Sir Bernard and the Lady of Weeds
Dec 25, 2020 19:20:25 GMT
Post by admin on Dec 25, 2020 19:20:25 GMT
Author's Note: Merry Christmas, everyone! The following is a gift fic written for @girl-like-substance, for Canalave Library's annual Yuletide event. For this holiday season, xe requested a number of fun things, but the ones that caught my eye in particular were a story about dhelmise, a knight, a ghost, or some of xyr OCs, and the prompts Goldenrod, 1989 (weirdly, the first prompt I went for); "This is his true face, but few can see it – the gifted, and the damned"; and "Someone finds someone or something unexpected, somewhere miserable." I might have taken plenty of liberties with these prompts, haha. Also involved is my lowkey salt and excitement over the currently delayed The Green Knight. :')
Also! I fully admit to having a thing for Arthurian legend, on that note, which is why much of this story is meant to be written in that style. This is less of an excuse and more of a heads-up and explanation of the unusual style employed here. Feel free to comment on whether or not that worked, haha.
With all that said, enjoy, and happy holidays!
I.
In the days following the burning of Olt, the Old Kingdom, when the Eternal Blossom was still cooling and the grounds of the old castle Lumiere still smoked, the forgotten king, the eternal king, the Golden King abandoned his throne to his brother, Martin the Lion.
“Do with this land what you must,” he said, “for nothing matters to me any longer but love and loss.”
Those, they say, are the last words anyone mortal has heard the nameless king speak. So they say.
II.
From the ruins of Olt rose the Castle Shalour, from which, generations later, the kingdom of Kalos would rise. And from the bloodline of Martin the Lion came heroes and kings who spread to distant lands and built castles and kingdoms of their own. One of these grew to be the kingdom of Avalon, founded by the noble King Æsc, and built by his bold and mighty sons. And from them came the noblest of all kings Eadric, who reigned countless peaceful years from the Castle Sæward.
Each year, at Christmastime, King Eadric held a festival for his people, to celebrate another year of peace. People came from across the kingdom to dance and revel in merriment. The Great Hall of Castle Sæward would fill with the perfume of the spiced meats and breads, cakes, and wine at the king’s great feasts. And all would gather to watch the contest of feats, in which King Eadric’s faithful knights would compete for the honor and glory of being crowned Champion of Yule.
One year, in the midst of the contest of feats, a woman dressed in a robe of weeds wandered into the Castle Sæward. She entered the Great Hall without notice and slipped among the costumed revelers to the heart of the festivities, and she slipped through to the end of the Great Hall, where she stood at the feet of the great King Eadric himself.
“I come bearing a challenge,” she said. “Will your knights hear it?”
And the King Eadric leaned down and said, “A guest among us, at the feast for the king of kings? Why, we would be fools not to hear this challenge at the least! What would you bid of our knights?”
The weeds adorning her body fluttered, and a darkness billowed from her that swallowed the Great Hall. Her form rose until it towered over the King Eadric, and until the stone mask upon her face glared down at his visage.
“I come from the distant lands of the Fae,” the woman said. “I have heard of your kingdom’s reputation and of its brave and pure-hearted knights, and thus, mine is a test for these spirits of fame. Somewhere in the distant north, there exists the forgotten king of the kingdom of Olt. Send your men to slay this king and bring me his head, and if this is done within ten winters, I shall reward your kingdom with continued glory. Fail, and let destruction rain upon your crown.”
Any other soul may have trembled with these words, but King Eadric stood strong.
“And why shall we accept a challenge of this nature on such a joyous day?” he asked. “I beseech you, Faerie Queen, to reconsider this contest for another day.”
But the Faerie Queen looked down on the king and said, “Make no mistake, my lord. Destruction will not come from my hands. It will be at the Golden King’s or your own. Make your decision, but do so swift and wise.”
And thus, the faerie vanished, and with her, the darkness.
III.
Of all of Eadric’s knights, many believed the most noble, most faithful, most pure of heart was Sir Osmond, nephew of the king himself. Though Sir Osmond was not the most beloved, the fastest, or the strongest of all the knights of Eadric’s court, he nonetheless pledged all his being to the kingdom’s banner and rode into battle alongside his king’s best men time and time again. He fought back the wondrous beasts that threatened the people of his land, and each time his king called on his knights to preserve justice and order within the kingdom, Sir Osmond was among the first to leap at the call, armed with the ruby-hilt sword of his ancestors. And because of this faithfulness, he enjoyed the favor of a modest few, including that of his own squire, Bernard, an orphan from the north who had journeyed to the Castle Sæward to pledge himself to any knight who would take him beneath his wing. Sir Osmond was that knight, and he held Bernard as a dear friend and companion from the moment he had met him, and over many, many moons, their bond had become well-known across the land. It was this bond that many had admired, this loyalty and show of true faith, but all who knew Sir Osmond knew also that Bernard was second always to one thing and one thing only: the throne of Castle Sæward itself.
