back of his neck. He couldn’t imagine how James must have felt under all the armor.
He and Peter hoisted James up onto the horse as the Master of Arms took his place on the platform in front of the grandstand with an impatient scowl.
“The score stands at two lances to none,” the Master shouted to the crowd, “in favor of Sir Albus, first son of Percival, Earl of Poudlard.” He turned to address the knight at the other end of the list. “Lord Gellert of Durmstrang, second son of Prince Gregor of Durmstrang, stand ye ready?”
The knight closed his visor and nodded. His varlet handed him his lance – capped, as is standard, with a metal coronal to make it blunt and non-lethal. At least, non-lethal for anyone who wasn’t as weathered and misfortunate as Sir Albus happened to be that day.
“Sir Albus,” the King of Arms shouted down their way, “stand ye ready?”
“Ready?” Sirius asked James under his breath.
James nodded and took his lance from Sirius. “I've waited my whole life for this moment.”
Peter peered up at him. “You've waited your whole life for Sir Albus to shite himself to death?”
James lowered the heavy lance into position, but it wobbled perilously. Sirius and Peter reached up to help him guide the handle into the cradle on the side of the armor. James wasn't holding it quite right, though, so it was a struggle. It wasn't until the start flag was waving and Lord Gellert was barreling down the list at them that Sirius heard the click of it slotting into place.
“Go, go, go!” Sirius shouted, smacking the horse on its flank.
The horse reared up, almost throwing James right then and there, then bolted forward.
“Stay on, stay on, stay on,” Peter muttered.
Sirius held his breath for the agonizing couple of seconds that passed before James and Lord Gellert met with a CRACK!
Gellert’s lance struck James’s helmet, and Sirius could swear he heard the guttural Uuggh! sound James made even from all the way at the end of the list.
James dropped his lance, dropped the reins, and flopped backward…
…but he stayed on the horse.
Two flags went up on Lord Gellert's side. After three passes, the score was two-two; it was a draw. But that was all they needed. Sir Albus had won the tournament.
Sirius and Peter sprinted to the other end of the list where James’s upper half was hanging off the side of the horse.
“Are you alive?!” Sirius shouted, helping Peter push James upright.
James moaned. “I think my face is broken.”
—
James kept all of the armor on for the next twenty minutes while the tournament officials set up for the award ceremony. Sirius had to use his sleeve to wipe up a line of blood that oozed out from under the dented helmet – from James’s nose, probably, or a knocked tooth – but even then, James didn’t complain. He stood tall, as if he’d earned all the wins that had made Sir Albus champion.
It was a small tournament, temporary structures set up in a vast, open field, and the prizes matched its scale. Silver for the champions of longspear and sword, and for Sir Albus, champion of the mounted joust, a peacock feather made of gold and adorned with a few blue and green gems.
The local duke presented the winners’ awards himself.
“Sir Albus, receive your prize,” the Master of Arms boomed as the duke held out the shining plume. With a clank, James stepped forward from the line of champions, the rest of whom had shed their armor and tidied up for the ceremony. James reached out, but before he could take his award–
“Sir Albus!” The Master of Arms barked. “Remove your helmet!”
“My lord,” James said, bowing his head and straining his voice in a way that Sirius could only guess was a horrible impersonation of Sir Albus, “I’m afraid the final blow of the lance has bent it onto my head.”
The duke furrowed his brow, clearly put out by this unprecedented showing of disrespect, but ultimately, mercifully, sighed and nodded his understanding. James took the feather with a small bow, armor creaking noisily.
—
They went straight back to the encampment after that, got James cleaned and patched up, then packed their tent and supply cart and high-tailed it to the next town over before anyone could come looking for their victorious knight.
Sirius managed to get fifteen gold florins for the plume, and without Sir Albus taking the lion’s share, it was more than enough for them each to have a filling meal and plenty left over.
“Eel pie!” Peter gasped, fawning over his handful of gold. “Brie tarts! Tansy cakes with peppermint cream!”
