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Mercedes had thought she was prepared.

It wasn’t like any of this had been a surprise. She’d fielded letters from her father (adoptive father) – (second adoptive father, sort of) – telling her of his plans to arrange her marriage even back at Garreg Mach. Then, after the war broke out, he was telling her at home. The war dragged on. Money grew tighter and food grew scarcer and suddenly Mercedes’ hypothetical arrangement wasn’t even for a nobleman anymore, but any landowning man.

She’d known it was over when her mother had told her it was for the best. They’d lived in the same house, fled the same man, had the same fears. If Mercedes’ mother was so convinced that her new husband’s judgement was trustworthy beyond reproach, even to the point it overrode her own prudence regarding marriage and human commodity… well. What could Mercedes do but steel herself to be wed?

And she thought she had.

But seeing it all… Now that everything had been erected and decorated and the spectators filled the stands and the competitors and their retinues trickled in from their temporary settlement, Mercedes felt like she was made of glass. A perfect, pretty pitcher full of puke.

A tournament.

A tournament.

She was a prize. To be won. How could anyone believe this was the best way to find a match for her? How was this allowed to happen at all?

Mercedes wanted to scream. She wanted to– to fight this. But there was no fighting. What would she do? Where would she go, alone this time? Mercedes wasn’t the kind of person who fought things, or even the kind of person who did things. She was the kind of person who went along. Even with this. And tonight, when she prayed, she wouldn’t pray for herself, because she knew that self-serving prayers were as bad as outright sins. Fate was something she would simply have to endure.

So she put on her smile and made smalltalk with the other ladies in the central spectators’ booth and watched as the knights who would compete today were lined up and announced by the heralds. Not that these were true knights, recognized by the Kingdom.

“Landowning” in this context meant noble or extremely wealthy. Nobody could afford the armor and equipment and time necessary to participate in tournaments without some fair fortune to their name. These were the kind of men who had the means or guile to avoid fighting in the war right now. Maybe that was an appealing quality to Mercedes’ parents. A way to keep her safe.

But that same shrewdness meant all of the men here for Mercedes would surely really be here for her Crest. It felt like such a betrayal, after all these years, to finally be put out for sale. By the man who had taken them in. By her mother, who had saved her from this fate the first time, who should understand why this practice is outrageous and Mercedes could never want this and oh Goddess she would be betrothed in only two days and she would have children for this stranger his hands and his cock and–

“–Galatea!”

Mercedes’ attention snapped back to the field, and to the young man the herald was moving on from.

“What did he say?”

That earned her a look from her father. “Really, Mercedes, these men are here to perform for you. It doesn’t do to disrespect them.”

Mercedes pressed the tips of her fore and middle fingers hard into her thumb, but she would never say anything reproachful. Instead she smiled and said, “I’m sorry, the sun must have gotten to me for a moment. I misheard the last introduction. Did the herald say Galatea?”

Her father nodded. “Mikkel, the eldest son of the house. Only just of age – I never attempted to negotiate a match because he’s so young. Surprised to see him all the way out here, to be honest. Not sure how he found out about us.”

“I went to school with his sister Ingrid,” Mercedes said. “At the Officer’s Academy. I hope she’s well, wherever she is.”

Goddess, to go back only a year or two, even if it all led to this same moment. Mercedes would give anything to bake with Dedue, or for Annette again. She would never figure out what exactly made Sylvain tick. Why Edelgard was always looking at her like that. Never truly reconnect with Constance. And all those afternoons taking tea with Ingrid – one of her most unexpected pleasures. Just looking at this boy who might soon be her husband sent a pang through her.

The family resemblance was uncanny. Pale skin identical. The same sharp cut to his jaw. Thought he was clearly not a tall man, he sat straight his saddle, with a strong back and a slightly raised chin – enough to look confident without coming across arrogantly. Exactly how Ingrid used to. The only difference between his hair and Ingrid’s was the length; last Mercedes had seen, Ingrid had hair most of the way down her back and she wore it in a thick braid. The boy – the man, Mikkel – had his cropped close to his head. It was choppy in a way that almost looked like he’d cut it himself, but for all Mercedes knew this could have been an effect of helmet hair, or it could have been for fashion.

Mercedes wondered if he had the strength of character Ingrid did. She had mentioned her brothers several times, but never what they were like as people. Never their views toward women, or their opinions on charity work, or how they treated their peasants, or their general manners. Nothing that mattered to Mercedes now.

She imagined sleeping with a man she didn’t know and felt something dreadful creep up her throat.

“The rumor is that she’s absconded to join the war effort,” her father continued, and Mercedes tried to listen. “Which would make Mikkel the current Galatea heir. It would be an excellent match if he takes the melee tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Mercedes replied in as pleasant a tone as she could muster. So Ingrid wasn’t safe. She wasn’t even at home. “Of course.”

“He’ll be jousting today too.”

Mercedes nodded. It would make sense. The prizes for the joust were impressive. Her father was a rich man. She wouldn’t be surprised if many of the men here today were primarily interested in the first day’s monetary rewards rather than her hand. She knew it was vain to hope for all of them.

“Could just be hoping to make a name for himself,” her father concluded. “But I suppose we’ll see.”

By mid-afternoon it was clear that Mikkel had made a name for himself regardless of how seriously he planned to fight for Mercedes’ hand the next day. He won two of the three prizes in the individual joust: first, a ruby nearly a third the size of Mercedes’ fist worth thirty thousand gold for breaking the most lances during the competition. Second, a thousand-gold diamond for remaining longest in the lists without losing his helm. The golden wand for the best blow of the day was the most valuable prize and it rewarded the showiest feat, but even though that had gone to another man, Mikkel’s name buzzed on everyone’s lips.

He hadn’t lost his helmet at all, and his lances shattered so often because he had speed, power, and precision with an uncanny consistency. Even by the standards of a trained noble, his riding was impressive. If he went for safe plays over showy ones, and this was considered less thrilling sportsmanship, it was certainly no less impressive a feat.

At first, Mercedes had wondered if the Galateas were simply a horse family. It seemed unlikely – from those days spent taking tea together, Mercedes had gotten the impression that Ingrid’s love for all things equestrian came to her despite her family’s land and circumstances rather than because of them.

They’d spent time talking about everything and nothing in those days, but so much of it had been trivial. Now Mercedes could only curse her circumstances for making her think of those precious moments as wasted opportunities. And it wasn’t like they’d never been serious with each other; Ingrid was one of relatively few people to know the extent of Mercedes’ family history, and she’d divulged the troubles facing house Galatea in turn. But Mercedes knew very little of Ingrid’s family as people. She didn’t know if Ingrid had a favorite flower, or color, or if she had enjoyed ballgames as a child.

If none of it was ever going to have mattered, she would have liked to learn everything she could have.

