Reborn as the Black Knight

 

The crescent moon hangs high over the palace grounds, casting its cold light upon the courtyard where Dandy and Hero are engaged in their nightly ritual of sparring and spell training. She’s never really fought anyone and has only ever used her magic to heal minor cuts and bruises. So she has to learn, and she has to learn enough to keep up with a literal hero of legend. Night time shadows weave through the eastern trees that stand stoic even at this hour, their gnarled branches reaching out like a witch’s crooked fingers while a cool breeze carries the scent of damp soil, rustling the grass beneath Dandy’s feet. “I’m ready,” Dandy announces again, though her voice betrays her uncertainty, wavering against the stone walls of the ancient palace that loom around them. They’re in the courtyard grounds of the Empire’s capital palace, she and the hero. With a firm grip on her golden staff — given to her from the reliquary of the holy-church — she nonetheless gulps; the reality of her lacking skill weighs heavily on her shoulders.

“Then let’s try again.” Hero nods with that effortless confidence. He assumes his stance, feet grounded, a practice sword at the ready. The night air thickens around him, as he waits patiently, radiating an aura that speaks of power and mastery. “Just remember, I’m here to guide you. Don’t be afraid, Dandy,” assures Hero.

That makes her even more terrified.

But Dandy lunges, her heart racing, yet her movements unfold with awkward hesitation. The staff that is more expensive than anything she’s ever touched whips through the air — a gust that feels powerless beside Hero’s blade. He sidesteps easily, catching her arm in a supportive grasp, laughter dancing in his voice as the weight of the weapon causes her to lose her footing on the slick grass and slip around. “Nice try! You’ve got the spirit.”

A flush of warmth washes over her from embarrassment. He lightly stands her back upright. She is all too aware of the yawning gap between their skill levels, a chasm as vast as a dark forest under a moonless night. “I… I’m not getting anywhere,” she huffs, stumbling backward as he gently nudges her aside to avoid an errant swing that threatens his midsection. “This is pointless.”

“Of course you are. Progress takes time,” he reassures her, his smile unwavering no matter the late hour or the fact that she keeps messing up and making the same mistakes again and again. She really wishes that he would just laugh her away, call her an idiot, and use his access to infinite wealth to choose literally anyone else in the Empire. But that doesn’t seem likely. He seems to have, like a lost puppy sniffing someone's leg, imprinted on her. “You’re more in tune with yourself tonight, Dandy. I can feel it,” he says, readying himself again as she walks back a few steps to get back to her starting position.

“With every swing of this dumb thing, I feel more of an idiot,” she snaps, frustration rippling through her words as she shakes the golden staff his way. “You make everything seem so… easy. I trip over my own feet, and I can’t even cast a simple attack spell without making a mess of it!” explains Dandy, looking over toward a patch of blackened, scorched grass.

— That actually was supposed to be a healing spell. But it didn’t exactly go right. Now it looks like a flaming meteor crashed into the garden.

Right now, he’s training her to defend herself in a fight if her magic runs out, a critical weakness for any caster.

Surrendering to a wave of exhaustion, Dandy lowers her staff, the metal glinting dully in the moonlight. She clenches her jaw, irritation mingling with self-doubt. Each time she tries, each swing she miscalculates deepens the chasm between them, reminding her of his otherworldly perfection. The world is expecting her to fight with Hero against the black-crowned queen and her evil servant, the Black Knight. But how can she stand at the hero’s side to do so when she feels so… useless, like a mere gust of wind blowing next to the raging storm of his spirit?

Hero pauses, gaze penetrating, searching. “This doesn’t need to be perfect. This is about finding your stride, your rhythm. No one expects you to catch up with me overnight, Dandy,” explains Hero. “I’ve had lifetimes to practice this. You’ve had a week and a half.”

“‘Catch up’?” she scoffs. He’s doing that thing again that he does, where he’s being supportive, kind, and reasonable when speaking to her about her self-doubts. She hates it, and it drives her up the wall. “There’s no way I will ever -”

“- Don’t finish that thought, Dandy.” He interrupts her, his voice low but firm. “Everyone has their unique strengths. Yours will unveil themselves in time. Trust me,” promises Hero.

