Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Today was the day, the one he had been waiting for months. And he had taken a week out of the yearly six given to him by his job. Of course, he had checked and rechecked again to be sure that the date hadn't suddenly changed. However, this fear of his had been unfounded as he was now preparing himself for this weekend's convention and the biggest in his home country, Switzerland.
Fantasy Basel. It would be his fourth, not in a row, as many times, due to his role as being a paramedic, stopped him from attending. But not this year.
Perhaps he was a bit old to attend such a convention, or perhaps not. Sure, gently approaching thirty might put him closer with fathers accompanying their children, but he didn't care. He always had fun each times he had gone to the con. And this weekend would not be different, he knew it. He felt it.
Yes, behind his one metre eighty-five, and lean physic and his job as a paramedic, Caeso was a gigantic nerd. The almost "obsessive" kind. And the very diverse paraphilia from every nerdy horizon decorating his "nerdroom" attested to this fact. There were posters from fantasy, sci-fi, comic-books. As for anime and/or manga, to be honest, it wasn't really his thing. The two sole exceptions to this were two "Akira" posters and a few more from "One Piece".
However, the thing that was Caeso's true love were medieval weapons, with an emphasis towards swords. Of course, as any other sharing his passion, there were a few katanas here and there, was as well as functioning replicas from different medias. But the weapon that was his most precious, and expensive, was a customed one. It was at the centre of his mural of swords.
Made from a meteorite with an iron heart, it could be used with one or two hands comfortably. Its Damascus steel was dark, bordering on black, with wavy patterns adorning the length of the blade. The simple yet elegant guard protected well and didn't hinder Caeso when he used the sword back in his garden. Good brown leather wrapped the handle, making it comfortable for his palms. And the pommel functioned, both in stopping slipping and as a potential, albeit small, hammerhead.
And to add to all of it, there were esoteric inscriptions on the forte, near the guard. They were written in cuneiform. Why this very old and very dead script?
Because Caeso thought it was cool.
Of course, being the nerd that he was, Caeso had had to make sure what he wanted to be written had to be correct, both in grammar and spelling. He had consulted forums and contacted academics for it, but it had been worth it. And he also was proud of what the lines said when translated: "May it be sharp, may it strike true, may it be wise, always; and never unjust".
It was a beautiful and very well-made sword. The smith he commissioned had went above and beyond in making it. He had even said he had never felt so inspired when smithing a blade. The pretty steep price Caeso had paid surely played a part in the man's praises.
Enough of that.
Caeso had to prepare, he had to put on his costume. He was to be part of a knights' exhibition, with fights and duels, as a voluntary worker. He didn't care about not being paid for this; Caeso wasn't doing it for the money.
His bathroom's mirror showed a tall man with sharp features and short, curly, black hair. The five o'clock shadow covering his cheeks and jaw would soon need to be trimmed, Caeso noticed. He pushed the thought to the side.
First, he cleaned his face, brushed his teeth. Then, he put in a pair of coloured contact lenses, giving him the same eyes as one of his favourite characters from "One Piece": Dracule Mihawk. The paramedic chose them for the same reason his sword had cuneiform letters:
It was cool.
His eyes were now yellow, so was his vision. Now, there was his armour, a red brigandine over a gambeson vest which covered his arms, as well as thinner gambeson pants. For his feet, sturdy military boots. Not really historically accurate, but very comfortable to Caeso.
Of course, the exhibition required improv and voices as well. And for the knight-pretender, roleplaying and singing had been lifesavers growing up. He could express himself, when being someone he wasn't, through act or song. In real life, he couldn't. There was a block. Even now, his face was passive. With his eyes now like Mihawks', there was a small eery air to him.
He was ready. The last step before he could leave his apartment was to just take with him the suitcase he needed for the exhibition. However, looking at himself in the mirror, something was missing.
His custom-sword.
Taking it from the rack on the wall, it flew free from its dark leather sheath, which had been offered free of charge.
Hot damn! Now that's a knight! He thought looking at what the mirror showed him back.
But enough lollygagging, he slid the nameless blade back into its scabbard.
And that would have been it. The sword would have retaken its place on the wall, Caeso would have been on his way to Basel.
If not for a pile of books. The pile he stumbled over. His head was in a direct course towards the edge of a table.
The thing that went through his mind before the impact was going to miss his nephew's approaching birthday.
This week, the weather had chosen to be clement with little rain. Alfric was in high spirit. Tillin', seedin', feedin' the oxen, tendin' the farm, cuttin' firewood, drawin' water and all the other tasks. Everything had been easier and not been a constant struggle with sticky mud slowing everything down.
Again, when he was facing the direction of the small chapel of the village far in the distance, Hamtun, he threw a small prayer in thanks to the Lord for this small fortune.
And the wife's mood had also been good this week. Alfric still had a spring to his steps from last night as he finished putting the firewood he had cut into the cart his oldest ox was strapped to. It waited for him patiently, tail whipping at flies trying to land on his rump.
Still, his thoughts darkened as he saw only Edith and himself working. There were no other noises. It was just the two of them. And it had been the two of them since last spring. And it was currently spring.
What rotten luck. And that wasn't for lack of trying on their part. Oh, not at all. They had tried many, many times. And they kept trying.
A queer thought stopped Alfric a small moment. Maybe Edith's and his lack of child was because they had been trying too much.
Gah, what was Alfric thinking now again? 'Course not! If the both of them wanted a child, they just had to keep at it. And pray, 'course, he quickly added.
He threw another prayer to God, just in case.
Still, for Edith to not have gifted their family with a boy, or a girl, bore the question as to why it was the case. Had either of them somehow offended one of them small folk?