Now Ingrid was missing, unaccounted for in the war that people were here to distract themselves from, and Mercedes had to watch her little brother approach the winner’s circle and ask herself whether his youth would make it more or less tolerable for him to fuck her, should they find themselves betrothed this time tomorrow. There wasn’t much time to think about it, though – Mikkel himself was here now, greeting her father, waiting for his prizes.

“Come now lad, let us see your face!”

Mercedes was a little shocked to hear her father address Mikkel so casually. It was true that Count Galatea had no lesser titles to pass onto his children and as a result there was no special form of address necessary here, but her father was speaking as if this boy was already his son-in-law. Was he going to speak to every competitor so casually? Mercedes swallowed her nerves and smiled.

“Ah, I would, sir,” said Mikkel, rapping himself on the head with his armored knuckle, “but I fear my helmet is such a chore to remove.” His voice carried an awkward sound, detectable even through the tinny muffle of his helm. It was more than high-pitched – it had a pressed quality to it that Mercedes couldn’t identify.

Mercedes’ father was flabbergasted. “Have you no squire, lad? No retinue?”

“I thought it would be imprudent to take an able-bodied man away from the family during wartime when I’m perfectly capable of managing my own armor, sir. It only takes me longer.” A little bow, stiff in the rigid riding mail. “I apologize for inconveniencing you.”

“I could help you, if you like,” Mercedes had said before she could think better of it.

Her father’s eyes and Mikkel’s entire upper body turned toward her. “My lady?”

“I’m familiar with the method of removal for a frog-mouthed helm,” she told them. “They held jousting contests occasionally in the town beneath Garreg Mach, and I would assist my friends in armoring themselves for competition. I can get it off for you quickly.”

Mikkel began to utter some protest, but Mercedes put her foot down – now that she’d heard his voice, she needed to see him, up close. Soon he had directed her to the tool she needed to undo the screws keeping his helmet secured to his chest plate and in only a couple minutes he was tugging the helmet away from his head.

Mercedes disguised her gasp by turning it into an awkward cough, hidden behind her hand. Hiding her surprise was difficult but imperative, because even under the padded coif, with tufts of straw-colored hair poking out, plastered with sweat and flushed with the heat of the armor, and with only the cutout of a face showing through, Mercedes knew instantly – that wasn’t Ingrid’s brother.

It was Ingrid.

The streets were quiet tonight. Many of the people who would usually be out and about were gathered at the temporary settlement that had been built for the tourney, enjoying food and wine provided by Mercedes’ father. She herself had only now managed to slip away from the main hall, hours after festivities began. Being the centerpiece of the event (the prize? Lust object? Crest trophy?) had made it impossible to simply melt into a corner and disappear like she tended to at parties. Instead she’d been forced to mingle and meet people and pretend to be charmed by any number of men. She might belong to any of them this time tomorrow, after all, so every single impression needed to be perfect.

One man had very notably not made an appearance, nor was she staying in the settlement like most of the other competitors, which only left the inn in the city to investigate. It was, frankly, too late for Mercedes to be walking around on her own and she would almost certainly be recognized at the inn, but she needed to speak to Ingrid.

Mercedes had done a lot of thinking in the long hours since she’d realized who Mikkel actually was. There was wondering, of course: why was Ingrid here? What was her plan? How did she expect to get away with it? And there was hoping: is she truly here for me? To save me? To be with me?

Would Mercedes even want that, if it were the case? She had never really imagined herself settling with anyone before. With her priorities and the particular kinds of work she chose to dedicate herself to, it had never seemed like it would be on the table, even before the arranged marriage business reared its head.

Could she be happy with Ingrid? Certainly she had been happy to spend time with her at the Academy. Ingrid was certainly attractive. She was kind, with a good spirit and a keen morality. Compassionate. Someone to be admired. Maybe that would be enough.

If she won the tournament.

If she wanted Mercedes.

If, if, if.

The heavy clouds were black in the sky.

Before long she had arrived at the Inn and suffered the hesitation and judgmental look from the woman behind the counter. Now she stood by the door to the private room Mikkel had booked for himself on the second floor – the furthest one down the hall. It didn’t escape Mercedes that this was the furthest someone could get from the common area.

Mercedes knocked. No response. She knocked again, louder.

“I’m sorry,” came Ingrid’s voice. Now Mercedes understood what she was hearing: a woman straining to lower her pitch. “It’s very late, and-”

“It’s me, Mikkel.”

Only a few seconds later the door swung open and Ingrid was ushering her inside. She still dressed in men’s clothing even though she’d been alone here for presumably several hours at this point – fitted trousers and a woolen doublet with a linen shirt underneath. Now that Mercedes had a clearer understanding of what was going on she could tell that Ingrid had chopped off her own hair and done a fairly inelegant job of it. Still, it helped reframe the shape of her face to something a little more rectangular, a little sharper, a little more focused on her jaw. She couldn’t get away from how smooth she was, or how high her voice was relative to a man’s, but Mercedes supposed that was why she had played the part of a boy barely eighteen years old.

Mercedes didn’t have much time to contemplate any of this before Ingrid grabbed her shoulders and said, “What are you doing here?”

“Of course I came to see you! You can’t just appear the way you have and expect me to know what you’re thinking!”

At those words Ingrid let go of her and retreated further into the room, pacing the way Mercedes knew she did when she was anxious.

“I’m here for you, obviously.”

“I– what does that mean?” Mercedes stood where Ingrid had left her, rooted in place by the door. All her nervous energy was trying to leak out through her fingers, twisting themselves up where they were clasped together over her stomach. “What is your plan? You’re going to fight for me in the melee?”

Ingrid faced the window, hand resting on the sill. Her posture was stiff, uncomfortably so. “Yes.”

“And then what?”

No response. Fingers curling into a fist against the cool glass.

“You are impersonating your living brother,” Mercedes continued. “You can’t just take me back to Galatea territory and-”

“We wouldn’t go back.”

Mercedes took a second to process that. “I’m sorry?”

Ingrid turned to face her. The fire on the other side of the room lit only half her face. “You’re right, we wouldn’t be able to. We would have to go on the run, at least for a little while. Settle somewhere we could go unnoticed, where our families wouldn’t chase us. The Empire, maybe.”

This should have been good news. It was exactly what Mercedes had forbidden herself from hoping for – an out, a reunion, a promise of freedom. But her throat felt tight and her chest had a weight in it, like she was leaning over the edge of a cliff, fighting the instinct to jump.

“Why would you do that?” she asked. Her voice sounded clear and steady; she was glad this skill hadn’t left her. She didn’t feel steady. It was too soon to hope for anything. None of this with Ingrid was real. Her parents, the tournament, the arrangements, her pregnant belly at the end of it all – those were real right now, still. “Throw it all away? For me?”