“No,” she replies, almost bitterly in her plainness of tone. It’s not for any real reason. She just wants to make a point of it.

He laughs again, always finding something funny, and then resteels his eyes her way. The sincerity in his eyes cuts through her irritation, real as the mist rising from the cobblestones. “In your words, Dandy, I’m ‘perfect’,” he explains. She raises an eyebrow. “So that means I’ve never picked wrong before,” explains Hero, readying himself for another push from her. “And that means I wasn’t wrong about you either.” His wooden sword leans forward with its blade toward her. “You’re a woman of faith. Believe, then, in the machinations of the heavens that put you here.”

Her heart races, annoyance almost transforming into something resembling hope for only a second, yet it remains tantalizingly out of reach. He has a way with words, doesn't he? There’s a core part of her that likes the annoyance and the self-anger though. It feels right being right there where it is, and if she lets herself get infected by his disgusting optimism and cheerfulness that never shatters, she might… become like him.

Dandy shudders. “Please,” she says, looking at the golden staff for a second and then throwing the priceless generations old artifact to the ground, picking up some random long stick instead from the base of a tree. “Do you know why I even became a priestess, Hero?” she asks. He shakes his head as she points the stick at his heart, lifting one finger after the other from her grip as she makes a list. “Three square meals a day, a roof, and free clothes. I don’t actually believe in any of this,” she admits, shrugging. “It was just the best gig I could get at the time.”

That should do it, right? Dandy feels confident that this will be the thing that breaks his trust in her. A lying, deceitful priestess? Surely the true hero could never have someone like this at his side when the entire church is full of powerful, pure, righteous people of zeal and faith.

His barreling laugh fills the air, and she slumps over, sighing as she can tell already by the look in his eyes that he isn’t bothered in the least. “You want to know what I did before I became a hero?” he asks, his tone sounding like there is something tantalizing hidden here. That definitely catches her attention.

Dandy tilts her head, looking back up at him curiously. “Grant wishes? Sweat gold?” she guesses. “Shine in radiant perfection day and night?”

“Nothing of the sort,” he replies, smiling at her latest joke at his expense. He lifts a few fingers, beckoning her to come at him again. “But if you hit me, I’ll tell you,” he promises, the look of a playful hound on his face.

“Oh?” asks Dandy, shaking the stick toward him. “Then I guess I’ll just have to -”

Trying to surprise him, she jumps back into the fray straight toward him, determination sparking anew as she focuses on the pattern of his movements, the fluidity of his form slicing through the night. He ducks below, the stick swiping over his head. Her open palm simply pushes her back.

“Remember your footwork,” he prompts, his gaze keeping her within its focus, ready to offer guidance. “Stay grounded. Let your feet guide the flow of your energy,” explains Hero, weaving in a single sidestep as she hammers down the stick into the ground, leaving an imprint in the wet dirt where he was standing a second ago.

Dandy sighs, looking at him from the side of her eyes. The words echo in her mind, and the air shimmers around her as she takes a deep breath, summoning the magic thrumming beneath the surface of her skin. She makes another attempt, holding her staff steady as a vision of her earlier blissful missteps floods back. In a rush, she swings again, but her aim falters, and the staff collides with Hero’s weapon, surprisingly sending the blade spinning from his grip, arcing through the air.

“Whoa!” Hero yelps, sidestepping as he regains his balance, laughs ringing through the air. “Didn’t see that one coming. Attacking an unprepared opponent. Very dishonorable, Dandy,” he remarks.

“Huuuh?” she asks, a mischievous look on her face. “You’re too perfect, Hero,” says the priestess with a smugness to her voice. “Assuming that all of us are honorable people.” She grins, her fingers grasping the stick tightly as its end rests in the soil. Her shoulders tense for just a second. “GOT YOU!” she shouts, swinging out to the side as hard as she can at the man who really ought not to be able to get away from her this time, given the distance between them.

And yet he simply leans back at an angle she would have thought impossible because of the sharpness of his bent knees, holding his full weight upright and aloft as if his back were lying on a bed. The stick swings straight over him, a snap filling her arms as the end of the wooden thing breaks off by itself from the force of her lashing with it through the air. The end piece hurtles through the courtyard, and a second later, the audible sound of glass shattering fills the night as it propels through a palace window.