No, that couldn't be it. Like his mum had taught him, he always left a little cup of milk out each new moon and he always stayed clear of any circle of shrooms he crossed path with. And Edith did the same, as her dad, may his soul rest, taught her the same.
Alfric had the last log from the pile he had made with his axe still in his hand. He didn't put it on the cart, for a terrible, horrible, treacherous, thought was raised in his head.
Was it because of Edith? Was she…
No! No, he refused to even feed the idea. If they were someone to blame, let it be him! Not her. Not his sweet Edith. His beautiful and kind Edith, her and her wonderful chestnut hair and oaken eyes. So, he killed that thought, burned it and buried it with a spit to the ground.
Sard, mood now ruined, there was still firewood to sell back at Hamtun. And no matter how much he swore, in his head, it wouldn't change the need to live.
So, Alfric, toughened up, grasped the ox's bridle and walked toward his first, and only destination.
Mayhap something was happening back there. He could use a small distraction. So, Alfric, with his ox-pulled cart, started to be on his way to Hamtun. But not before taking a quick sprint towards his dear Edith to steal a kiss. Or a few.
After finally leaving no matter how much his heart wanted him to stay with his wife, his head, backed by his stomach, won out in the end. So here he was, walking down the beaten dirt path around midday. It took a while, not too much. It was still only a little over noon when he arrived.
Like the other times he had come to Hamtun before, he would see other inhabitants and other farmers like him bringing in things to sell for coin or exchange for foodstuffs or what they needed more. Some would greet him when crossing path with him on their way out of the village, and he would salute them back. Others, like old Alwyn, would join him with their own products.
Except it wasn't like the other times. Alfric saw the back of Alwyn's head with its grey mane of his. And he wasn't alone. It seemed everyone from the part had gathered into one mass, all watching something. And the closer the farmer got, the more he heard whispers being exchanged.
"Alwyn, what's gotten into everyone?" he asked the old man when close enough to be heard without having to shout.
"Huh? Oh, 'tis you lad," exclaimed Alwyn, startled.
"'Course it's me! There's no one else around here as quick or strong as Alfric!" he boasted back with mirth. "Still, why's everyone in one big group like so? Come on, spit it, old man."
"Just take a look yourself, would be faster that telling you."
And with his fellow's encouragement, Alfric advanced until he saw him. A seemingly giant of a man, with short dark curls on his head, who even now just sitting at one of the bench of the only pub of the region for both locals and travellers just passing through, seemed to tower over everyone present.
His height wasn't the only thing that made the stranger stand out. His armour, red for the chest and dark for the arms, was a strange sight. It wasn't like anything Alfric had seen before. If he looked a bit more carefully, it was like there were small, long squared-like scales all over the breast and stomach.
There was also that long sword of his. Something seemed strange about it, almost as if it didn't belong in this world, even hidden in the sheath the tall man shouldered.
But what froze Alfric's blood was his eyes. His yellow eyes. Those should belong to a hawk, not a man.
But the stranger wasn't doing anything. He just sat there, holding a mug of ale. And the good stuff that cost a bit. His golden gaze bore into the cup while standing next to the table was the owner of the pub, Harold, who was holding his hands nervously.
"Did he do something?" asked Alfric to the person next to him.
"No. He's just been sitting there since he arrived," answered the village's crone. "Menacingly".
"From where?"
"The peddler saw him coming from the trees over there."
The raised finger pointed to the woods, at the village's south. The trees were thick and old in that forest.
"So, he just came here, and sat down?"
"Just so," confirmed Alwyn.
All of that business smelled way beyond any of them, concluded Alfric.
"No one called for the Priest?"
As soon as he said this, the unnamed man suddenly shifted his head and look him dead in the eyes. The act rooted the farmer on the spot.
"You, you said 'Priest', right? Bring me to him. Please."
His voice was cold and his words ice. His face barely showed anything. His eyes were focused, looking at him.
"You heard him, go fetch the holy man!" shouted Alwyn and someone ran like they had wolves hot at their heels.
Even after that, the man's gaze didn't break. Everyone could see Alfric had all the man's attention, so the people next to him shuffled around, and the farmer was now isolated from the rest.
Soon, however, his troubles stopped as the man with no name turned his gaze away, on the hill towards the chapel. Everyone followed along and squinted to see two dark blobs quickly approaching until the eldest son of the pub's owner and Priest Chad were both breathing hard when they stopped their shared mad dash.
The air became intense when the armed man stood up, some in the group of villagers even gasped, and walked towards the aging priest. His height wasn't that anormal, but the air around him made it feel like it was.
The churchman gulped as he had to crane his neck up to look at the man.
"Young Egbert asked for me to come here as it was for an emergency. B-but I wasn't given much more information t-than that, Sir…?"
"Caeso," was the curt answer. "Can you and I talk alone, Priest?"
Everyone held their breath. And the sudden silence was now noticed by the tall, armoured figure as his hawk-like gaze swept over everyone present. His brow lowered a little before he stopped and closed his eyes. All heard him take a deep breath and they all saw something changed in his bearing. His stiff posture relaxed and when his eyes opened, it was like a different person altogether.
"Please, forgive me for making all of you fine people uncomfortable today. I know a stranger stepping into your home can be a cause of concern, but I swear I hold no ill thoughts to any of you, or your village," he spoke warmly before turning back to Father Chad. "To you Father, I say the same and more: In nomine Patris, Filii et Spiritus Sancti, sic iuro."
Alfric and the rest didn't understand a thing but the Father did as his eyes widened and the fear in them lessened.
"Then my Son, please, follow me."
And with that, the tall man left with the churchman of Hamtun. Everyone breathed down in relief as the pressure disappeared.
"Sard! he didn't touch a drop," complained Harold, the pub's keeper.