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Michael always wanted to be a knight.
A valiant one, with his hair cut short and a long saber that sliced through the throats of dragons, a white horse he could rely on to take him home, a shining helmet to protect his face as he waltzed through flames like nothing. He was passionate about getting what he wanted.
He was able to go out and collect food from the market and do his chores biweekly– with the help of his sister– and was very responsible for himself. Michael thought he could care for himself when it came to protection. He was a sly young boy. He could slink away from trouble before it started and defend himself when wrongfully stopped. He was able to tell false from the truth, and was always willing to stand up for him and his village friends.
All the traits for a trustworthy knight. His mother would beam and call him scholarly and on the nose. He would puff his chest in delight, hands on his hips and wooden sword abandoned on the ground in the kitchen. He would then crawl into his seat at the table and ramble, talking about his adventures of the day, the games with his friends and wouldn’t stop until someone built a dam in his rushing-river mouth.
Michael would prance around the house, cooped inside while it was dark but not yet late enough to go to bed. He would swing his dull blade, pretending to slain creatures of all kinds. He would act like his mother was the queen; dancing about, eyeing the area with a narrowed gaze. She would sometimes play along, but was mostly too caught up with baby Holly to care. His father had told him not to get his hopes up, that working as a knight was honest work– too hard for a boy with an upbringing as soft as his. That he, too, had thought he would age well. But Michael would never let his father darken his spirits. He felt that he was destined to be one.
His friends never gave up on him. Not when Dustin had been shown the promise of wielding a lute in profession. Or when Lucas had gotten a perfect bullseye the first time he pulled the string of a bow. Not even when William told them he could do magic. That the queen had heard he could, and invited him to be mentored by her cleric. To withhold the tradition.
But not anymore.
he couldn’t boast to Dustin or Lucas anymore.
He couldn’t wait in his room for his mother to call his name, to tell him that the stew was done.
He couldn’t dash around the town square with Dustin and Lucas and William at his heels. Or get hollered at by store owners that “they needed to pay for those apples!”
Couldn’t be scolded at by his sister for being as foolish as to trip on that stone in the forest he wasn’t supposed to venture into.
Giggle mischievously under the table with baby Holly after taking mother’s truffles and hoarding the box for themselves.
Michael couldn’t relive the feeling of being told he was to be chosen as a knight.
Never again feel the thrill of holding his first real iron sword.
Have the prideful burst in his heart for the family crest embellished on the shield that now lay on the dewy grass beside him.
Relish in the victory that was supposed to come after his quest.
For he had donned many scars from his many hardships. The one on the back of his neck to the center of his shoulder blades, from the rivalry he held with James Dante when they trained together. The one on his chin from his own clumsiness, being nicked with his personal dagger when withdrawing it. The many on his arms and legs and spine, achievements from past missions. Fighting off ogres and elves and wandering high into the mountains, plains, coasts, with foreign and close companions alike. Survived two decades being him; a lanky boy who was lucky enough to land him his rank.
That’s all it was at the end of the day.
Luck.
His luck to have been born into a wealthy lineage. Been charismatic enough to push his title to a general. Lucky enough to have been tasked with something he’s always wanted to do.
Slay the crimson beast in the snow caps. Whose smoky maw had clogged the sky, whose broad wings and greediness had taken the kingdom’s gold, smuggling it into a cave in the pine trees up North. With teeth like a row of stalagmites. Large thorn claws that Michael had gotten too close to.
He had been escorted by William, of whom he shared a deep and tender love with.
His William. Who he could talk for hours about. With his soulful eyes too showing for his own good. Who keenly resembled an animal Michale crooned over– a deer. A fawn or a doe, it didn’t matter. With his cute smiles and flustered embarrassments. Kind personality that showed in everything he did. How he shyly approached Michael, handing him a handful of lavender and marigolds in an attempt at courting. How Michael graciously accepted it. How they had spent a meager two years together. They could have had so much more. But this was his fate. This was bound to happen.
He could never say no to a quest, curated by the queen herself for her most able-bodied and strongest knight. As much he dwelled on the victory, he despised it.
Despised how William leaned over him, salty tears dropping onto Michael’s face, pleading, begging him to just stay with him. William might be a powerful cleric, but he had his limits. He could resolve flesh wounds, sew skin together like nothing had even happened, mend broken bones like nothing and make a bitter potion for new illness.
But he couldn’t heal the deep gashes spitting and sputtering blood like volcanic rock. The thin line from his mouth, with spittle watering it down.
Michael was heaving for air, praying that he could stay just a moment longer than he was supposed to. His eyes were trained on William, his wizard. Holding the back of his neck and unarmored back. His touch was gentle and firm. The agony was slowly, slowly ebbing. A pulsating flash white pain in his abdomen, past all of the blood pooling around himself. He wanted to stay. Oh, how he wanted. But he also wanted to give into it. To the soft caress of death. He didn’t know what lay ahead of him after this. Maybe it was an eternal sleep, or a field to prance around with his one love when they met again. Maybe he’d be born as Thomas Baker, a peasant in the kingdom. Or an elf across the land. Maybe a pheasant to graze on bugs and protect younglings from ticks. Or maybe there was nothing after this and Michael had to accept it.
“No, no, no, no!” He heard William wail his own agonizing grief, a tone of raw pain in his usually monotonous voice. Michael hated it. That’s not how William usually sounded. “Michael, please, don’t give in! The knights are coming, they— they’ll get help. They have h—help.” His sentences were breaking as his words tangled in his throat.
With an ounce of his ailing strength, Michel raised a palm. He rested his shaking hand onto William's cheek. William had leaned into his touch, tears rolling down his face. He was hiccuping a sob and gazing solemnly into Michael’s eyes.
Michael refrained from releasing the metallic gag at the back of his throat. Bit back the wet cough he felt. He didn’t want William to stress.
He needed to say it.
To say it one last time.
“William,” he hacked out in a grotesque rasp. His cleric released Michael’s spine to embrace their hands together and press his cheek to Michael’s touch. His eyes— full of adoration and love and sadness and guilt. His bottom lip trembled. “Will— Willia—m. I lo— love you.” He choked out, feeling a rise of warm liquid hit the back of his tongue and drool out of his lips. A wave of blood. Michael could feel the edges of his vision fade. He knew he was dying. He came to terms with it the moment he felt his vision go a hot white flash when the dragon's talons hit his chest. He dreamed of going out heroically. Being told about in fairytales and stories of the heroic past.
“I know.” William tried to smile. But it was a poor excuse, a curve of his lips that didn’t brush his eyes or curl enough to be a smile. There was no real happiness or true warmth behind it. Pure grief. Michael, in his final minute, simply wanted his partner to move forward.
As William felt Michael’s hand go slack and saw his eyelids droop over dulled eyes staring at the clouds, he knew it was over. The span of time he would have with the legendary paladin. He only wished it hadn’t ended so soon.
And he threw back his head
and wailed his curses.