It so happened that Sir Osmond, too, was ever among the knights that competed in the Christmastime games, and as such, Sir Osmond had been present in the Great Hall when the Faerie Queen appeared, and he, too, heard the challenge the witch had borne. And at his side, his squire Bernard had begged him to ignore the challenge, for it was a challenge from the Fae themselves, yet Sir Osmond grasped his squire’s hand in turn.
“I must,” he said, “for this kingdom is our home. And what’s more, I pledged my loyalty to my uncle’s crown; I cannot ignore a challenge to his glory.”
And Sir Osmond embraced his squire like a brother, but Bernard did not return favor.
“Worry not, my squire,” Sir Osmond said. “I will return to Castle Sæward before the next harvest with the Golden King’s blood on my blade, and we shall rejoice in the merriment of next year’s Yule. I promise you this. I swear it, on my sword.”
And to this, Bernard returned Sir Osmond’s embrace at last, though with all the hesitation of one who knew the Fae well, and Sir Osmond rode out among King Eadric’s greatest knights the next morning, with his squire standing beside the gates.
And this beloved squire Bernard waited, through one winter and another, until five in all passed without sight or sign of his Sir Osmond upon the horizon. Bernard waited, with unbreakable faith, for the flutter of Sir Osmond’s ruby banner. He waited at the castle gates, until long after all the other knights’ maidens shed their mourning cloaks for Eadric’s other men long lost. Yet Bernard did not waver as they had. He waited, and waited, and waited yet, until, on the dawn of the sixth spring, he came before the fair King Eadric and knelt at his feet.
“My good lord,” he said. “You have sent two score men after the Golden King five years ago this past winter, and none have returned. Allow me to be your knight, and let me bring to the Faerie Queen his head.”
“Bernard,” King Eadric said. “My nephew’s dear servant. What makes you think you will fell the Golden King when so many else have been lost in the search?”
Bernard gazed upon his king and said, “Because I have my wits, my faith, and most of all, my love. With love, nothing else matters.”
And so, moved by this alone and with a heavy heart, King Eadric granted this squire’s request, and Sir Bernard rode out from the Castle Sæward days later, with a sapphire-hilt sword strapped at his side.
IV.
Another three summers passed before Sir Bernard found the Golden King among the blackened pines of the northern country. He stumbled across him, this Golden King, the way most people do: through the pull of pure Fortune and Fate. The Golden King looked nothing like the regal giant Sir Bernard had been expecting. The resplendent armor he once had—golden and encrusted with rubies and garnets and other jewels the color of blazing sunsets—was long replaced scrap for scrap with a hermit’s dirt-soaked rags. The only proof Sir Bernard had that this was the man he had searched for was the way he walked: towering over both Bernard and his steed, silver hair draped over dark eyes like moss on the treetops. Sir Bernard caught this man’s gaze and held it, and beheld eons of the pain and torment the Golden King had suffered.
“Knight,” the Golden King said. His voice rumbled low across the darkened woods. “I see the banner of Castle Sæward on your back and the emblem of a house I do not recognize on your shield. Have you come to slay me as well?”
And here, the Golden King rose tall but shed his robes, one by one. They fell to his feet, and he stood, naked before Sir Bernard and pale against the blackwood stands.
“Then take my head, as many before you have tried,” he said.
Though alarmed by this display, Sir Bernard made no motion to reach for his sword. He dismounted from his steed and removed his blade from his belt, and lay it down at the Golden King’s feet.
“I have no quarrel with you,” he said. “Nor do I wish to know whether the stories about you are true, or what quarrel the Fae Queen has with you. I wish for nothing else but truth.”
“You forfeit your claim to my life and the foundations of your kingdom for this?” the Golden King said.
“I do,” said Sir Bernard.
The Golden King took up his robes again and studied the brave knight. “What truth could you seek to forfeit the glory of your kingdom?”
Sir Bernard’s answer came with no hesitation. “I seek my once-master, Sir Osmond, first in command of King Eadric’s armies. He took up a quest to bring the Faerie Queen your head winters ago and has not returned. I have no doubt you had crossed paths with him. When?”
The Golden King did not respond at once. He stood in thought, his sorrowful eyes ever on the knight before him. “Sir Osmond,” he said. “The knight with the red-flame hair. The one with the steed as black as night and fast as the winter’s wind. Eyes golden as amber, and a sword of ruby and iron. Is this the one you mean?”
“Yes,” Sir Bernard said, “that is my once-master, Sir Osmond.”
The Golden King drew silence once more, then said, “He was among the first to find me and the first to behead me. I gave him my head, as I had promised, and sent him to find the Faerie Queen. I remember him for his honor and his dedication. I remember how proud he was, how he hoped that this would appease the Lady of Weeds.”
“Then it is to the Faerie Queen I shall go,” Sir Bernard said.
“If you must,” the Golden King replied. “But I warn you, young knight. When I came to reclaim my head, I had found that the Faerie Queen had claimed your once-master. Do not tread lightly in the Lady of Weeds’ domain, or you too shall never again see your Castle Sæward.”
“Maybe so,” Sir Bernard said, “but I will risk my own head for Sir Osmond’s.”
