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Routine was a staple of a knight’s life. No matter what corner of the world you went, to what Kingdom you swore your fealty, the pattern of everyday would soon fall into line beside you.
Cross the courtyard outside the Blacksmith’s.
Push open the new oaken door to the tall, thin building he had made his quarters.
Feel the stairs creak under his gilded steps, five to make it to the landing, six more to reach the ladder at the top.
Pull the wooden shutters down over all the windows.
Wait to hear the click of the trapdoor latching into place over the ladder that leads to the levels below.
Complete a final perimeter of the room, scanning every surface, every nook.
And, at long last, bring one gold-plated hand to the other, slowly, carefully, clasping one of the discreet buckles that held the gauntlet in place and slipping his hand out from inside it.
Force himself not to flinch at the rush of cold, almost-numbing air that encircles his fingers. Try not to think about how long it must’ve been since he had felt his own skin, properly felt it. Roll his wrist in hard circles, brace for the onslaught of feeling as the blood began to flow inhibited back into his hand.
Know that this is only the beginning of a process that refuses to become easier with time, refuses to let the numbness of routine fully sink in.
One hand free, then the other. He’s done this enough times to know that if he pauses now, he will never get the armour off and polished before his eyes begin to seep and flicker with weakness.
That kind of lacklustre effort cannot be tolerated. Allow a habit to form, and it will flourish. Owain has seen enough knights infected by the ‘easier’ option, the simple way out, the empty promises of just this once, just this one time.
He would not count himself among their numbers, not while he still had the breath to count himself as alive at all.
The chestplate was next. Grit your teeth as your arms shake while you lift it onto the stand settled comfortably in the corner. That stand was the first thing he placed in every room, every bunk, every tent he inhabited. He would not do his burden, no matter how large, the disservice of laying it on the floor.
He cared little for luxury, for sporting claim to anything at all beyond his Zweihänder and whatever shield he found himself bound to at the time, but he allowed himself the privilege of an armour stand wherever he went.
His shoulders burn as the weight pressing down upon them since before the sun had even appeared in sky was suddenly removed, a blazing, sudden pain that he barely allows himself to acknowledge, because if he did, he was certain he would drop the chestplate gripped tightly in his arms.
It was funny, that. How routine pain was so much easier to dull yourself to.
He would know, wouldn’t he?
This armor was a burden he ladened himself with of his own free will. If he could not forget the weight resting upon his shoulders, his neck, his skull, he would not yet forget what he had run from.
What he needed to pay dues for.
Routine was a strange thing. Something inside you burned to break it, to set yourself free, to be reborn in the ashes of all that you once knew.
But, despite it all, there was a mark in the floor where the door scraped along it to open each day, and the stairs would creak louder and louder with the force of the hundreds of steps that had slowly weakened their planks, and the careful click of the trapdoor falling shut would seep some of the tension out of tightly knotted shoulders.
Despite it all, a set of armour still shone with polish every evening.
His hand, reaching up to hook the clasp at the back of his helm. Ignoring the way his heart pounded like he was in battle.
The helmet was the worst part. The gauntlets may send flocks of numbness down his arms, the chestpiece may make his shoulders burn as their burden was lifted at last, but the helm left him completely and utterly vulnerable.
It was foolish, how scared it made him. A Knight of the Blue Kingdom, one trained in the very best of academics by the harshest of mentors, a Zwiehänder, resting mere inches away from his grasp, and yet, the thought of someone seeing him without his armour sent a bolt of panic through his spine like no other.
Four years, with this armour, one thousand, four hundred and sixty days, and the thought of another soul seeing him, seeing his face, his eyes, made him sick to his core.
A long time ago, Owain decided that there were two kinds of Knight. One that stood proudly upon a pedestal of their own making., that felt a thrill of excitement, of pride, every time someone uttered their name, no matter what kind of tone it was uttered in.
Owain was the other kind of Knight. The kind that deserved to be masked.
Kitty had once asked him, that meddlesome feline that they were, what his helmet was meant to represent, if it wasn’t a Lion.
That was the thing they could never understand, and the thing he was not planning on explaining, either.
The armour was symbolic. It was forged in the likeness of a Lion, of course, any soul with a working eye socket could see that. But it wasn’t meant to symbolise pride, or valour, or whatever other noble traits the beast is known for. No, Owain chose his armour for what it didn’t represent.
A face.
Eyes, the viewing point into his soul.
A mouth, that could turn in frustration or widen in joy, in laughter.
A throat, that could form words, arguments of their own.
Owain did not think a person should be able to look at him and see any of these things.
They should see him for what he was.
Someone who would never fail his Kingdom again.
That, he would be sure of.
It was what he paid in blood for, after all.
The helmet was pulled off his head, and Owain closed his eyes.
That wasn’t a part of his oath, but after so many years, you get used to not seeing your own reflection. Sometimes, you get afraid of it.
Owain couldn’t know what face would stare back at him if he let his eyes drift, in that moment. Would it be the warped reflection of a traitor, the murderous son, the monster that they had thought him? A layer of flesh covered with scars that refused to heal, bruises that he did not remember collecting, a tangible mark of the oath he had sworn? Or, would he be met with the face of a boy who could barely recall enough words of his homeland's tongue to whisper himself back to sleep when he woke up screaming in a strange land, of a young man who let himself think that, just maybe, he finally belonged?
He wondered which would be worse: to be confronted with a shadow of a self he swore needed to be overcome, to be buried, or have the face staring back at him in the mirror be one he barely recognises at all.
Sometimes, he wonders if the blood and the sword and the braided tails fastened to it had driven off all that remained human within him, and if there would even be anything left but the helm and the oath at the end of it.
Sometimes, he didn’t think there would be an end to it. How could there be?
After all, if there was one thing that war had taught him…
…it was that symbols never die.