Chapter Text
he was pretty, the knight.
you watched him pace through the small barred window on his cell door. he had been stripped of his armor upon arrest, but you’d gotten a glimpse of it when he was brought in. silver-grey and engraved with elaborate patterns- it’d seemed too nice for an invader, more adornment than the hardware of war.
of course, his imprisonment was not up to you. you had been, as a matter of fact, forbidden to enter this section of the prison- but on your rounds you’d caught the echos of his voice singing a song you didn’t recognize- and well. you were here now.
he wasn’t singing anymore. he paced in tight circles like a captured animal, his curls bouncing lightly against his shoulders.
you drew nearer to the door, resting your fingertips lightly against the rough wood. you liked his hair. you liked the way his expression looked, the slight furrow to his brow, the way his lips were faintly pursed. distress looked good on him.
it was a shame, then, that he was to be executed. they had not said this to you, exactly, but you’d picked up phrases here and there from the men as they’d stripped him and bound his hands- that he was a spy from a distant land, best to be disposed of quickly before he could take anything back.
you wondered why, if he was a spy, he had come dressed in decorated armor, atop his white horse which would’ve been brought to the lord of your town as a gift by now, if your instincts were correct.
they usually were.
you traced your fingers along the metal bolts, holding your breath so as not to make a sound, startle him from his pacing. it was something like unreal, his beauty. you longed to run your fingers through his hair, tease apart his curls until they hung still looser than they did now-
you longed to do something more to him than simply touch his hair. heat colored your cheeks at the thought, but it was true, wasn’t it? it was not often you were so struck with someone’s looks- it was just your luck that the object of your affections was a spy about to be killed for his allegiances.
his footsteps, abruptly, halted. you had been half-considering returning to your post, scurrying back to the kitchens as if you’d never strayed from your strict delivery route- but you were suddenly very aware of him standing, back to you, in the dim candlelight.
“you,” he said suddenly. you jumped, a little, but the fear at being caught mixed with a private delight at the roughness of his voice, the strange accent you’d never heard before. “are watching. why?”
“i’m sorry,” you said, breathlessly. you weren’t. he half-turned, glancing over his shoulder to meet your eyes, and something in your lower stomach ached.
“no,” he said. there was a split in his lower lip, a thin line of blood that had already begun to dry. given to him by the guards, you had no doubt. “you’re not. they send some fucking girl to watch me?”
“no,” you said. your voice was soft, but you made no effort to step back from the door. he couldn’t hurt you, you felt confident. all he was was something nice to look at, something that despite his words couldn’t do a thing to you. “i’m not supposed to be here-” and then, feeling bold, you added in a “sir.”
his eyebrows raised. that, too, did something to your stomach, sent a shock of something through your body. he really was so pretty. too pretty to be a soldier, really, you would imagine him royalty of a sort, had you seen him in any other context.
he turned, then, fully towards you, revealing a neat web of bruises across his neck and upper chest, what you could see over the collar of his shirt. he must’ve put up a fight, then. you’d not seen all of his arrest, though you’d had a better view than some of the other kitchen girls- still, all of you had been shooed away by the matron just as things had been getting interesting.
“leave me alone,” he said, his voice dropping to something like a hiss. the effect was strange. he was clearly used to being threatening, or banking on the fact that you were afraid of him. you were not. he was bruised and bloodied and in nothing but his undershirt and pants- and, most importantly, on the other side of a strong wooden door. you had nothing to fear from him, you thought.
“you interest me,” you said. why not? he did interest you, that was, after all, why you were shirking your duties, your basket of food abandoned on the stone floor behind you. it was to be delivered to the other prisoners- those who were not being purposefully starved as part of their punishment, that was. you didn’t imagine you had long before your absence was noticed. “what were you singing?”
his eyes widened slightly, the light grey-blue of cold water.
“you heard that?” he said, and then “nothing. it was nothing. leave me to die, girl.”
“you have a nice voice,” you said. you weren’t talking specifically about the singing, though that had done well to draw you in. his speaking voice was doing a very good job keeping you here.
he stared at you for a long while. too long. then he laughed, low and quiet, more of an amused huff of breath than anything.
“you shouldn’t talk like that,” he said. you liked the rasp to his voice, the way he looked at you when he spoke. his warning did nothing to make you draw back from the door, pressing your full weight against it to watch him through the small gaps in the bars.
he matched your posture on the other side, leaning himself against the door. you were very, very close- but you felt fully safe, assured he could do nothing to you through wood. he smelled strange- like fear and sweat and the copper of blood drying on his breath, but there was a sweetness under it all like perfumed smoke.
“why not?” you dared ask. you could feel his breath on your face, hot and a little damp. you wished for a moment you could reach through the bars and touch his cheek.
he didn’t answer for a moment, instead licking at his split lip. the faint smile playing about his lips seemed to indicate he was doing it to be alluring, frightening, maybe- but you were reminded somehow of a wild animal licking it’s wounds.
he was trapped, after all. defenseless. a doomed man at the end of his life- and still despite that he was attempting to scare you off. it was almost charming, in an sort of pitiful way.
you didn’t want to be scared off. you kind of wanted to open the door and gather him into your arms, tell him he was safe now and you wouldn’t let anything happen to him until the cornered-animal air dropped and he was back to himself. whatever himself was.
“i could hurt you,” he said, finally. he’d worried his lip into splitting open again; you saw fresh blood beading up in the cut. “i’m not yours to talk sweet to, you know? i’ll think you want something from me.”
you did. you did want something from him. you wanted to taste his mouth, catch your fingers in his hair. wanted to bear his children, maybe- and the thought brought fresh heat to your cheeks. a silly fantasy, when he was set to be hung the following day. a very silly fantasy indeed.
“even if i did,” you said back, emboldened by the space between you, by the fact that you could talk all you wished, your secret thoughts would die with him. “you’re to die tomorrow.”
you didn’t expect him to wince at that, the way he’d been talking, but he did. barely noticeable, but you saw the way his brow furrowed.
the moment was gone very quickly. “come back, then,” he said. “tomorrow. distract me.”
the idea made your pulse quicken. you would be in trouble, surely. his fate may even be your own, if you were found out- but there it was again, that stupid fantasy. you had not yet been chosen as anyone’s wife, and you had heard only whispers of how it was, the thing all men seemed to want.
sex. something you did not often consider, had no desire to- until you saw him. your knight, as you were already beginning to think of him in your head. suddenly you found yourself wondering, thoughts full of him, if his dick would prove to be as pretty as he was.
you hoped so. you hoped you’d get the chance to find out.
“fine, then,” you said in what you hoped was a cool tone. no need for him to glimpse your excitement, but the corners of his mouth tugged upwards anyway. “tell me your name, and i will come back.”
“you won’t need it,” he said, and then smiled fully, a real one. the effect was very attractive, but you were beginning to suspect all emotions were on him. “or maybe you will. it’s tomas, anyway. tomas sularaha.”
“tomas sularaha,” you repeated, though your own accent treated the words differently than his. you preferred his, you thought. “i will see you tomorrow, tomas.”
the expression on his face at having his name spoken was not one you’d seen on him yet. it was almost unpleasant, though not because of his features. no, it was just difficult to look at such perfect despair written all across someone’s face.
it was, you suspected, one of the last times he’d ever hear it said again. the thought brought a pang of that despair to your chest.