His laughter might well haunt her for the rest of her life as he stands back up straight, patting her on the back hard enough to cause her to stumble. Frustration resurfaces, a tumult of emotions choking her resolve. “It’s not funny, Hero!” yells Dandy, clutching her hooded face in terrified frustration as lights begin to flicker behind the window, servants and guards hurrying over to inspect the commotion. That window was worth more than her life.

“Ah, but look — your strength is improving.” He bends down to retrieve his wooden sword, amusement dancing in his eyes. “A week ago, you would have only dinged the window at best,” he praises. The man waves to the guards, who come looking out of the broken glass toward the courtyard. “Sorry!” he apologizes for her, taking the blame for the mistake in the public eye, not even protesting as she hides behind him and out of their sight.

Dandy sighs, throwing the broken stick to the side. “I don’t know what you see in me,” she sulks, arms crossing defiantly over her chest as she leans against his back and stands there in silence for a moment.

“In you, Dandy?” Hero looks back over his shoulder, and then she finds his hands on hers as he turns her around to face him. He has that damn look again. He’s going to say something again that will piss her off. Hero gazes confidently at her. “In you, I see someone worth a good life. In you, I see a friend,” he explains, staring into her eyes, his fingers holding her shoulders reassuringly. “And a true hero keeps their friends with them to the end of their shared road,” he proclaims, not skipping a beat of breath or a second thought for the emotional slop he’s vomiting onto her again. “To the very last minute.”

“…Hero…” says Dandy, her voice sounding touched. But then her face drops from that of a heartfelt person to something more grounded. Dandy lets out a disgusted groan, her shoulders slumping as she reaches over and yanks his training sword from his hands. “I’m so sick of your shit,” says the holy woman very dryly. The man lets out a yelp that is only playful and not as terrified as she would like it to be as she chases him through the courtyard, screaming and slashing after him with the wooden sword with a very real in pursuit of a somewhat cathartic desire to hurt him.

It’s like the urge to break a priceless porcelain vase without any good reason to do so. Obviously it doesn’t make sense from a pragmatic perspective, but there’s nonetheless a voice in the back of one’s head that says ‘what if I did though,’ and it wonders if it wouldn’t feel oddly satisfying to do so. She has now given in to that desire. Dandy feels with very strong conviction that it will be very satisfying to smack that goody-two-shoes aura out of his teeth. It’s like an itch she is yearning to scratch, and he keeps making it worse by saying crap like this all the time.

But she never quite manages to make contact with the wooden blade. He’s just too good.

However, the training session is very intense thanks to her renewed effort — even if it is because of something that feels like it should be hatred but isn’t.

 

---

 

 

Her head rests on her hand, her leg crossed over the other as Acacia sits there and stares forward. Dull moonlight cascading in throw the windows. “The mountains belong to us,” says Chicory. “The Kingdom’s forces were routed,” she explains. “— Decisively.”

Acacia smiles, a cruel wisp of midnight shine gleaming past her smug face.

“Numbers?” she asks, her shoe dangling from the top of her foot as she lightly shakes her foot up and down.

Chicory looks over the papers. “The scouts counted five thousand of your brothers men arriving as well as already stationed in the region,” she explains. “A quarter deserted on Sir Knight’s approach. Two quarters fought. The last quarter scattered or surrendered.” She flips a page on the report. “We’ve taken nearly a thousand prisoners,” explains Chicory, lifting her gaze. “What do you want us to do with them?”

Acacia sits there, her head and eyes not stirring. Only her foot rises up and down, lightly shaking the shoe, as if she were simply bored.

“Should I order the execution?” asks Chicory.

“Chicory, please,” sighs Acacia, closing her eyes. “You know that we don’t execute prisoners.”

Chicory closes the ledger, holding it under her arm. The agent looks at Acacia. “This is a mistake, your majesty,” she explains. “These are low-value prisoners. There isn’t a single noble among them.” She lifts a hand. “We can’t trade them for anything useful, and if we keep them, then we’re obligated by the laws of war to feed and care for them according to the signed articles between the Kingdom and the Empire.”