Ingrid was still. She wouldn’t meet Mercedes’ eyes. “I have…abandoned my family.”

Now things began to make sense. Ingrid’s plight had always been similar to Mercedes’ after all. At its core, at least. “I’m sorry, Ingrid.”

Ingrid’s eyes flashed and her posture stiffened like a child caught sneaking sweets after bedtime. “Don’t use that name,” she insisted in a hushed tone.

Mercedes followed her eyes to the door, and although she high doubted anyone was listening she said, “Of course. I apologize.”

Ingrid relaxed and nodded. It looked like it took some effort. “I’m sorry too. I’m on edge all the time these days. Always looking over my shoulder. This is the first time I’ve lingered anywhere for so long, and I’m sure word will get back to my family eventually, but…”

“You haven’t answered my question.” Mercedes didn’t want to force the issue, but she wasn’t as strong as Ingrid. Wasn’t strong enough to leave. Wasn’t strong enough to say no. Wasn’t strong enough to hope, until now.

Rain began to patter lightly on the window.

“When the war broke out I’d hoped that would be my chance to make something of myself in the military, or at least put hold on the marriage market. But it only accelerated things.” Ingrid sat on the edge of the bed and her fists curled on her legs. “With taxes and tithes and demands on food production, Galatea is worse-off than ever. My father’s standards have relaxed. My agency matters little. And the thought… I feel ill, thinking of… I wanted to be a knight, not a Crestbreeder. Now I will be neither. It’s craven of me. Selfish. But I can’t go back. My legs won’t carry me.”

“I… am sorry,” Mercedes said. She finally found it in herself to move, approaching the bed slowly and getting on one knee to be level with Ingrid. “I think I understand. But I need to know: why risk your discovery for me? I’m not…”

Ingrid looked up from her lap, steel in her gaze. Their noses were very close. Mercedes could smell the clove-wash from the soap by the room’s basin coming off her. “Because you understand. How could I leave someone I care for to a fate I know to be so revolting?”

It was such an earnest response. Even though she looked different and felt sadder, and the situation that had reunited them was so dire, this was the Ingrid Mercedes remembered. And it felt so, so good to have someone care about her in a way a way that didn’t feel burdened by material investment. She hadn’t felt that since– well, since the Academy. It was such a relief.

Maybe that was why Mercedes kissed her.

It was easy – just one little nudge of their noses to lock their lips together. She hadn’t closed her eyes and neither did Ingrid, who looked shocked but didn’t pull away. It was a chaste kiss but a long one. Mercedes didn’t want the moment to be over. She wanted Ingrid to understand her feelings and she didn’t want to have to say them out loud. This kiss was how she wanted to be known. But that was foolish, and presumptive, and rude, so she broke it.

“Please forgive me,” she said quietly, face only inches from Ingrid’s. “I shouldn’t-”

But Ingrid grabbed Mercedes’ face with both hands, thumbs pressing inelegantly into her cheeks, and pulled her in for another, a real kiss. And Mercedes was weak, so she went along with it. This might be the last time she ever got what she wanted, after all.

Ingrid’s mouth was like her fingertips: rough, clumsy, and forceful. Mercedes wondered if she had much experience with this sort of thing, but she couldn’t ask – in addition to proud, Ingrid was sensitive. The best thing to do would be to take the lead, and Mercedes had no problem doing so.

Without breaking the kiss, she stood and pressed a hand lightly to Ingrid’s chest. She didn’t budge at first, but as Mercedes pressed their bodies together and teased at her lips with her tongue she seemed to get the idea. Ingrid let herself be guided onto her back and she whimpered cutely when Mercedes stood up, their lips finally parting.

Moving as quickly as she could, Mercedes unbuttoned her cuffs and unclasped the brooch at her collar, loosening it enough to yank her dress hastily over her head and toss it over the back of the nearby desk chair. Left in only her underclothes, she had the mobility to climb on top of Ingrid, planting a knee between her legs. Mercedes didn’t miss the flush on Ingrid’s face or the way she gaped at the sight of Mercedes’ skin. She could feel the heat of Ingrid’s arousal on her knee. It made something twist inside her, dark and liquid.

“Do you want this?” she asked, voice hazy. She almost regretted it too – asking made room for the answer to be no, and Mercedes needed it to be yes tonight, coming from Ingrid. But given what they were both running from, the choice meant everything here and now.

“Of course I do!” Ingrid blurted so fast she couldn’t have given it a moment’s thought. It made Mercedes laugh and Ingrid flushed so sweetly in response that Mercedes couldn’t resist leaning down to finally kiss her again, deeper and hungrier, encouraged by the throaty little moan that Ingrid gasped into her mouth.

“Touch me,” Mercedes breathed, and she smiled when Ingrid’s hands made their way to the back of her neck and threaded through her hair, cradling her head. It wasn’t what Mercedes had intended, but it was cute, and it felt like invitation to guide the proceedings.

She kissed at the corner of Ingrid’s mouth, then made her way to her jaw, and finally moved to her neck. Ingrid stiffened at first, gasping, and her fingers gripped Mercedes’ roots. She relaxed after a moment. Mercedes made an inquisitive “Hmmm?” sound.

“It’s okay,” Ingrid said heavily from above her. “I’m simply – hah – simply unused to being touched so.”

Mercedes began to tug at the drawstring of Ingrid’s doublet and the garment slowly began to loosen. “I’ll take good care of you. I promise.”

“I know.”

The clothes needed to come off. Mercedes pulled herself away from Ingrid’s neck and gave her full attention to the doublet, tearing away the drawstring and prying it open with her fingers. She helped Ingrid shrug out of it, but when she lifted the undershirt over Ingrid’s head she was surprised to find another garment: a soft waistcoat-style corset, drawn up in the front similarly to the doublet. It looked tight but not restrictive – there was room for her arms to move freely and it seemed like she could breathe fine if the heavy rise and fall of her chest was any indication.

“Oh,” Mercedes said, almost to herself. “This is–”

“How I disguise my breasts, yes,” Ingrid said, turning her head to the side.

“Is that necessary under your armor?”

“Men do not wear full plate most of the day. I don’t want to take risks.”

“I see.” Mercedes had been unlacing the corset while they talked, and it was finally loose enough to pull open. “I hope we can make you more comfortable, just for tonight.”

Her fingers exposed Ingrid’s chest and the other woman shuddered automatically. There were scars here, ones Mercedes recognized from missions at the Academy. The largest was a jagged stab wound that ran under Ingrid’s left breast. Mercedes remembered the day Ingrid received it – dehorsed and overwhelmed after she plowed into a cluster of enemy troops. At the time everyone had thought Ingrid might die. Now Mercedes ran her thumb lightly along the edge of the blotch and relished the sigh it earned her from above.