And thus, Sir Bernard took up his steed once more, but the Golden King reached out with one great hand and grasped his reins.
“Answer me this, young knight,” the Golden King said. “What is it about this Sir Osmond that drives you with such boldness into the jaws of the Fae?”
And to this, Sir Bernard looked deep into the Golden King’s ancient gaze with not a shred of fear in his heart. “Why, if the stories are true, my lord, then you know.”
So the Golden King let the reins slip from his hand.
V.
The Golden King sent Sir Bernard to the north, to the swamps at the edge of the kingdom, to which Bernard would ride for yet another season. “The Faerie Queen will be there,” the king had told him, “but be warned of her grip and her tricks. Enter not her blackened waters.”
And this thought played again and again in Sir Bernard’s mind, yet it did not sway him, so bound he was to his beloved lost knight. And so, he rode until he reached the swamp, then crossed its murky waters, ever northward, until he came across a grotto in a grove of trees.
And there she stood, the Faerie Queen, just as pale and resplendent as he remembered her, standing in the Great Hall all those winters ago. Except now he knew that she was not a woman at all but a statue of marble, of the fair face and frame of the Virgin, robed in blackened weeds. At her feet, the water lapped black and sparkling, and Sir Bernard realized at once that this light came not from the moor’s tranquil surface but instead the tarnished armor of a hundred knights surrounding the pedestal on which she stood. Sir Bernard himself remained at the edge of this battlefield, his steed behind him as he drew his sword.
“Oh Queen of the Fae,” he bellowed. “Hear me now! I come not bearing the head of the Golden King but instead an offer. I yearn not for the glory of my kingdom but instead the soul of a man you have taken. Return him to me, and I will offer you something of equal value in exchange.”
The weeds crowning the Faerie Queen parted and slithered about her marble body, and the waters at her feet rippled with the movement of two hundred submerged arms.
“Bold knight,” the Faerie Queen said, though from where Sir Bernard could not tell. “So many others have come before you to trespass in my domain, each with their own desires. To slay me. To end a curse they learned at the precipice of death that they could neither avoid nor break. To end a quest that never had an end. So many brave men came to me, angry and hateful of my power, and so many have submitted to my waters and fed my spirit. And yet you are here, in my domain, demanding things of me despite so many before you never returning to your kingdom. For this, I have two questions.”
And the arms burst forth from the blackened waters, choked with the Faerie Queen’s weeds, and they encircled Sir Bernard’s legs and pulled. And though Sir Bernard slashed at these hands with his sword, he could do nothing to stop them from dragging him down, down into the waters and into the mud.
“What could you possibly offer in exchange for a soul?” the Faerie Queen asked. “And what made you think that I would grant you a thing?”
Sir Bernard sank, dragged by the hundred hands and the tangle of weeds. And doom blackened his vision, and water tipped into his lungs, and all hope slipped away from him. But then, then, a pair of large hands, gloved in golden armor, thrust into the waters and pulled, and as the evening dawned over Sir Bernard, he gasped his first new breaths in the arms of the Golden King.
VI.
On the banks at the edge of the swamp, the Golden King and Sir Bernard rested for three nights, until the knight was well enough to stand on his own. And the Golden King said nothing of what had transpired between Sir Bernard and the Faerie Queen and said little to his guest at all, except what was needed to nurse him back to health. And on the dawn of the third day, Sir Bernard looked back across the dense swamp and took up his clothes, dry yet cold in the new sun.
“You intend on going back to the Faerie Queen,” the Golden King said.
“Aye,” said Sir Bernard.
“Do you intend on going back again and again?” the Golden King asked. “Is your spirit not broken? Is your faith unshaken? Is your devotion to this beloved knight of yours yet unwavered?”
“Aye, aye, and a thousand more, aye,” Sir Bernard said. “I know now that Sir Osmond is not among us, but this will not sway me. I will fight to the gates of Hell itself if it means my master is once more free.”
The Golden King considered this, then said, “Very well. There is a way you may yet outpower the Faerie Queen, but the magic you must use will be dark and forbidden. It will be linked to consequences far-reaching and damning to your very soul. Does this not sway you?”
“Nay, my lord. It does not.”
“Aye,” said the Golden King, “as it should not, if your faith is indeed true. Grant me your sword. I will teach you the magic you need. The battle itself shall be in your hands. Face it with bravery and love, for this magic, ever-binding, may only be used by those of true conviction.”
And Sir Bernard placed his sword into the Golden King’s hands, and the Golden King taught him the magic. For the next seventeen nights, the Golden King guided him through prayer, through meditation, and through the severance of the ties that bound his soul to his mortal flesh, and on the dawn of the eighteenth morning, Sir Bernard took up his sword and poured his essence into its blade until it shone brighter than it had ever before. And with this blade in hand, he set off, into the swamp, to face the Faerie Queen once more.
VII.
When Sir Bernard returned to the Faerie Queen’s grotto, she met him bathed in the waning daylight.
“Ah, bold knight,” she said. “Unswayed still, I see.”
