Am I? A ‘true knight’. I have my doubts… had my share of them even afore today. I don’t actually know what that really means, let alone if it’s even what I want for missen.
Is being a Knight allus the answer?
“Nay,” Osytha murmurs, at last. “Nay, Ah don’t reckon Ah am. Ah reckon Ah’m allus goin’ to be figurin’ aht ’ow to grow as a Knight, ’til t’day Ah die. But Ah’s also reckon that’s alreight, so long as Ah keeps workin’ at et.”
She rises up a little, and shuffles forward on her knees. Until she’s side-by-side with Hector, then Osytha sits back against the tree with him. He doesn’t have to hold the pad so awkwardly for her that way. It also feels less like… like a confrontation, she supposes. Guffy worms his way right back into her lap, of course, though he divides his wet-nosed focus between the pair of them.
“As for whether Ah’m ‘alreight’… Ah don’t ken that jus’ yet, either.” Osytha keeps the cloak clasped together with one hand, but the other comes up and puts a fingertip soft to the page. It traces slowly over familiar shapes that she recognised the moment she laid eyes on them. “Don’t ken ’ow much diff’rence et made who did what, melded as we were. But if et did, Ah don’t even ken if et were wrong of someone to tek that choice away from me. Like Ah said — what else was to be done?”
And now here Rookheart sits because of that, trying to make sense of — what, a happy memory? He’s puzzling over watermills and mountains, while she got… she…
… Osytha remembers the day Analon didn’t make it back. She’d seen Hector and Syr Faramund return, so when she’d gone down to the stables she’d noted, in her usual, lame-under-the-cap way, it was odd their horses weren’t there. Hadn’t really understood what it was she’d been looking at in the men’s expressions; hadn’t known to connect the dots until a bit later.
And Syr Etivya… Toils, Osytha misses that woman. She was the best sort of Knight a squire could hope to train under. She’d been tough on them — not a power-tripping, callous sort of hard-arse, but the careful kind of tough that keeps pushing you far enough past your limits to make you stronger, without ever going so far as to break you. Because Etivya had cared about them, and Osytha was always able to feel that from her. But Hector and Keston were sent out with her one day to recover Syr Torgan, and of those four, only Hector and Keston came back alive.
To think Rookheart had still been a squire both those times. When Osytha was at the same age Hector had been when he’d gone on those assignments, her own were barely one step above dummy missions. That’s the price of exceptional talent, though, isn’t it? Someone of Hector’s skill and power with weaving, of course the order would want him for heavy action soon as possible. He’s not the only one, either; Syr Margot is a year younger than Osytha, but the woman has already made Pursuant. And what did it win her save for a big old target painted on her back? Now Margot Triss is a shell of her former self, courtesy of the Sightless’ tender ministrations.
Those are the memories Syr Hector had to share between them. While Osytha could draw upon ones of comfort and safety, Hector’s life has dealt him a very different hand, that much more dire and painful. He’s been forced to meet such terribly high expectations… can he really be blamed for not understanding that such demands are beyond many of his fellows?
“Tha hast a good heart. Ah din’t need t’union to ken that, but et din’t prove me wrong, either.” Osytha’s hand lowers, now to softly stroke down Guffers’ length. “But Ah think… tha’rt also blinded, as Ah am blinded in my own ways. Not all of us ’ave t’tools to turn a head-on charge at entrenched arbalists into owt other than suicide. We can’t all weave to toughen us steeds’ bones ’gainst breakin’ so easily. An’ fair few are those who can command t’flame to burn away from them, an’ ’ow hot et does so.
“Ah believe tha forget’st that, sometimes. Why wold’st tha not? Et’s jus’ ’ow t’world works for thee. But, et’s not so for t’rest of us.”
This next bit… Osytha doesn’t want to keep going, not after she’s seen some of what already haunts Syr Hector. She doesn’t want to hurt him any more than he has been. But he’s a Knight of Anathaeum, and by his actions, lives were endangered and lost today. Actions she still doesn’t agree with, however much fondness she feels toward him. Doesn’t there need to be some sort of answer for that, some sort of account?
“Tell me. Please, for Ah truly wish to ken thy reasons.” Osytha softens her voice. She’s beyond the reach of all that rage and vitriol with which she’d burned before, but still, she needs Hector to know these words aren’t spoken to cause him pain. She just needs to know. “We knew more foes had lain in wait ahead of us, so we weren’t goin’ to be caught wi’ us pants down. An’ we ’ad a reprieve from t’crossbows’ bite, so we din’t even ’ave to rush et. ’Ard to imagine that if we ’ad t’weavin’ to disable those arbalists, there wasn’t also a spell to let us slip past those ’alberdiers. Beyond that point, those bows lose they’s stoppin’ power an’ accuracy at range. We ’ad a good opportunity to slip free of ’em quick an’ easy, no fuss. T’whole thing might’ve wound up as a footnote in a report at t’bottom of they’s commander’s paperwork.
“But tha led’st a charge, ’gainst a well-fortified enemy position, ower terrible ground for a horse. Et’s a miracle we only lost ’Oneysuckle, an’ we damn near lost Syr Lando. Et were a close thing wi’ Syr Grenmerrie at t’end there, too. Now them bunnies’ll be aht for blood, so we ’ave that to contend wi’ on t’way back. But that’s not all, for tha wold’st be a fool to believe t’Sightless shan’t catch wind of summat this messy, an’ despite ’ow Ah mun sound, Ah do not reckon thee for a fool. They ’ave us location, us bearin’, us identity as knights, t’capabilities of us weavers, even some of us names, an’ they’s can use all of that. So please. Syr Hector, please tell me why.”
