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It is nearly midnight when Gwendan deigns to meet with the Sovereign.
The Tower feels bigger for its silence. Without the sunlight glittering through high windows and the chatter of scheming nobleman in the halls, you would be forgiven for thinking the place still lie forgotten in the woods. The stones had a way of devouring even the smallest noise in the dead of night, leaving room only for thoughts. Gwendan hadn’t intended to leave the Soveregin waiting so long, it was just that Arlin delivered the summons not unlike a nursemaid sent to grab an unruly child by the ear and drag them to their mother, so he had made the sensible decision to get drunk beforehand. If he was due a scolding for some unknowable reason or another, he could at least have the gentle simmering of wine in his bloodstream to keep him company.
The door to the audience chamber echoed like a siege engine. There were no bodies in the hall draped in silks to muffle the noise as it ricocheted up the empty spires. No torches were lit, only the moonlight filtering through the high windows lit the interior in soft blue tones. The haze of wine made it all one-dimensional, a mottled jumble of long shadows and distantly fluttering banners. He was half way across the room by the time he noticed the Sovereign, standing in the middle of the hall as still as a statue, staring at the closed doors to the Tower. They were as they ever were, draped head-to-toe in unbleached linen, one hand clenching around a simple birch walking stick. No guard or advisor accompanied them. They simply waited.
“You wished to see me, Your Grace?” he said, louder than he needed, because the idea of allowing them the first word filled him with undefinable dread.
The Sovereign turned, their hand trembling where it sat upon their walking stick. The blank, unfeeling mask of marble stared back at him. Not for the first time, Gwendan wanted to rip it from them, just for a moment to know where exactly he stood. Was it displeasure under that veneer of composure, or something else? He didn’t know which he feared more. Could they smell the wine on him?
“Sir Gwendan,” they said, with an effort to keep their voice flat that Gwendan would have noticed were he not already intoxicated, “Do you know why I’ve called you here?”
Outside, the wind ran a cold hand across the tops of the trees and the birds hopped branches to safety. Gwendan looked around in faux thought. He could see his breath.
“Mmmm… Honestly, not at all,” he said, “Have you some need of me? Some dragon that needs slaying, or some such?”
The mask gave nothing away. The Sovereign did not laugh. They did not even move. Gwendan wanted to shake them.
“I...Am going to give you one chance,” said the Sovereign, “I want you to tell me the truth, Gwendan. Do you understand me?”
He laughed, despite it all. Was this a threat? What was this? He tried to force his eyes to focus more intensely on the exact shape of the Sovereign, but found their edges bled into the marble that surrounded them. They were trembling, he thought. Despite himself, he felt the urge to reach out and take their hand in his; to comfort them.
“Perfectly,” he said, with hopefully the right amount of venom. He was a Knight, for pity’s sake, not a toddler wandering off for the first time. The Sovereign took a step closer. It felt like all of the air in the room moved with them, a cool breeze grazing Gwendan’s cheekbone. There was a long pause, where nothing at all stirred. The Sovereign, clearly, was going to say something. The air trembled with the anticipation of it, but the weight of it stuck in their throat. Gwendan couldn’t stand it. They had ordered him into battle after battle, duels to the death, fights with demons, but whatever this was had proved beyond their speech?
“Well? Out with it!” he insisted. He watched the insult to their station hit into their sternum and ripple through them. He waited for the chastisement. Instead, he watched their shoulders rise with breath, then fall again. They took another step closer.
“Gwendan,” they said, “Tell me about your debt with Brimwood.”
They were in arm’s reach, and for a moment he felt the urge to clasp their elbows, their knees. An itch to prove for a moment this was not a delirium produced by his intoxicated mind wracked with something like shame. The moonlit shimmer across the golden plates of his armour felt cruel. The light it reflected onto the Sovereign felt crueller. He couldn’t lie to them, he couldn’t-
“Your Grace…. I can explain,” he said, stumbling over his own ego, “It’s true I borrowed some monies from some less than scrupulous individuals, but it was for a worthy cause, I swear.”
They did not interrupt. They inclined their head in permission to continue. Gwendan tensed every fibre of his being to prevent him from kneeling. There was no one watching them here, no decorum, just the Sovereign and their Knight.
“This armour is brilliant, isn’t it? A hero needs a suit of armour worthy of his name. I happened upon this fantastic set by way of a distant...very distant family member. I was told it possessed no surfeit of magical properties that would do me well in your service-”
“And does it?” They interrupted, with the first spark of something like irritation. He hadn’t realised he had begun to ramble. The last of his words was still echoing around the highest spires, like the Tower was remembering it. He felt suddenly very sick.
“It...Is very shiny,” he said, lowering his head at last.