Sir Bernard stood strong at the edge of the Lady of Weeds’ blackened waters. “Fae Queen, I come to you with a challenge. If I defeat you, you will release the soul of my master Sir Osmond, first knight of King Eadric, and then leave our kingdom to never return. If you defeat me, then I shall forfeit my soul to your depths.”
The Faerie Queen’s weeds rippled, and her marble face smiled.
“I see,” she said. “Then draw your sword and come, if your stout heart is indeed as brave as you say it is.”
And so, Sir Bernard drew forth his sword and lunged at the blackened waters. His blade came draped with shadow and edged with his fury, and these magics guided his hand and drove his blade into the gut of the Faerie Queen. And the Faerie Queen laughed and lashed with her weeds across Sir Bernard’s stomach and face, yet he felt no pain. He lashed again to cut off the Virgin’s shoulder, and again to slice across her chest, and the Faerie Queen laughed and whipped him again and again with her weeds.
And then, with all the might Sir Bernard could muster, with all the fury for the Faerie Queen and all the love and hope held for Sir Osmond, Sir Bernard swept his blade once more through the head of the Lady of Weeds. And it fell, off the statue and into the muddled swamp, and the weeds about it slipped free and gathered about the Virgin’s feet, and the Faerie Queen’s laughter ceased.
“Oh,” said the Faerie Queen. “So you submitted to the Golden King’s dark magic.”
And here, the Lady of Weeds laughed with a sound not unlike that of the bubbling, blackened swamp that was her domain.
“Have your beloved knight back, bold one,” the Faerie Queen said. “May Death come for his soul when it comes for yours.”
And the waters bubbled from within the grotto, and a light appeared within, and from it emerged Sir Osmond, whole and unharmed. And Sir Osmond ran forth to embrace his beloved squire, and to bestow praises unto him for his bravery and dedication.
And from that day forward, Sir Osmond rode beside Sir Bernard, into the mists and across their beloved lands, never to be separated again by witch, by the fall of their kingdom, or even by Death itself.
VIII.
The last words trail out of his mouth like the smoke out hers, curling upwards in the too-cold room, and he’s left sitting there, watching, waiting, searching a face that isn’t really a face. He can’t read her expression, least of all because it’s more or less a miasma of purple fog and green lights, something that both looks human and doesn’t all at once. But at the same time, he gets the feeling he’d never be able to tell what she’s thinking even if she were human.
Finally, she uncrosses her arms, uncrosses her legs, and she’s standing in a blink. Everything she is would put off a normal human, but then again, he isn’t one, is he? Normal, that is.
“Interesting,” she says. “So Sir Bernard and the Lady of Weeds. You’re saying that happened to you?”
“Yes,” he tells her. “I’ve lost count of how many years it’s been now.”
“I see.”
She approaches the examination table and leans down to examine his sword—literal sword, with a braided hilt the color of sapphires and an eye-like jewel in its pommel. The jewel blinks but steadies itself on the ceiling.
“You don’t seem surprised,” he says.
He thinks she shrugs. He can’t quite tell.
“In my field, I’ve seen weirder,” she replies.
“Seen?”
She lifts her eyes, and he falls into emerald green. “Oh yes.”
“Then I’ve made the right decision to come to you.”
“Mm.” She places her hands on either side of the sword and leans against the table. “That stands to be determined. What exactly do you need my help with?”
“Ah. Well. You see…” He stands opposite her. His rough fingers brush against the blue leather banner trailing from the sword’s hilt. Its golden tassels rustle, as if a breeze disturbed them, but they don’t lift with the life he’s so used to seeing from them. “The story may be true, but…”
“Osmond.”
He pulls his eyes away from the sword again.
“Tell me,” she says. Violet smoke trails from her mouth. It reminds him too much of the Faerie Queen, but he can’t take his eyes away from her face.
His shoulders relax. “She didn’t tell us—the-the Lady of Weeds, I mean. I’m immortal. He’s immortal. But his body is not.”
“Oh.”
He swallows hard at the sound of that oh. “I’d heard about you, Dr. Spearing. I’d heard about your … situation. I was wondering … we can’t keep taking hosts for him. It takes a toll on Bernard’s spirit, you see.”
“You want him to be like me.”
Osmond had faced so many foes in his time. So many dragons. So many witches. But this? This is the hardest thing he has ever faced, short of the number of times he’s lured young, handsome men to his lover’s hilt.
“If it’s possible,” he whispers.
She nods, slowly. “Well … we don’t exactly know, but there’s always a first for everything. How long do you have in Goldenrod?”
“As long as it takes.” His answer is quick, immediate, and the most steadfast thing he has spoken since stepping foot in that clinic.
“Nothing else matters but love, eh? Here.” She produces a card from one of her pockets and passes it across the table. “You’ll find a bed here for as long as you need it. Leave Bernard with me. We’ll figure something out.”
He takes the card and presses it to his chest, and his eyes shine bright with hope for the first time since he embraced Bernard at the edge of that swamp. “You have no idea what this would mean to us.”
“I do,” she says.