It’s silent in the room for a while, apart from the idle slapping of the shoe against her foot.

Acacia opens her eyes again. “We’re not bound by that, Chicory,” she explains coldly. “I am neither of the Kingdom nor the Empire,” explains the princess, holding out a few fingers from her free hand toward the agent. “My nation has signed no such accord.”

Chicory stands there silently for a while, shaking her head, not sure what exactly Acacia wants then. “We can’t just release them,” she explains. “If it has to be this way, I suggest that Sir Knight establish a labor camp. At least then we’ll have some use for having to feed them.”

“Chicory, you did not grow up in a noble house, and it shows because while you are trained in such matters of warfare, you lack a certain… chicanery,” explains the princess. “Feed the prisoners well. Give them all strong provisions, every tenth man a weapon, and send them home.”

“…What?” asks Chicory, looking at her as if she were insane. “We can’t do that. They’re enemy soldiers.”

The shoe strikes against Acacia’s heal again, the muffled sound sounding almost like the dripping of water striking dull ground — like a drop of poison on a loaf of bread. “They’re my people,” corrects Acacia, switching her crossed legs over from one to the other and then her head from one hand to the other. “They just don’t know it yet. I won’t harm my own submissive subjects, Chicory,” explains the one-shoed princess.

— Her other shoe had already fallen off before, when she was trying to do the floppy thing with the other foot.

“Send them home, well fed and pampered,” orders Acacia.

Chicory steps forward, shaking her head. “Why?” asks the agent, going up to Acacia. “This is madness. These men are commoners. It will be a problem.”

“Chicory,” starts Acacia, lifting her eyes to look at the priestess standing before her, holding the ledger in one hand and gesticulating helplessly with the other. “Some of my best friends are commoners,” says the princess. Chicory opens her mouth to retort, but then says nothing, looking down instead — perhaps moved by the unusual kindness and grace of the statement that is perhaps just a little more forward than Acacia would usually be.

“Your Majesty…” starts Chicory in a softer tone, sighing and looking back, not able to let this stand unargued nonetheless.

Acacia lifts her hand, stopping her. “These men will go home,” she repeats. “And they’ll tell their brothers of the mercy shown to them, and their brothers — when faced with Sir Knight’s legions — will remember this news and then surrender too, rather than be killed,” she explains, her many-staged plan of social manipulation unraveling into a clear weave. “Returned, they’ll speak to their wives, their sisters, and tell them of the mercy of my kingdom, and these women will spin the stories into the fabric of their society.” Acacia smiles a smile that is… not wicked or cruel, but perhaps… unnervingly devious. “Boys will hear their friend’s mother speak of their returned husbands and then look at their own empty tables and ask why their father will never return.” Chicory tilts her head somewhat, not shocked but more morbidly awed as she listens. “And the answer will lie outside of their windows, in the castle that my good brother resides in.”

The princess smiles, sitting straight and then folding the tips of her fingers together. “The men who surrender live. So more

men will surrender. The lines from here to the gods' seats will fall faster than ever before, and we’ll push them all the way back to the capital without as much as a single skirmish of note for the historian chronicling my campaign.” Acacia’s fingertips walk up one another like two spiders climbing over the body of their opposite. “And then, when twenty thousand men and their captains stand inside of the capital walls and watch my army march straight to their doors, they will surrender again without fight and bloodshed.” Acacia lifts a hand, holding a finger against Chicory’s chin, to lightly pull her face back forward to look at her directly. “— Because they know I will spare them a second time, and their children, and their loved ones.” Acacia’s eyes widen as she looks into the priestess’ gaze. “I will feed them, care for them, and protect them. They will let me in, Chicory,” she promises. “— Like a man inviting a ghost into his own home,” says Acacia with confidence, leaning back, her finger sliding off of Chicory’s smooth neck. “Because I will protect them from the evils in the world,” finishes the princess.

“Pachewkrch~,” growls and hisses a gruff voice, Sir Knight, trailing off into silence.

Acacia sighs, rolling her eyes. “…And what was that, if I dare even ask?” she asks incredulously, looking down at him.

He turns his helmet, looking back at her. “I was making lightning noises to make your evil speech more dramatic,” he explains, nodding his helmet to her.