She leaned forward and dragged her tongue up the scar. Ingrid’s skin was warm and had the faint salty taste of her sweat. Mercedes hummed against it, satisfied with the shuddering exhale that she felt more than heard as she kissed her way around to Ingrid’s nipple.

Ingrid’s breathing grew shallow when Mercedes circled her nipple with her tongue, and when she sucked it into her mouth she half-said, “Mercedes,” but it was swallowed by a moan as her back arched into the feeling. “Mercedes. Mercedes, I- ah.”

“It’s alright,” Mercedes said. “I know it’s a lot. We’ll go slow.”

She let her hand trail down Ingrid’s stomach, which flexed under her, hard and muscular. Mercedes was tempted to linger, but with the way Ingrid had stiffened at the touch she worried that belly petting might be too intense a sensation. She went lower, under the waistband of Ingrid’s pants, and her fingers passed through coarse hair to find folds so slick she could have slipped right inside if she’d wanted to.

“Beautiful,” she said. Her parted fingers began to massage around Ingrid’s entrance to acquaint her with the feeling. “Have you ever–”

Mercedes looked up to ask her question but stopped when she saw Ingrid’s face. Her eyes were screwed shut and her mouth was curled into a grimace. The shallow breathing Mercedes had mistaken for pleasure might well have been some sort of panic. Mercedes stopped what she was doing immediately and withdrew her hand from Ingrid’s pants.

“I’m sorry,” Ingrid said, and her voice hitched when she did. She turned her head away from Mercedes, but in doing so leaned into the firelight. The tears running down her cheeks glinted in the glow. She sniffed loudly. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Mercedes asked gently. She was afraid to touch Ingrid again – she didn’t know what she’d done wrong.

“I can’t… do this.” Ingrid opened her eyes, reddened with tears. “I can’t. It’s... I feel vile.”

“Ingrid–”

“Please, Mercedes,” Ingrid shut her eyes again and curled into herself, arms wrapped around her chest protectively. “Don’t call me that.”

“I–” Mercedes paused. This didn’t feel like a security precaution anymore. She glanced out the window. The rain battered the Inn, surely thwarting anyone who might overhear them outside the room.

“Please,” Ingrid whispered.

“What should I call you?”

“… I don’t… I don’t know. Nothing. I don’t know if I deserve a name.”

“Why not?”

“I have abandoned my duty to my house. I have squandered my potential in knighthood or even the military. I cannot even please a dear friend on a dark night.” Ingrid’s face twisted and her eyes remained closed, as if to open them would be to confront this reality she was constructing. “I am nothing and no one.”

Mercedes thought about that for a few moments. Ingrid seemed content to lay in miserable silence.

“Then be someone.”

Finally, her eyes opened. She shot Mercedes a confused look. “What?”

“Be my knight,” Mercedes said seriously. “Compete in the melee tomorrow as you planned. Afterwards, when the attention is finally off me, you can take me away from here. And by the time anyone realizes you’re not Mikkel, let us be long gone. Let us be free. Together.”

Ingrid pushed herself into a sitting position, eyes fixed on Mercedes. “You mean that,” she said.

“With my entire heart,” Mercedes affirmed.

“And…” Ingrid paused.

“Please,” Mercedes said. “Please tell me what you’re thinking. I want to understand.”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Ingrid said. “When I’ve won.”

“Alright.” Mercedes smiled and took Ingrid’s hand in both of her own and kissed the knuckles. “Good luck.”

It is well after dawn when the daylight penetrates the clouds and leaks through your window. Ordinarily this would be cause for worry – you rely on the sun to wake you in the mornings, and you always oversleep when it rains. But the rain stopped hours ago, and you’ve been awake all night anyway.

How could you sleep, after what happened with Mercedes? After you embarrassed yourself? When was the last time you cried, ever? Did you even shed tears for Glenn? Thinking about that makes your head hurt. It’s foolish, and it’s a distracting waste of precious time. You need to focus. Today is important.

You’ve forgone breakfast for meditation. There’s no way you could keep food down right now and besides, it will help to be centered today – you don’t know most of the men at this tourney but it would be foolish to assume you’re a better fighter than all of them just because you attended a military school for a year. Several of these men are minor nobles and it’s likely that at least a few of them are actual Garreg Mach graduates rather than whatever you are.

Attendee? Dropout? Whatever the right term would be, it’s unlikely you’re going to risk showing up to that five year reunion now.

Briefly, you wonder if any of your compatriots would even want to see you after what you’ve done to your family. You wonder if Mercedes would be so happy you were here if she didn’t need you. If she knew you half as well as she thought she did.

You’re distracting yourself again. It’s time to get dressed.

Corset first. It’s your only one and frankly it needs to be washed. Your armor isn’t fitted to accommodate the slight padding it adds to your frame either, but you won’t be caught outside without it, ever. You tell yourself, not for the first time, that it’s for security. Just in case. You’ll say it to yourself until you believe it.

The corset is soft, with simple boning in the straps and just enough rigidity to count as shapewear. It’s not exactly a perfect disguise, but the binding element and slight girth it adds under other garments disguises your figure well enough. Today you feel compelled to lace it as tightly as possible, like if you could simply tamp down your breasts hard enough they would disappear. Maybe you should have cultivated a relationship with that Constance girl.

A fresh linen shirt and a quilted doublet go over the corset, and even though your chest is restricted and the rest of you is about to join it, you feel as though you can breath for the first time since Mercedes knocked on your door. You rub the pads of your index and middle fingers against your thumb; the calluses are a comfort, a reminder that when you’re on that field, you will be who you’ve always wanted to be.

You run a hand through your close-cropped hair and smile.

Split hose and leather shoes go on next, and then you turn to the armor you’ve laid out carefully on the table opposite the bed. The weapons permitted in the melee are clubs and blunted swords with square ends.

Stabbing will be disallowed by the tourney rules. Other men will account for this; their breastplates will be full of holes and they might even wear leather instead of mail underneath them – anything to shed weight and improve maneuverability. When the threat is only a mild bludgeon the armor doesn’t need to do as much of the work as it usually might.

You don’t have that kind of luxury because yours is, of course, true armor, designed for real battle. For the war you’ve run away from.

not the war you wouldn’t get to fight in the war you’d be married to one of the men here or even worse and you’d be pregnant before the end of the year and pregnant again as soon as you were able and even if your child was Crested they would never be satisfied because what if you could produce a second one or a third one your body is not your own–

When you’ve finished dry heaving over the basin like a child, you go back to the table and begin to tie the armor pieces to yourself, starting at your feet and working your way up. There are harnesses behind your calves and your knees. A twine tie at the side of each thigh and a buckle behind them. The familiar rattle of your hauberk is comforting as it goes over your head. You’re still not quite used to the way you don’t have to worry about your long, thick hair catching in the chains, but that realization remains pleasant every time.