Her fingers brush against the sword’s hilt, and its tassels stretch for a more familiar hand. So he grasps the end of it and squeezes gently but pulls away before his heart can stop him.
“You’d better get going,” she tells him. “We have a lot of work ahead of us, and it’s best to get started right away.”
And with the card in hand and a warmth in his heart, Osmond nods and retreats and thinks, for the first time since standing at the edge of the Lady’s lake, about that happily ever after.
Also! I fully admit to having a thing for Arthurian legend, on that note, which is why much of this story is meant to be written in that style. This is less of an excuse and more of a heads-up and explanation of the unusual style employed here. Feel free to comment on whether or not that worked, haha.
With all that said, enjoy, and happy holidays!
I.
In the days following the burning of Olt, the Old Kingdom, when the Eternal Blossom was still cooling and the grounds of the old castle Lumiere still smoked, the forgotten king, the eternal king, the Golden King abandoned his throne to his brother, Martin the Lion.
“Do with this land what you must,” he said, “for nothing matters to me any longer but love and loss.”
Those, they say, are the last words anyone mortal has heard the nameless king speak. So they say.
II.
From the ruins of Olt rose the Castle Shalour, from which, generations later, the kingdom of Kalos would rise. And from the bloodline of Martin the Lion came heroes and kings who spread to distant lands and built castles and kingdoms of their own. One of these grew to be the kingdom of Avalon, founded by the noble King Æsc, and built by his bold and mighty sons. And from them came the noblest of all kings Eadric, who reigned countless peaceful years from the Castle Sæward.
Each year, at Christmastime, King Eadric held a festival for his people, to celebrate another year of peace. People came from across the kingdom to dance and revel in merriment. The Great Hall of Castle Sæward would fill with the perfume of the spiced meats and breads, cakes, and wine at the king’s great feasts. And all would gather to watch the contest of feats, in which King Eadric’s faithful knights would compete for the honor and glory of being crowned Champion of Yule.
One year, in the midst of the contest of feats, a woman dressed in a robe of weeds wandered into the Castle Sæward. She entered the Great Hall without notice and slipped among the costumed revelers to the heart of the festivities, and she slipped through to the end of the Great Hall, where she stood at the feet of the great King Eadric himself.
“I come bearing a challenge,” she said. “Will your knights hear it?”
And the King Eadric leaned down and said, “A guest among us, at the feast for the king of kings? Why, we would be fools not to hear this challenge at the least! What would you bid of our knights?”
The weeds adorning her body fluttered, and a darkness billowed from her that swallowed the Great Hall. Her form rose until it towered over the King Eadric, and until the stone mask upon her face glared down at his visage.
“I come from the distant lands of the Fae,” the woman said. “I have heard of your kingdom’s reputation and of its brave and pure-hearted knights, and thus, mine is a test for these spirits of fame. Somewhere in the distant north, there exists the forgotten king of the kingdom of Olt. Send your men to slay this king and bring me his head, and if this is done within ten winters, I shall reward your kingdom with continued glory. Fail, and let destruction rain upon your crown.”
Any other soul may have trembled with these words, but King Eadric stood strong.
“And why shall we accept a challenge of this nature on such a joyous day?” he asked. “I beseech you, Faerie Queen, to reconsider this contest for another day.”
But the Faerie Queen looked down on the king and said, “Make no mistake, my lord. Destruction will not come from my hands. It will be at the Golden King’s or your own. Make your decision, but do so swift and wise.”
And thus, the faerie vanished, and with her, the darkness.
III.
Of all of Eadric’s knights, many believed the most noble, most faithful, most pure of heart was Sir Osmond, nephew of the king himself. Though Sir Osmond was not the most beloved, the fastest, or the strongest of all the knights of Eadric’s court, he nonetheless pledged all his being to the kingdom’s banner and rode into battle alongside his king’s best men time and time again. He fought back the wondrous beasts that threatened the people of his land, and each time his king called on his knights to preserve justice and order within the kingdom, Sir Osmond was among the first to leap at the call, armed with the ruby-hilt sword of his ancestors. And because of this faithfulness, he enjoyed the favor of a modest few, including that of his own squire, Bernard, an orphan from the north who had journeyed to the Castle Sæward to pledge himself to any knight who would take him beneath his wing. Sir Osmond was that knight, and he held Bernard as a dear friend and companion from the moment he had met him, and over many, many moons, their bond had become well-known across the land. It was this bond that many had admired, this loyalty and show of true faith, but all who knew Sir Osmond knew also that Bernard was second always to one thing and one thing only: the throne of Castle Sæward itself.
It so happened that Sir Osmond, too, was ever among the knights that competed in the Christmastime games, and as such, Sir Osmond had been present in the Great Hall when the Faerie Queen appeared, and he, too, heard the challenge the witch had borne. And at his side, his squire Bernard had begged him to ignore the challenge, for it was a challenge from the Fae themselves, yet Sir Osmond grasped his squire’s hand in turn.
“I must,” he said, “for this kingdom is our home. And what’s more, I pledged my loyalty to my uncle’s crown; I cannot ignore a challenge to his glory.”
