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A familiar roar over the crowd as the crier calls out his charge.
The pounding of feet, the clapping of hands, the rough cries of dusty throats and thrilled children. Rounding the door, the rider appears, draped in black like a dangerous shadow, overlapping plates of armor hiding any weak points, easy command over his horse smooth and powerful as though she too understands the value of performance. A circle around the ring they walk, riding the apprehension and building excitement. The cheers never cease, hands reaching out just shy of brushing him or the horse, keenly aware of the last person to do so (who now proudly shows off his missing fingers, detailing excitedly the squire who cut them with no care towards the rusted blood on the blade which gave him an infection so nearly fatal).
Finally, a hush falls. But not because the rider has returned to his position. Not because the match is moments from starting and the crowds holds their bated breath. No. The stadium is deadly silent because the Dreaded Lancer Blackbeard has crossed once more to the royal box. He has drawn a fluttering piece of long red fabric from within his plating, something that shines with beautiful make and expensive fabric in the noonday sunlight. Still without a helmet, in a show not a one of them has ever seen, the fabric is brushed over his face, like a handkerchief brushing away a tear, and handed off to a man in the stands. The golden waves that catch in the sunlight, sometimes light sometimes a vibrant ginger depending on the shadows. A purple robe that swishes to those near him as he reaches for the token, layered and sewn with countless designs and intricacies the tailor herself only knows all of. The silk isn’t offered to the man, but gently taken anyhow, dragged carefully as though it may rip through loose fingers, dragging in an opposite direction once more against Blackbeard’s cheek. The prince brings the token to his face too, burying his face momentarily in the fabric, as though trying to drown himself in the feel and smell of it.
The squire approaches, bringing Edward Teach’s lance. Decoratively detailed and intimidating to the splinter. Edward takes it without so much as a glance and angles it into the stands. Stede meets Blackbeard’s eyes and those close enough to see through the hanging curls of Edward’s hair find their jaws dropping in surprise as he smiles something soft. Not the grin of raucous laughter after a win, not the wild, wolfish smile at a target, not the polite half-smirk directed at the royal box so he might not find his head on a pike by day's end for impropriety. A warm, loving, tender thing that speaks of whispered words and kind touches.
Prince Bonnet, in return, smiles too and kisses the center of the silken square still in his hand. Almost hidden as to a lady with her fan, but clear as day the smile reaches his eyes. As much as his lips brush the fabric, the kiss is clearly intended to its recipient, the most terrifying man to ever ride a horse in a ring. The squire has long left by now, unnoticed by the crowd save for those who hear his irritated muttering besides, and even then they are far more focused on the mythical scene taking place. Stede reaches up to the lance and ties the token around the end, securing it with a brush of his fingers down the length as far as he can reach, not quite to Edward’s hand. His hand pats Anne’s neck, and even she leans into his touch, the crowd cannot contain a gasp now. He whispers something to Blackbeard who replies like this is usual banter and a wink and a grin of abandoned care. A toss of his hair back over his shoulder and he’s trotting back over to the starting line.
Not even a minute delay and yet the crowd feels as though they have only just been introduced to this fighter. The squire returns with his charge’s helmet, received with a thanks and an honest gratitude towards him as well. He waves the rider off but can’t resist a pat to Anne’s flank as he retreats. The crowd finds their voices again as the match is readied and both riders prepare.
The charge is sounded and dust is kicked up and the roars of voices grow louder and lances drop to aim and the whole stadium holds their breath even as they knew the winner before having taken their seats and the deafening thunk of wood on metal and the challenger is knocked backwards bodily, not unseated but unsteady. He wavers in his seat as he receives his next lance and Blackbeard stills almost entirely like a hunting cat with its poor target decidedly in his reach. The charge again. The dust. The cheers. The lances. The pounding of hooves over dirt and again the hollow thwack of lance on armor. The challenger’s shoulder is shoved so harshly his head instinctively snaps to follow as though he can’t believe what he’s felt.
Everyone’s hearts are in their throats now. They know Blackbeard’s game. They know what comes next.
He raises his lance in calling and chants emerge from the stands, the pounding of feet settling into a rhythm and slapping of hands following voices round and round the ring. The red silk flutters in a gentle breeze sweeping momentarily through the valley of the ring and casts like a flag over a castle. Sure and righteous and confident. One final call. Blackbeard almost starts at a walk, leisurely working up to a gallop while the challenger charges and urges his horse with all his might and yells and pants wildly and leans forward just enough that an unseating hit would be nigh impossible. The Prince draws his hands up to his chin, contemplative, brow furrowed and lips parted in concern, leaning forward though with an easy confidence like he already knows second by second the outcome. Blackbeard too simply aims his lance, cradled steady and directed true and Anne holding smooth with that powerful run.
There’s a second where it almost seems like the hit will miss. Like Edward Teach, most exceptional jouster to ever mount a horse, might miss his final shot. But he holds just long enough to get under his opponent’s guard and jerks up those crucial few inches and thrusts and the man goes flying. He goes diagonal and flips and only barely gets his foot out of the stirrup, flinging it up and clearly shifting the saddle before it comes back down and startles the horse into a mad sprint towards the exit to the ring the squires only barely manage to catch. The knight hits the ground and crumples and everyone’s ears go fuzzy with the force of their shouts and volume surrounding them. He rolls before coming to a stop, weakly shoving his bruised limbs out from under him before laying in hellish defeat as he hears the wild thrill of cheers echo in mockery. Blackbeard takes his victory lap, nodding to his suitor who returns with a smile and a cheery little round of applause. He laps a few times, leaning his lance out just far enough that adoring hands can brush against the rough wood, clearly strained from the match’s final round. He trots away finally, helmet removed and hair swept back and waving with a grin from ear to ear.
The festivities die down and the tournament continues but there are those who by some stroke of luck visit the right bar that night. There they find Edward with his crew, the squires and his crier, and with Stede, drinking lightly but cheering madly themselves, laughing and shouting and getting the whole bar in on their chants. Blackbeard sits in the Prince’s lap and pledges a hundred more victories if the drinks are this good after every one. The clients around can do nothing but raise their glasses in agreement, especially since Stede bought the whole bar a round. They stumble off eventually to their homes and beds, arms slung around each other and playful banter back and forth, even Izzy getting in on things after a proper flush has hit his cheeks.
The night finally quiets in the wee hours of the morning save for Ed and Stede’s room, but even then, morning finds them sprawled together, partially dressed and breathing easy and matched and shouting with furious indignation at Lucius who runs off with a dripping water bucket and a cackle echoing behind his steps with a cheeky dare to catch him if they can. Of course Ed stumbles upward, kicking the blankets away from around his feet and sprinting across the grounds while Stede meanders behind, humming a bright tune as he sweeps the water from his eyes to the rhythm of of pounding footsteps now round the corner and meeting Lucius' yelp of surprise. The boy gets carried to the hay bale over Ed's shoulder and dumped in unceremoniously with a few splashes from the water trough for good measure.
Tonight Stede will sooth Ed's bruises and massage his poor knee, and Ed will map every inch of him with soft lips. Tonight they will talk about setting out for the next tournament together and traveling the world for more. This morning, Lucius will laugh and Ivan and Fang will join in pestering while Izzy pretends not to enjoy it too. This morning they will eat breakfast together and laugh and plan for the road ahead. Tomorrow will be even better.