The harnesses on your chestplate are difficult to properly belt without assistance, but you’re used to it. Even before you ran away from your family and abandoned your people, your dreams weren’t taken seriously – if they were entertained at all. These were skills you had to fight for.

Dressing yourself in light armor is like slipping into a comfortable pair of gloves. You do your arms and shoulders last. There’s no point in a backplate for this kind of sport combat and having to secure their buckles one-handed makes them the trickiest part.

You hop once, twice; flex your limbs to acquaint yourself with the limitations of your metal joints. Every movement produces a pleasant leafy sound as the thin steel plates that make up your second skin contort around themselves. Your motion is fairly restricted. With the corset, everything is a little too tight and you know it will get too hot quickly. Still, it’s more comfortable than the skin you wear most of the time.

Time to prove you deserve to wear it.

The rain did a number on the field. What had been dusty clay plainland with patches of young, soft grass has become a sloppy wasteland. The tents of the tourney settlement are sturdy and their canvas walls are thick enough to repel water for the most part, so spectators haven’t been adversely affected by last night’s weather. The most they’ll have to deal with is filthy shoes and muddied robe hems.

The twenty-four combatants in today’s melee will not have this luxury.

You and your enemies will be down and dirty, and nobody likes scrapping in the muck. It is what it is, though. Adverse conditions wouldn’t be enough to cow you if it was only your pride on the line – but of course, it’s not only your pride. As you stand in a row with the men you’re going to destroy and pretend to listen to the herald drone on and on, you can’t help but glance Mercedes’ way.

She’s watching you, of course, face unreadable. She was always a better actor than anyone gave her credit for at the Officer’s Academy, partially because no one thought to give her any credit for it at all. Why would Mercedes need to act? She was an open book, after all. People like you knew that kind of thinking was nonsense, of course. Maybe that’s why she kissed you last night. Now’s not the time to worry about it.

You’re directed to march to a corner of the arena. Everyone will start evenly spaced against the rope partition that demarcates the zone of battle. The space is large enough to accommodate the number of combatants but small enough to force skirmish immediately. Things will only slow down once numbers thin out. The rules are simple: Knocking a man fully to the ground in a way he can’t recover from, or into unconsciousness is all it will take for a referee to step in and call him eliminated. No stabbing. Free for all. Last man standing gets the girl.

This could have been you. You would have just gone along with it. No one would have come to save you. She wouldn’t have. Nothing and no one.

Your fingers tighten around your blunted sword’s handle until you hear the leather in your gloves creak against the grip. It’s not your preferred weapon – even on foot you’ve trained primarily with lances. But a true knight is well-rounded, and the Officer’s Academy offered a wealth of opportunities. You’re prepared.

A horn whines, high and sharp, signaling the beginning of the melee.

The man positioned directly to your left is your first target; his armor is shiny and clean and you haven’t spotted even a single dent in it. These are all telltale signs that he’s a poser with no combat experience, a distraction that needs to be taken off the field immediately. Left alone he might become a surprise problem while you’re fighting someone who matters. And he’ll make a good warmup.

So far the mud doesn’t seem like it’s going to be a huge problem, but you can’t be sure how firm the ground will be throughout the field. Best to keep that in the back of your mind. For now, your target has caught on to your approach. He has his own sword in his right hand and a buckler on his left arm.

He locks eyes with you and, as expected, panics immediately, flinging his sword in an undisciplined overhead swing. You bring your own sword up in an arcing underhand guard and bat it away, catching his blade with yours and using his own momentum to pull him off balance. You follow that momentum as well, pivoting your hips in the same direction you’ve pulled him and swinging your left fist in a nasty hook. When he stumbles forward his jaw catches directly on your gauntlet.

The man wears only a sallet helm, so your hand punches an exposed mouth and he goes spinning into the mud. Curling your fist to make sure you haven’t damaged your armored joints, you see first blood staining the dull steel of your knuckles.

Teeth bare themselves behind your visor.

You’re going to show them all.

Another man approaches from your peripheral vision. Clearly he thinks you don’t see him and maybe as a result his swing is sloppy. Rather than jump back or even take a step in this mud you simply spread your legs a little bit and lean toward your left knee, lowering and elongating your stance so the swipe misses you entirely.

This man isn’t flustered by his miss – he’s actually fought people before and it shows in his composure. That doesn’t mean he’s better than you, though.

You execute a series of arcing upper strikes, letting the weight of your arm and sword carry the blade down. Your opponent parries the first blow but it glances, and you let the follow-through bring your arm back to you so you can wind up for a second attack. It happens quickly, and soon he’s backpedalling, faltering against the speed and power he’s allowed you to build. You advance on him with steady feet and while you don’t connect a solid hit, he doesn’t have a moment to properly counter you.

Finally, walking backward bites him and he slips, falling onto his back, and you waste no time kicking him hard in the face. Either his helmet produces that horrible crunching sound or his nose does – he goes limp regardless and the referee who was watching tells you to back off. You turn to assess the battlefield for your next conquest.

The herd has thinned already. Things were bound to whittle down quickly with so few combatants. This isn’t like the melees you might have read about in your chivalric tales, clashes between small armies of men that could have lasted all afternoon and were fought with pride and glory in mind. Of course, you can’t dream of those stories without that little voice in your head that reminds you they would never include you. Not in the capacity you wish they would. You would never be a knight in such tales. You would be a damsel, gilding victors with wreaths and chaste kisses.

Ingrid saw a dozen battlefields, of course. She excelled on them, too. But that year was a cruelty. It hurt all the worse because you hadn’t realized at first how fleeting the taste of escapism would be. You didn’t realize it was escapism at all. For a few months you really thought you might have a shot at making a life out of that experience, despite everything.

A club catches your arm, a well-aimed blow that fails to land correctly by chance more than because you dodged correctly. Your impulse is to criticize yourself for losing focus, but right now instinct and adrenaline take over and your body moves automatically – all those extra hours running drills alone after dark paying off.

not alone. Mercedes came to watch, that’s how you grew close

You position your body sideways and hold your sword in front of you, pulling your left arm close to your chest. It makes you a smaller target and lets you prioritize upper body movement and footwork, things that will matter when you pit your blade against the heavier weapon. He swings again and you backstep. When his club whistles just in front of your chest you dart forward and slam the top of his head with your pommel.

The man is disoriented, so you grab his wrist with your free hand to keep his club away and even though you can tell he’s stronger than you, it won’t matter in a second. Ideally you would want to headbutt him here but he’s taller than you too and unlike the earlier buffoon his helmet is like yours – a visor covers his face. So instead you hit him twice more where you estimate his temple might be and knee him in the crotch for good measure.