And Sir Osmond embraced his squire like a brother, but Bernard did not return favor.
“Worry not, my squire,” Sir Osmond said. “I will return to Castle Sæward before the next harvest with the Golden King’s blood on my blade, and we shall rejoice in the merriment of next year’s Yule. I promise you this. I swear it, on my sword.”
And to this, Bernard returned Sir Osmond’s embrace at last, though with all the hesitation of one who knew the Fae well, and Sir Osmond rode out among King Eadric’s greatest knights the next morning, with his squire standing beside the gates.
And this beloved squire Bernard waited, through one winter and another, until five in all passed without sight or sign of his Sir Osmond upon the horizon. Bernard waited, with unbreakable faith, for the flutter of Sir Osmond’s ruby banner. He waited at the castle gates, until long after all the other knights’ maidens shed their mourning cloaks for Eadric’s other men long lost. Yet Bernard did not waver as they had. He waited, and waited, and waited yet, until, on the dawn of the sixth spring, he came before the fair King Eadric and knelt at his feet.
“My good lord,” he said. “You have sent two score men after the Golden King five years ago this past winter, and none have returned. Allow me to be your knight, and let me bring to the Faerie Queen his head.”
“Bernard,” King Eadric said. “My nephew’s dear servant. What makes you think you will fell the Golden King when so many else have been lost in the search?”
Bernard gazed upon his king and said, “Because I have my wits, my faith, and most of all, my love. With love, nothing else matters.”
And so, moved by this alone and with a heavy heart, King Eadric granted this squire’s request, and Sir Bernard rode out from the Castle Sæward days later, with a sapphire-hilt sword strapped at his side.
IV.
Another three summers passed before Sir Bernard found the Golden King among the blackened pines of the northern country. He stumbled across him, this Golden King, the way most people do: through the pull of pure Fortune and Fate. The Golden King looked nothing like the regal giant Sir Bernard had been expecting. The resplendent armor he once had—golden and encrusted with rubies and garnets and other jewels the color of blazing sunsets—was long replaced scrap for scrap with a hermit’s dirt-soaked rags. The only proof Sir Bernard had that this was the man he had searched for was the way he walked: towering over both Bernard and his steed, silver hair draped over dark eyes like moss on the treetops. Sir Bernard caught this man’s gaze and held it, and beheld eons of the pain and torment the Golden King had suffered.
“Knight,” the Golden King said. His voice rumbled low across the darkened woods. “I see the banner of Castle Sæward on your back and the emblem of a house I do not recognize on your shield. Have you come to slay me as well?”
And here, the Golden King rose tall but shed his robes, one by one. They fell to his feet, and he stood, naked before Sir Bernard and pale against the blackwood stands.
“Then take my head, as many before you have tried,” he said.
Though alarmed by this display, Sir Bernard made no motion to reach for his sword. He dismounted from his steed and removed his blade from his belt, and lay it down at the Golden King’s feet.
“I have no quarrel with you,” he said. “Nor do I wish to know whether the stories about you are true, or what quarrel the Fae Queen has with you. I wish for nothing else but truth.”
“You forfeit your claim to my life and the foundations of your kingdom for this?” the Golden King said.
“I do,” said Sir Bernard.
The Golden King took up his robes again and studied the brave knight. “What truth could you seek to forfeit the glory of your kingdom?”
Sir Bernard’s answer came with no hesitation. “I seek my once-master, Sir Osmond, first in command of King Eadric’s armies. He took up a quest to bring the Faerie Queen your head winters ago and has not returned. I have no doubt you had crossed paths with him. When?”
The Golden King did not respond at once. He stood in thought, his sorrowful eyes ever on the knight before him. “Sir Osmond,” he said. “The knight with the red-flame hair. The one with the steed as black as night and fast as the winter’s wind. Eyes golden as amber, and a sword of ruby and iron. Is this the one you mean?”
“Yes,” Sir Bernard said, “that is my once-master, Sir Osmond.”
The Golden King drew silence once more, then said, “He was among the first to find me and the first to behead me. I gave him my head, as I had promised, and sent him to find the Faerie Queen. I remember him for his honor and his dedication. I remember how proud he was, how he hoped that this would appease the Lady of Weeds.”
“Then it is to the Faerie Queen I shall go,” Sir Bernard said.
“If you must,” the Golden King replied. “But I warn you, young knight. When I came to reclaim my head, I had found that the Faerie Queen had claimed your once-master. Do not tread lightly in the Lady of Weeds’ domain, or you too shall never again see your Castle Sæward.”
“Maybe so,” Sir Bernard said, “but I will risk my own head for Sir Osmond’s.”
And thus, Sir Bernard took up his steed once more, but the Golden King reached out with one great hand and grasped his reins.
“Answer me this, young knight,” the Golden King said. “What is it about this Sir Osmond that drives you with such boldness into the jaws of the Fae?”
And to this, Sir Bernard looked deep into the Golden King’s ancient gaze with not a shred of fear in his heart. “Why, if the stories are true, my lord, then you know.”
