The Last Good Knight

Short story: Before the war began, two knights met under starlight.

The Last Good Knight
Photo by Sergio Vilches on Unsplash

“Are you worried?”

It was too early to call it night. The sky glowed a dull shade of pink, like blood that just won’t wash out. But blood was yet to be spilled.

Worried might be the wrong word there.”

Overhead, swarms of bats fluttered pre-emptively to the North. Even their perches in the trees, their neutral ground, wouldn’t be safe come morning. Even the bats knew nothing would come out untainted from this. The birds had all fled weeks ago, and now the receding squeaks were all the music that could be heard. That and the crackling of the fire. But what more did two friends need other than each other’s company?

“Well, are you?” Fer pried, kicking more dry twigs into the flame. Smoke rose into the sky, dulling it further as it changed by degrees into night, but that was hours off still. In the distance, to the West, forests of pale wisteria that drooled lazily like bunches of pearls to the rich earth were lit up in the sunset. In the East, fields of flowers shut up their eyes defensively, the dark green backdrop of long grass blending into the gentle blue of the sky. All was cold, but alive.

Constantin’s eyes followed the black specks overhead as they disappeared beyond the hills. Once they were gone, and the evening silent once more, he turned to his companion. The silver trims of his green armour glinted like the stars above when he settled down, but Fer’s eyes were still on him, patient as always. Constantin didn’t possess his talent of speaking to fill awkward silences. All their years of being brothers in arms had taught him to be quiet when there was nothing to say, or too much to risk revealing, while Fer spoke without saying anything half the time.

So his patience now, this sudden tolerance for quiet, sent a chill up Constantin’s spine.

“I suppose I should be,” he said at last, drawing close to Fer and taking a seat on the adjacent log. He warmed his callused hands in the flame. “I’m more worried by your dedication to staying. Surely you can’t still be loyal to these people?”

Fer looked away, into the fire, and only stopped once his eyes began to sting with smoke.

“It’s not my place to question — ”

“Here, it is. We agreed.”

This was no ancient war or centuries-long feud. The Kingdoms were once brothers, too. Back then, barely ten years ago, Fer and Constantin wore the same colours. Now, Constantin’s swam deep shades of blue, and he felt every time he came here that had it been lighter, he could fly off into the sky and hide there between the stars. From there, he could watch the chaos unfold without losing anything himself.

It was selfish, but the guilt he felt, he knew was ten times worse than the guilt felt by the two Kings either side of the war. Neither had ever stepped foot on the battlefield, had ever lost a limb or loved one. All they ever lost was pride, and that grew as freely as wildflowers or wisteria. Come spring, the loss would be barely felt anymore.

Pride didn’t leave scars. Swords did.

Constantin knew the sting of the latter well enough.

“I’m leaving at dawn,” he said, more to the fire than to Fer, as if that idea might burn up, and leave behind the courage to face tomorrow as a good and loyal Knight, something he could no longer pretend to be.

“Good luck,” said Fer, almost too quickly. “Where will you go?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Somewhere I won’t have to listen to everything.”

“You’d have to go quite far.”

“Then I’ll go far. Far enough. And maybe when it’s all over I’ll come back.” Constantin forced himself back to his feet. Nervousness had made him restless all week. Usually these rendezvous helped him calm down enough to remain civil, but being called into the court every day to strategize left him feeling more like a piece of armour than a person. There was too much joy in that room, too much rigour with the way lives were estimated and bargained with. When he was younger, perhaps he would have been less sensitive than this. Fer always had a young heart, but that made him foolish.

He paced around the campfire, passing Fer twice before he looked up and asked him what he was doing.

“If you stay,” Constantin began, then covered his mouth. But he had committed too much treason just by being here, year after year. Crossing into and out of enemy territory for the selfish desire to see a friend. “If you stay here and fight, tomorrow you will die.”

“You have little faith in me. Need I remind you who trained me?”

“No,” said Constantin, halting before him. His shadow cast over the man loomed death-like, and Constantin stepped out of the way. Immediately the golden glow revitalised him, and he looked oddly at his old mentor. “This is different. Nothing I — or anyone — could have prepared you for. Your armies will be decimated.”

“Constantin — ”

“If you ever cared for your life, please promise me you won’t fight.”

“Stop that, you know how I perform in battle.” Fer spat into the fire, a mark of disrespect. “I bested you countless times even before — ”

“But that was different, too. You never wanted me dead, and neither did I.”

“Wanted? I still don’t!”

“Then why do you look so harshly when I say I’m leaving?”

Fer closed his eyes. A darkness passed over him, one that Constantin had seen too many times on the faces of his betters, the King, and never doubted that he had sported it in the past.

“I think you are a coward,” admitted Fer at last, a rasp in his voice that aged him beyond his years and battles. The youthfulness that livened Constantin was gone. He was now conversing with his enemy. “Running from a battle you claim you would win with ease. What are you afraid for?”

“Losing my only friend,” spat Constantin.

Only the fire whispered to itself. In the distance, wildflowers stopped trembling in the light breeze. Wisteria blossoms dropped to the ground, petals littering the walk Fer had done to get here. Already his footsteps disappeared.

“You knew today would come,” said Fer. “The day you had to pick between me and your duty.” Constantin said nothing. “You chose me. Are you starting to regret it?”

“Never.”

Fer placed a hand on his sword and turned his face away, down into the valley where the battle was still ripening. At dawn, no inch of it would be untrod, no critter undisturbed, and from sleep would rouse a new age. Fer looked at it like a crown to be won, a place where ambition could bloom and loyalty flush out any chance of failure. He had trained too long and too hard to give it up. This field was what the last ten years had prepared him for.

“I see you’ve already made your choice,” said Constantin. He stamped out the fire.

The last that Fer saw of his friend was the back of his head, bent low like a sleeping daffodil.


Constantin and Fer are inspired by Falstaff and Hal from Shakespeare’s Henry V, adapted into the film ‘The King.’

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