Acacia crosses her arms. “How was that evil?!” she protests.

“It did sound very ominous…” remarks Chicory.

“I told you that I want to spare thousands of lives!” barks Acacia, pointing at her. “What do you people want from me?!” she snaps, glaring at the two of them.

“It might’ve just been the presentation,” remarks Sir Knight. “You know. The shadows, the moonlight -”

“- Your choice of seating,” adds Chicory, raising a finger.

“Your choice of seating,” repeats Sir Knight, nodding.

Acacia waves Chicory away. “Go back to work, Chicory,” she explains, sighing.

Chicory scratches her cheek, looking at the situation and then shrugs. “…Okay…” she says, walking toward the door, sparing a second to glance back their way, and then hurries out of it.

The two of them, Acacia and Sir Knight, remain there in silence. “It is kind of weird, though,” says Sir Knight.

“It is not! It’s a punishment for your continued insolence!” she barks down at him. Sir Knight, resting on all fours on the floor, looks back at Acacia. “What?” asks Acacia impatiently.

“I just mean the public optics of it all, you know?” asks Sir Knight.

Acacia, sitting on his back and using him as a chair, glares down his way. “I’ve seen this done many times within the noble courts when servants failed to uphold their duties. It’s a very mild social punishment compared to some other methods employed,” she explains, lifting her nose even higher — if possible — and closing her eyes. “It’s meant to remind you of your place within the hierarchy. Namely, the bottom of it.”

“Yeah, but… you know…” he starts in a rather idle, unbothered tone.

“No. What?” asks Acacia, looking at him with one eye.

He shrugs. “You’re all kind of weirdos,” he explains, rather pointedly. “Your whole family is crazy. So, I don’t know if you really want to be following their favorite life practices. Besides, from a commoner’s perspective, it does look pretty weird.”

“What do you mean?” asks Acacia, her finger tapping her upper arm in annoyance. “Commoners squabble over social hierarchy all the time, pretending to be better in this way or that way.”

“Yeah, but it looks like… ah, weird?” he says, half-explaining. “It looks weird for them when you sit on someone. It looks like you’re doing a weird thing.”

“For a chair, you’re very noisy,” she remarks coldly.

“Squeak. Squeak. Groan. Crack,” replies Sir Knight. “Oh. That last one must’ve been because you’re putting on weight.”

Acacia sighs and stands up. “Next time, I’ll make you be a doormat.”

“That’s also kinda weird,” he adds, getting up too and dusting himself off. “I don’t think you understand what I’m talking about. You might be too far gone to get it.” He shakes his head. “Messed-up childhoods will do that to you.”

She keeps her nose lifted, where it belongs, walking away and waving him off. “Nor do I care,” replies Acacia. “Get back to work, Sir Knight. I shan’t be taking any more meetings tonight,” she says, waving an idle hand back his way as she leaves. “Chicory mentioned something about your march to the north, I believe? The far north,” she implies coolly, walking off toward the door and leaving him standing there.

Acacia reaches the end of the hall and then sighs, her shoulders drooping as she grabs the handle of the massive door. The princess looks back over her shoulder and then turns around, returning in a scurry of sorts that is faster than walking but slower than jogging, and fully undignified for any sort of noble house.

She covers his visor with a hand, standing on the tips of her toes to kiss the side of the helmet with a peck. “Come back to me safe, Sir Knight,” says Acacia, his head tilting an inch from the press of her lips.

Acacia hurries back away, opening and walking out of the door this time, leaving him standing there by himself for real this time.

He waits, knowing better.

A second later, the large door opens again, and she peeks inside toward him, still at the end of the room.

“Was it really weird?” asks Acacia. “Like… weird-weird?”

Sir Knight lifts his hand, his thumb and his index finger spread apart an inch. Acacia sighs, her head drooping as she holds her face in dismay, pulling back away, the door closing behind her for good now. He can hear her skulking away, muttering to herself.

Strange girl.

Sir Knight shrugs to himself.

— But he still likes her a lot, he supposes.

The black knight vanishes, dissipating into nothingness that is gone before anyone can see him leave. Black tendrils creep through the crevices of the world, traveling through empty pockets as he glides from one battlefield to the next.