So the Golden King let the reins slip from his hand.
V.
The Golden King sent Sir Bernard to the north, to the swamps at the edge of the kingdom, to which Bernard would ride for yet another season. “The Faerie Queen will be there,” the king had told him, “but be warned of her grip and her tricks. Enter not her blackened waters.”
And this thought played again and again in Sir Bernard’s mind, yet it did not sway him, so bound he was to his beloved lost knight. And so, he rode until he reached the swamp, then crossed its murky waters, ever northward, until he came across a grotto in a grove of trees.
And there she stood, the Faerie Queen, just as pale and resplendent as he remembered her, standing in the Great Hall all those winters ago. Except now he knew that she was not a woman at all but a statue of marble, of the fair face and frame of the Virgin, robed in blackened weeds. At her feet, the water lapped black and sparkling, and Sir Bernard realized at once that this light came not from the moor’s tranquil surface but instead the tarnished armor of a hundred knights surrounding the pedestal on which she stood. Sir Bernard himself remained at the edge of this battlefield, his steed behind him as he drew his sword.
“Oh Queen of the Fae,” he bellowed. “Hear me now! I come not bearing the head of the Golden King but instead an offer. I yearn not for the glory of my kingdom but instead the soul of a man you have taken. Return him to me, and I will offer you something of equal value in exchange.”
The weeds crowning the Faerie Queen parted and slithered about her marble body, and the waters at her feet rippled with the movement of two hundred submerged arms.
“Bold knight,” the Faerie Queen said, though from where Sir Bernard could not tell. “So many others have come before you to trespass in my domain, each with their own desires. To slay me. To end a curse they learned at the precipice of death that they could neither avoid nor break. To end a quest that never had an end. So many brave men came to me, angry and hateful of my power, and so many have submitted to my waters and fed my spirit. And yet you are here, in my domain, demanding things of me despite so many before you never returning to your kingdom. For this, I have two questions.”
And the arms burst forth from the blackened waters, choked with the Faerie Queen’s weeds, and they encircled Sir Bernard’s legs and pulled. And though Sir Bernard slashed at these hands with his sword, he could do nothing to stop them from dragging him down, down into the waters and into the mud.
“What could you possibly offer in exchange for a soul?” the Faerie Queen asked. “And what made you think that I would grant you a thing?”
Sir Bernard sank, dragged by the hundred hands and the tangle of weeds. And doom blackened his vision, and water tipped into his lungs, and all hope slipped away from him. But then, then, a pair of large hands, gloved in golden armor, thrust into the waters and pulled, and as the evening dawned over Sir Bernard, he gasped his first new breaths in the arms of the Golden King.
VI.
On the banks at the edge of the swamp, the Golden King and Sir Bernard rested for three nights, until the knight was well enough to stand on his own. And the Golden King said nothing of what had transpired between Sir Bernard and the Faerie Queen and said little to his guest at all, except what was needed to nurse him back to health. And on the dawn of the third day, Sir Bernard looked back across the dense swamp and took up his clothes, dry yet cold in the new sun.
“You intend on going back to the Faerie Queen,” the Golden King said.
“Aye,” said Sir Bernard.
“Do you intend on going back again and again?” the Golden King asked. “Is your spirit not broken? Is your faith unshaken? Is your devotion to this beloved knight of yours yet unwavered?”
“Aye, aye, and a thousand more, aye,” Sir Bernard said. “I know now that Sir Osmond is not among us, but this will not sway me. I will fight to the gates of Hell itself if it means my master is once more free.”
The Golden King considered this, then said, “Very well. There is a way you may yet outpower the Faerie Queen, but the magic you must use will be dark and forbidden. It will be linked to consequences far-reaching and damning to your very soul. Does this not sway you?”
“Nay, my lord. It does not.”
“Aye,” said the Golden King, “as it should not, if your faith is indeed true. Grant me your sword. I will teach you the magic you need. The battle itself shall be in your hands. Face it with bravery and love, for this magic, ever-binding, may only be used by those of true conviction.”
And Sir Bernard placed his sword into the Golden King’s hands, and the Golden King taught him the magic. For the next seventeen nights, the Golden King guided him through prayer, through meditation, and through the severance of the ties that bound his soul to his mortal flesh, and on the dawn of the eighteenth morning, Sir Bernard took up his sword and poured his essence into its blade until it shone brighter than it had ever before. And with this blade in hand, he set off, into the swamp, to face the Faerie Queen once more.
VII.
When Sir Bernard returned to the Faerie Queen’s grotto, she met him bathed in the waning daylight.
“Ah, bold knight,” she said. “Unswayed still, I see.”
Sir Bernard stood strong at the edge of the Lady of Weeds’ blackened waters. “Fae Queen, I come to you with a challenge. If I defeat you, you will release the soul of my master Sir Osmond, first knight of King Eadric, and then leave our kingdom to never return. If you defeat me, then I shall forfeit my soul to your depths.”
The Faerie Queen’s weeds rippled, and her marble face smiled.