“I’ll see your brie tarts and raise you a goblet of golden mead!” Sirius said with a grin.
“We could do this,” James said, staring at his own fistful of florins.
“We are!” Sirius said, clapping James on the back. “Come on, the pub’s just down that way!”
“No,” said James, not budging when Sirius tugged on his elbow. He looked up, past Sirius and Peter, to something that wasn’t there. “Did you hear the crowd when I finished the tilt? I swear… they were shouting my name.”
Sirius squinted at him. “That was probably the head injury, because they definitely weren’t.”
“C’mon, James, let’s get to the pub,” said Peter, taking James’s other arm. “We could all use some food.”
“We’ll eat,” said James, tearing his arms away from them. “We will. But what about after that?”
Sirius hadn’t let himself think that far ahead. Because, yes, what about after that? They no longer had a knight employing them. They had their five florins each, and no plan to get any more.
“We go to the next tournament and find a knight in need of varlets,” Peter offered with a shrug.
“Sure,” said James. “Maybe someone will take one of us. But not all three.”
Sirius and Peter shared a frown at the idea of being separated.
“But we don’t need a knight,” said James, looking into the middle-distance again. And Sirius realized the unfocused look was not due to head trauma. It was James’s idea face. He’d gotten the same distant twinkle in his eye when Sir Albus gave them a dozen broken horseshoes to discard and James came up with the brilliant plan to scribble Sir Albus’s name on them and sell them as autographed merchandise. They might have made a pretty penny, too, if James or Peter could actually write, and if Sirius didn't have to pretend he couldn't.
“Fifteen florins is hardly enough to open a bed-and-breakfast,” said Sirius, “or whatever else you might have in mind. So, we sort of do need a knight.”
“No,” said James. “We don’t need a knight, because we have one.” He broke from his trance and looked straight at Sirius. “I can do it.”
Peter snorted. “You can’t even joust.”
“Most of it’s just having the guts to take a blow in order to strike one,” James said, animated now. “I have that. As far as technique, there’s a month until the tournament in Rouen. I can learn.” He placed his free hand on Peter’s shoulder and looked assuredly between him and Sirius. “I can do this.” Then he shook his head. “Not as Sir Albus, though. I’m not doing another award ceremony with my helmet on.”
“Well, you’re certainly not doing it as James Potter,” Sirius scoffed.
“So we lie!” James said, like it was a revelation rather than a call to become criminals. “How did the nobles become noble in the first place? They took it. At the point of a sword.”
Sirius couldn’t argue with him there.
“I'll do it with a lance.” James held out his palms. “Give me your gold. Tournament entry is two florins, which leaves us thirteen for training and outfitting. In a month, we’ll split a prize even bigger than this one. In a month, we’ll be on our way to glory and riches none of us have ever dreamed of.”
With a sigh, Peter dumped his florins into James’s hands. James pivoted to Sirius.
Only, Sirius didn’t want glory or riches. Glory and riches were exactly what he’d run away from. They only brought misery. What he wanted was this. Freedom. Adventure. Brotherhood. So what if they went a few days here and there without a meal, or a warm bed? They always figured it out in the end, and they always would.
James stepped closer to Sirius, boring into him with determined, pleading eyes. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life as nothing. A man can change his stars. Right, Stubby?”
And that’s what got him.
You can’t change the stars, his mother always said, a reminder of Sirius’s place in this world. His destiny. To marry and go to war and rule, to take money from people who didn’t have it and wage wars for more, more, more.
So Sirius defied her. He ran away. He became Stubby Boardman and never looked back. He changed his stars.
Who was he to tell James he couldn’t do the same?
“If we get found out, we’ll be arrested,” Sirius said weakly, his last attempt at a defense, even when he knew he was giving in.
“We won’t get found out.”
Sirius heaved a deep sigh. “God love you, James.” He gave James his gold.
“I know, I know,” James said with a wide grin. “No one else will.”