By the time you’re finished he’s on the ground and begging you to stop and that feels really good. Reason tells you he’s out of the competition.

There’s no chance to catch your breath, though, as a man in dented armor maybe twenty feet away drops his unconscious opponent and locks eyes with you. He is much larger than you and clearly has taken some hard hits today, which means he either has fantastic stamina or he’s near his limits – you don’t want to gamble.

He’s on you quickly. You each wield identical katzbalgers, but the weapon looks tiny in his hand, where in yours it barely qualifies as a short sword. His first attack is a classic, no nonsense horizontal cut, using all the energy of his rapid approach to fuel the blow. Your footing isn’t sound so there’s no choice but to block it, free hand on the flat of your blade to reinforce your defense. When it strikes, you feel a painful reverberation all the way up your arms and into your shoulders as your body tries to lock itself up. To do so would be deadly on a real battlefield.

You remind yourself that most of the noblemen on the field today haven’t ever seen real combat, not like you have. The voice in your head reminds you that at least some of them have probably fought in wars though, and you haven’t.

He punches you in the head and your vision blackens for a full two seconds, long enough for him to slam directly into your left side while you’re still disoriented. The wind goes out of you. His strength is overwhelming. You flail – undisciplined – as your feet fail you, slipping in the muddy clay, and you feel the tip of your sword catch him in the face with a quiet clapping sound.

Wheezing on your back, you see that you’ve damaged the visor of his helmet somehow. He takes an unsteady step and grasps at it with his free hand. Even though you’re still blinking stars from your vision, you can’t let an opportunity like this pass you by; so you hook one of your feet around his meaty ankle and yank it toward yourself as hard as you can. He’s so sturdy this probably wouldn’t have worked in normal conditions, but the mud underneath him gives way more than his actual stance does and he crashes to the ground flat on his back, just like you did.

You scramble to mount him as fast as you can – to straddle his waist in a horrible parody of the fate you’ve run away from. His daze won’t last long and you need to make sure he won’t thrash around, so you lay your sword across his shoulders and lean your whole body into the arm pressing it into him. It won’t be nearly enough force to keep him restrained once his faculties return and you know that because he’s just so much bigger than you and suddenly the ball of oil that sits in your gut all the time ignites into a white-hot blaze.

You punch him in the face with as much force as you can muster.

Because it’s not fair, is it? You’re not the eldest, you’re nobility, you’re talented. You care more and live better than most of the knights you grew up admiring and still when men look at you – when your own father looks at you – all they see is what you wish you could tear out of yourself.

It’s not fair because this man whose name you don’t even know is nearly a foot taller than you and surely over a hundred pounds heavier. That will always make a difference no matter what you do and no matter how much you practice with this sword, and nothing will ever change that.

It’s not fair because even crying in pain beneath you as your fist shatters his nose and crumples his helm and breaks his teeth, those pathetic howls are deeper and more guttural than any sound you will ever make in your life, no matter how short you cut your hair or how tightly you bind your breasts.

You’ll never love anyone the way you want to, Mercedes will always look at you with the kind of confusion she did last night or worse or worse or worse, and it’s this man’s fault. It’s every man’s fault. It’s the Kingdom, it’s the Church, it’s Rhea, it’s you, it’s Dimitri, it’s your father, it’s your mother, you can’t breath, you can’t breathe, you–

Someone pulls you off of him. You’re dimly aware that he’s not moving anymore, but it’s not a ref grabbing you – it’s another combatant. He only spins you around enough catch you hard in the face with his club. You don’t fall to the first hit but your weapon is still laid across the unconscious man on the ground, so when your new opponent’s second attack comes for you all you can think to do is raise your hands to protect yourself. This is a mistake.

A horrible reality sets in as soon as you lose feeling in your arm, like the fire inside you has been smothered with loose dirt. You will not win this melee with one working arm and no weapon. You won’t even beat this man here. He hits you again, once more in the face, and you spin into the mud. It presses through the holes in your visor and you can taste it, silty and earthy and wet on your lips. Its gritty texture sticks to your teeth even as you cough it out.

You feel oddly calm. It’s a familiar feeling, this coldness that’s seeping out from your core and settling in every part of you. This is exactly what it felt like the first time you realized your life was over, when you received that first letter from your father at the Officer’s Academy. It’s the feeling of realizing you were playing out a fantasy; that you’re just a stupid, whiny little girl who’s not even pushing against her fate. You’re only playacting at it. You always have been.

Someone kicks you in the head and when you black out you’re glad for the release.

You were the fifth-to-last one standing in the melee – too low to be proud of, too high to be dismissed outright. Exactly the right placement to feel disgusted with yourself. The voice in your head tells you that you could have done worse; it also says you couldn’t have done better, and even placing this high was probably a fluke.

Slinking back to the inn before the closing ceremony is the most shameful thing you’ve ever done, but you’ve revealed yourself to be a creature who can never reach the ideals you’ve pretended at for so long anyway. If you feel bad about anything, it’s that this might affect Mikkel’s reputation, but your weakness wins out in the end. You just can’t stand to face Mercedes again after you’ve failed her so miserably. You especially can’t bear to see her awarded to some Crest chaser. Just thinking about it makes you feel some combination of nauseous and enraged.

No, it will be best to leave town tonight, while festivities are still going on. Travel will be horrible with your arm in the state it’s been left in after the tourney, but you can only hope that the next town down the road will have a healer, or at least an apothecary. Discomfort along the way is another price for your incompetence today.

The sun went down a couple hours ago. You’re still exhausted, but you should leave now before another night in the bed becomes irresistible. You’ve already been sitting here stewing for hours.

You might have kept waffling about it if not for the knock at your door.

“It’s me,” came Mercedes’ voice, unmistakable even in hushed tones.

Panic lances through your body and lodges itself at the base of your throat. You move as fast as you can to the door of your room and let her inside.

“What are you doing here?” you say, high pitched and frightened.

She frowns at you in a way that reads more upset than angry. “Why wouldn’t I be here?”

“I…” Suddenly you can’t look at her. You turn around and catch sight of your armor where you left it, haphazardly discarded around the writing desk. That sight is even more sickening, so you pivot to sit on the bed and put your face in you hands. You feel like crying, but you don’t even remember the last time you were able to before last night. You’re not sure it will ever happen again. No matter how cathartic it would be, you’re stuck right on the edge of it – just like you are with everything else in your life.

She sits beside you, close. You feel the voluminous fabric of her overgown brush against your leg through your pants. A hand grasps your forearm, firmly but not forcefully.

“Ingrid–”

A breath escapes you and you only realize your whole chest is shaking when it comes out big and rattly.

“I’m sorry,” Mercedes says instantly, quieter. When you don’t respond for maybe a minute, she continues. “May I help you with all of this?”