“I see,” she said. “Then draw your sword and come, if your stout heart is indeed as brave as you say it is.”
And so, Sir Bernard drew forth his sword and lunged at the blackened waters. His blade came draped with shadow and edged with his fury, and these magics guided his hand and drove his blade into the gut of the Faerie Queen. And the Faerie Queen laughed and lashed with her weeds across Sir Bernard’s stomach and face, yet he felt no pain. He lashed again to cut off the Virgin’s shoulder, and again to slice across her chest, and the Faerie Queen laughed and whipped him again and again with her weeds.
And then, with all the might Sir Bernard could muster, with all the fury for the Faerie Queen and all the love and hope held for Sir Osmond, Sir Bernard swept his blade once more through the head of the Lady of Weeds. And it fell, off the statue and into the muddled swamp, and the weeds about it slipped free and gathered about the Virgin’s feet, and the Faerie Queen’s laughter ceased.
“Oh,” said the Faerie Queen. “So you submitted to the Golden King’s dark magic.”
And here, the Lady of Weeds laughed with a sound not unlike that of the bubbling, blackened swamp that was her domain.
“Have your beloved knight back, bold one,” the Faerie Queen said. “May Death come for his soul when it comes for yours.”
And the waters bubbled from within the grotto, and a light appeared within, and from it emerged Sir Osmond, whole and unharmed. And Sir Osmond ran forth to embrace his beloved squire, and to bestow praises unto him for his bravery and dedication.
And from that day forward, Sir Osmond rode beside Sir Bernard, into the mists and across their beloved lands, never to be separated again by witch, by the fall of their kingdom, or even by Death itself.
VIII.
The last words trail out of his mouth like the smoke out hers, curling upwards in the too-cold room, and he’s left sitting there, watching, waiting, searching a face that isn’t really a face. He can’t read her expression, least of all because it’s more or less a miasma of purple fog and green lights, something that both looks human and doesn’t all at once. But at the same time, he gets the feeling he’d never be able to tell what she’s thinking even if she were human.
Finally, she uncrosses her arms, uncrosses her legs, and she’s standing in a blink. Everything she is would put off a normal human, but then again, he isn’t one, is he? Normal, that is.
“Interesting,” she says. “So Sir Bernard and the Lady of Weeds. You’re saying that happened to you?”
“Yes,” he tells her. “I’ve lost count of how many years it’s been now.”
“I see.”
She approaches the examination table and leans down to examine his sword—literal sword, with a braided hilt the color of sapphires and an eye-like jewel in its pommel. The jewel blinks but steadies itself on the ceiling.
“You don’t seem surprised,” he says.
He thinks she shrugs. He can’t quite tell.
“In my field, I’ve seen weirder,” she replies.
“Seen?”
She lifts her eyes, and he falls into emerald green. “Oh yes.”
“Then I’ve made the right decision to come to you.”
“Mm.” She places her hands on either side of the sword and leans against the table. “That stands to be determined. What exactly do you need my help with?”
“Ah. Well. You see…” He stands opposite her. His rough fingers brush against the blue leather banner trailing from the sword’s hilt. Its golden tassels rustle, as if a breeze disturbed them, but they don’t lift with the life he’s so used to seeing from them. “The story may be true, but…”
“Osmond.”
He pulls his eyes away from the sword again.
“Tell me,” she says. Violet smoke trails from her mouth. It reminds him too much of the Faerie Queen, but he can’t take his eyes away from her face.
His shoulders relax. “She didn’t tell us—the-the Lady of Weeds, I mean. I’m immortal. He’s immortal. But his body is not.”
“Oh.”
He swallows hard at the sound of that oh. “I’d heard about you, Dr. Spearing. I’d heard about your … situation. I was wondering … we can’t keep taking hosts for him. It takes a toll on Bernard’s spirit, you see.”
“You want him to be like me.”
Osmond had faced so many foes in his time. So many dragons. So many witches. But this? This is the hardest thing he has ever faced, short of the number of times he’s lured young, handsome men to his lover’s hilt.
“If it’s possible,” he whispers.
She nods, slowly. “Well … we don’t exactly know, but there’s always a first for everything. How long do you have in Goldenrod?”
“As long as it takes.” His answer is quick, immediate, and the most steadfast thing he has spoken since stepping foot in that clinic.
“Nothing else matters but love, eh? Here.” She produces a card from one of her pockets and passes it across the table. “You’ll find a bed here for as long as you need it. Leave Bernard with me. We’ll figure something out.”
He takes the card and presses it to his chest, and his eyes shine bright with hope for the first time since he embraced Bernard at the edge of that swamp. “You have no idea what this would mean to us.”
“I do,” she says.
Her fingers brush against the sword’s hilt, and its tassels stretch for a more familiar hand. So he grasps the end of it and squeezes gently but pulls away before his heart can stop him.
“You’d better get going,” she tells him. “We have a lot of work ahead of us, and it’s best to get started right away.”
And with the card in hand and a warmth in his heart, Osmond nods and retreats and thinks, for the first time since standing at the edge of the Lady’s lake, about that happily ever after.