He heard the Sovereign take a breath like they had been hurt, and despite himself he immediately looked up to check. They had not moved and no mysterious attackers accosted them in the dark. Gwendan had hated their mask before, but he hated it most now.
“I would hardly pay full price for a set of armour that barely works,” he said, with false bravado, “I was therefore forced to… cut ties with the creditors of Brimwood.”
And now I am here finished the sentence in his mind, but he dared not say it. He shrugged, his armour rattling with an unforgiving loudness, trying to force the situation into ephemerality. With practised false ease, he cracked his face into the most dazzling smile imaginable. The Sovereign was mortal after all, they couldn’t be immune to all of his charms, surely? There much be something under that damned mask that held some ember of affection for him. He had thrown himself into danger after danger for them, surely there was something-
The Sovereign tapped their stick once into the stone floor. For a moment, Gwendan feared the Tower itself would turn against him, or a thousand soldiers would surround him. The Sovereign was frail, wrapped in only linens and entirely unarmed. He didn’t fear them, it was something worse. Something that ripped at his chest when he thought on it too long.
“Is this true?” they asked, stepping up so the mask was only a few inches from his face. Had he not been so drunk, he would have been able to see the Sovereign’s searching eyes through the slits of their mask. He would have been able to see their breath growing more laboured with pure restraint. Instead, he was left with only a sinking resolution in the pit of his stomach that his fate had already been decided.
“Y-Yes,” he said, and then almost as an afterthought, “...Your Grace.”
The Sovereign stood there for a long moment, unmoving. They were looking for something in him, some truth that could not be expressed with such fickle things as words. In response, Gwendan’s armour glittered. The Sovereign lifted one reedy, trembling hand and placed it upon Gwendan’s chest-plate. It was an almost pitiful sight, if it weren’t so honest a gesture. It was almost fond. Later, Gwendan would blame the wine, but he reached a slow hand up and lifted the hand from his armour, holding it in his gauntleted fingers. He heard a hitch in their breath. He had never dared touch the Sovereign before, and had he been more cognisant of his actions, he might have wondered when the last person had. Even through his gloves, Gwendan could feel how frail the fingers were, how small. In this moment, this one gesture, he had learned something of his Sovereign that curled itself into his ribcage. A thousand people would grace the Sovereign’s presence, but only he knew what their hand felt like in his.
The Sovereign stared at their hand, as though they couldn’t comprehend what was happening, as though it was separate entirely from themselves. Their breath stuttered, before they pulled it away with notable reluctance. They took two steps back, as if to see Gwendan fully. Then, with slow and immense cruelty, they turned away.
“Then you will have to go,” they said. Their voice was so small, but the Tower carried it to full volume, uncaring, “Go. Until you have repaid your debt, then you may return.”
His ears rang suddenly. The room pitched sideways. Surely they did not mean- They couldn’t-
“Your Grace,” he said, “You cannot be serious, you-”
They did not move, but Gwendan felt his legs carry him anyway. The plates of his armour groaned to fill more space than they occupied. Without fully understanding what he did, he felt himself kneel at their back, grabbing their robe. He was...crying?
“Please,” he did not beg, he was Sir Gwendan of Villador, “Do not send me away. I beg of you, Sovereign, please don’t-”
They did not turn around. He was grasping the robes of a statue; a ghost. Gone was the mortal whose hand he had just held. This was not a person, it was a story that would be told whether they wished it or not. They were shaking, but Gwendan could not see. His gaze remained at the floor, a string of barely comprehensible pleas at his lips.
“You will leave at first light,” declared the Sovereign to the near-empty room, “my decision is final.”
Gwendan felt the linen slip through his fingers as the Sovereign pulled away. He did not look up, his hand just fell to the floor, limp. The moonlight stretched the shadows of the room to embrace him. First light was approaching with a violent imminence. A single tear ran down his nose and left a dark circle on the stone floor.
He thought for a moment he heard the Sovereign pause. He thought for a moment that they may turn back, run to him, pet his hair and tell him it had been some sick test of his loyalty, which he had passed effortlessly. They didn’t. Behind him, just out of sight, the Sovereign paused on the step and looked back at their golden Knight kneeling just where they had left him. The first Knight who had come of their own will, who had pledged loyalty at their feet for the rest of his life. Their golden, shimmering shadow. A liar. A coward. For a moment, they just stared and every muscle in their body felt all of their hurts all at once. Leaning heavily on their stick, they took one step, then another, until the door closed behind them.
And the moon hung low in the sky. The birds began their dawn chorus. A knight in solid gold, utterly useless armour knelt with his back to the throne until he could take it no longer. When he looked behind him, there was no one there.