You lift your head from your hands to find her gesturing at the horrible purple-red bruise that covers most of your arm and has started to swell. Something stops you from speaking; shame, possibly. Maybe you just don’t want to hear the sound of your own voice right now. But after a few seconds, you nod and let her gently pull your shirt off you. The corset is next and you screw your eyes shut like a child as you feel yourself exposed to her again. Still, even though you can’t look at Mercedes, you let her gently push you onto your back, perpendicular across the bed.

“I haven’t kept up with my studies exactly,” she says. “But I find plenty of occasion to keep the skills I do have sharp.”

She’s filling space with her smalltalk because you’re being so petulant and impossible. That’s not enough to face her though; when you open your eyes you’ve turned your head to look at the pillow. A soft green glow washes through the room as Mercedes works on your arm. It takes two rounds of whatever she does. Casts? Whatever. You never had a brain for magic. She moves on to your head next, hands hovering just over the spot that lost you the tourney.

“This won’t fix the discoloration in your eye,” she tells you, close enough now that you can feel her the warmth coming off her. “It will heal your burst blood vessels, but the blood that’s staining your white will still be trapped there. You’ll have to wait it out like usual.”

You hum in a tone that you hope communicates your understanding. A couple weeks with a bloodstained eyeball isn’t going to make a difference to you.

“I’ll get started with those bruises on your torso next,” Mercedes says.

“I’m sorry,” you croak.

Mercedes stops what she’s doing. “Why?”

“I failed you,” is what you say, but that’s not even exactly true. You correct yourself: “I’m a failure.”

“Ing– ah,” Mercedes catches herself but it doesn’t alleviate the reflexive tension you feel in your shoulders. “I don’t care about the tournament.”

Finally you turn your head to look at her. “What?”

“I never cared about the tournament,” she says, frowning. “It would have been nice if you’d won. We might have had better cover tomorrow. But wasn’t the plan always to run away together? I thought we agreed.”

“I–”

You sit straight up and then immediately deflate into a slouch. That was true, wasn’t it. Leaving in the middle of the tourney would have been a stupid idea. You were the one who suggested running away in the first place. This whole thing just… you made it about you. Mercedes’ life on the line and all you could think about was other people.

“I’m a fool,” you mutter. That sums it up.

Mercedes is silent for a long moment, hands withdrawn to her lap, fingers picking at each other. When she finally speaks, she says, “This… all of this. Impersonating Mikkel… it’s not just for the tournament, is it?”

You stare at your hands, palms up and fingers curled slightly. They are rough and callused. The muscles in them are thick from your dedication to the lance. They’re small, but they’re your favorite part of yourself. They could almost be a man’s hands, if you didn’t know better.

“I’m not usually Mikkel. That was just– I knew I might be recognized. A precaution. And I needed to be a landowner to register.”

“Is there a name you would like me to call you?” Mercedes asks you this with no trepidation in her voice. You frown at her and the suspicion must be plain on your face, because she goes on, “If we’re going to travel together, I can’t just call you you, can I?”

A hint of a smile colors her voice at the end there and you can’t help but smile too. It’s a bitter one, but it’s honest.

“You would travel with me, despite my… deficiencies?” You don’t know why you’re trying to talk her out of this. You don’t know why you’ve said half the things you’ve told her today, or even yesterday.

“I believe you said settle last night, in fact,” she reminds you, the smile appearing on her face this time.

Mercedes is beautiful. She is a better person than you, more intelligent and with more integrity. You don’t love her and you feel like you’ve trapped her. You’re pretty sure she’s lying about wanting to do this. But you’re weak and impure enough to go along with it even knowing that.

“Do you want to?” you ask, and it is so, so pathetic that you’re pretending to give her a choice. Who is that supposed to soothe?

“I told you,” Mercedes says firmly, and her hand finds yours, warm and full. “You’re my knight, aren’t you? At who else’s side would you stand?”

You’re the one to kiss her this time. She makes the sweetest mewl of surprise into your mouth before she relaxes into it. Your hands slide up her back and when she wraps her hands around the back of your neck and down your shoulders you suddenly recall that you’re naked from the waist up. You break the kiss and start tugging at her overdress, trying to find a place with enough tension to actually pull it off her.

“Why didn’t you take this off when you came in?” you hiss.

“I thought we would be leaving,” she replies as she finishes the work for you, which gives you pause.

“Should we–”

“No!” And despite everything, the insistence in her tone does quiet your doubts about all of this, at least for a moment. You do want her, if she really does want you.

Underneath the overdress are simple pants and a tunic. They’re decent clothes for riding, but they’re also easier to remove than a dress would have been, and you’re grateful for that. You only wait for the tunic to come off before you pull Mercedes halfway into your lap and kiss her again, deeper now, pushing your tongue past already-parted lips.

She shivers under your touch when your fingers graze her ribs, as lightly as you can manage. You make a curious humming sound when your hand cups her breast and your thumb finds her nipple already hardened. Mercedes giggles in response, and it’s such an exciting sound that you pull away from her mouth so you can suck at her chest instead. The heavy breathing you’re coming to like so much gives way to a full on moan when you begin to flick at her nipple with your tongue and it sets your heart pounding.

Your mind starts to wander while you work your way down her stomach and begin to tug the pants down to her ankles. The shame is still there – it’s always there, cool and self-sustaining just below your ribs – but it feels different now than every other time you’ve fucked a girl. Before, you might have been hung up on any number of things: that it was an act of betrayal to your familial responsibility, that it might devalue you to a potential husband, that she was a distraction from the things you needed or wanted to be doing, that it was a girl at all.

All you’re hung up on now is Mercedes. She is soft and smooth in ways you could never achieve even when you tried. Her voice is like music where you always pitched yours down self-consciously. Her chest is bigger than yours and her hips are wider. Her face is lovelier and her hair is golden and silky where yours was unconditioned and the color of flax.

Somehow all of this still bothers you even though you’re rejecting these qualities in yourself. You never wanted them in the first place. Why are you jealous? Of course you’re foolish and egotistical, but you used to know what you wanted. Now that you’re beginning to say it out loud everything is twisting.

But Mercedes is lovely, and you’re going to enjoy making her cum with your mouth.

It’s already hot between her legs and the smell of her is intoxicating. You press your tongue flat to her folds and drag it firmly, all the way up. Her face isn’t visible from where you’re kneeling at the edge of the bed but you can feel the way her whole body has begun to heave with labored breaths.

A boiling feeling builds in your gut as you begin to tongue deeper, exploring. Figuring out by trial and error which swipes Mercedes responds to most.

“Goddess,” Mercedes moans when your nose nudges her swollen clit, and for the first time tonight your smile feels pleased.

You guess she’s close when both of her hands find your head and her fingers dig into your scalp, so you latch your mouth around the clit and suck gently, tracing little circles with the flat of your tongue. Her thighs begin to shake around your shoulders almost right away. Her fingers tighten their grip on the back of your head. You don’t need to be told to keep going, so you ride it out with her, right there between her legs. It’s a quiet orgasm, but it takes Mercedes a couple minutes to come down from it.

Planting soft kisses inside her thigh, you finally climb back onto the bed when you feel her relax above you. As soon as you sit next to her, Mercedes rolls on top of you, pinning you down and beginning to suck at your collarbone. That space turns out to be very sensitive, and as your eyes flutter closed you moan, “What are you doing?”

Mercedes releases your skin with a little pop sound. “Taking care of you,” she says like it’s obvious. “Just tell me how to touch you and that’s what I’ll do.”

Your face is already flush with arousal, but you feel the shame bubble up to deepen it. “I don’t know what will feel right.”

“Then we’ll figure it out,” Mercedes says. She keeps talking like things are simple. Like you’re a natural creature. It makes you want to be sick. “Your chest – you don’t want that, correct?”

You can’t really turn your head in a way that will escape her gaze, so you flick your eyes away instead. It does nothing to distract you from the weight of her, or the heat. The press of her tits on your skin. The cool patch of wet she left in the crook of your shoulder where she just bit you.

“No chest,” you say.

“And you don’t want me to touch you below the waist?”

You think about that. It’s an immediately repulsive idea, but you’re going to die if you don’t cum as soon as possible and you don’t know how to do that without some sort of stimulation.

“I’m sorry–”

“Don’t be!”

“– Could I take the lead again?”

Mercedes smiles warmly, all comfort and understanding and maybe even honest desire. “Of course you may.”

You sit up, pushing her into a sitting position too, and she watches you strip your pants off so you stand naked before her. Then you mount her, one knee in her crotch, both your legs straddling her thigh. Immediately you feel the lightning bolt of stimulation as you make contact with her, but it’s not enough. You begin to grind yourself into her leg. Tendrils of need wend up from your crotch and into your chest until you’re panting into Mercedes’ shoulder, arms thrown around her neck like a damsel on her wedding night.

Mercedes nudges your face with her nose until you look up at her and that’s when she kisses you again, her tongue finding its way to every inch of your mouth. It’s when she starts bucking her hips, flexing her thigh into your grinding thrusts, that you feel yourself start to unwind. It’s always a frightening feeling – you like to be in total control if you can help it – but you’re feeling uncharacteristically safe with Mercedes’ arms wrapped around you.

When the orgasm hits you it feels more like a spillage than an explosion – like someone continues pouring tea into a cup after it overflows. It’s a strong one too, though it quiets quickly. Mercedes maintains the embrace even after you start coming down and for once you’re eager to take the offered comfort. Eventually you find it in you to pull your face out of her shoulder. She’s smiling at you and you can’t help but smile back. You can’t help but believe this might be able to work, at least on some level.

“How was that?” she asks.

“I haven’t… it’s been a long time,” you muster.

“We’ll figure out all the best ways to do it.”

More promises. It’s hard to believe. You don’t understand her. But then, you never quite understood her before and you always got along well back then. Maybe it’s okay to just… let her be. Take her words for what they are.

You’ve just pulled on your pants when there’s a knock at the door. It’s loud and harsh, someone hammering thunderously with their fist.

“Lord Galatea,” A gruff voice barks from the other side, “this is the City Guard. Open the door now. We know you’ve coerced Lady Martritz to join you in your room. You were spotted.”

You freeze. Mercedes has frozen too.

“I warned you, lad,” the voice mumbles. “Where’s the key, Quincy?”

Fiddly little noises rattle in from outside. You cross the room, not to your discarded armor but to your saddlebags, barely touched since you arrived.

The door swings wide and two men stride in. They’re dressed in the most modest armor possible – gambesons and helmets that might be thin steel or might be tin. One of them has a drawn sword, the other a polearm. They see Mercedes first, undressed in the bed with the sheet pulled up to her chest, and you think one of them might be scandalized by this until they see you, naked from the waist up with your tits hanging out.

“What in the name of–”

That’s all the leader says before you rush him, plunging the dagger you pulled from your pack into his neck once, twice, three times. He’s dead or dying by the time he hits the floor. His buddy is so shocked by the violence that he almost doesn’t fight back when you come at him.

He does try to bunt you with the shaft of his polearm, but the weapon is unwieldy indoors and he doesn’t have room to maneuver. You catch it and yank him towards you, angling your head down so the top of it crashes into his nose. The young man stumbles backward and collapses to the floor. You fall with him and it puts you in position to reach up and wrap your hands around his neck.

You squeeze. He kicks at nothing. Blood bubbles and pours out of his nose – it’s hot and thick and flows strong enough to leak down over your fingers. You don’t let up on the pressure. With his arms pinned underneath his own weapon he can’t even try to fight you in a way that will make any difference. There’s panic in his eyes. You don’t let it bother you.

He dies, and things become quiet.

Mercedes enters the room – you hadn’t noticed her leaving during the fight. She takes in the sight of it all, swallows, and says, “The innkeeper is gone. We need to leave right now.”

“I…” You should just agree. What else is there to discuss? People will be looking for both of you. You had been hoping for a day or two head start when you slipped away with Mercedes, but now it seems like you’ll have a few hours at most. Minutes, more likely. It’s a good thing you’re already packed. You’ll have to leave the armor, but Mercedes’ life is worth more than the skin you’ve shed anyway.

“You could still go back,” you hear yourself say. “They’ll put all the blame on me. Your life – it could be something if you leave me now.”

Mercedes fixes you with a hard look. “It wouldn’t be happy,” she says simply. “I wouldn’t be free.”

“You won’t be free with me either.”

“Listen to me.” Mercedes takes your bloodied hands in hers. It stains her sleeves. “I choose you. My knight. Trust me to make my choices. It’s what you were fighting for.”

You let out a huff of pathetic laughter. If only she understood how wrong that was. How small the part of you that did all of this for her ended up in the grand scheme of things. “Alright.” A long breath. “Alright.”

She squeezes your hands and pulls them to her mouth, kissing your knuckles. The man’s blood wets her lips. “We’ll make it work. I promise.”

You want to tell her you believe her, but all you do instead is nod.

“And we’ll find a name for you, too,” she says smiling.

“First thing first,” you say. “Escape.”

Mercedes nods and drops your hands.

The future is uncertain, maybe more than ever before. You’ve never gotten to share it with another person before, though. You’ve never wanted to be worthy of someone in this way. Maybe it’s a better uncertainty than what you’ve been living with until now. Maybe that’s all you can ask for.

You follow Mercedes into the hallway, and the night beyond it.