Chivalry Isn't Dead Yet

Chivalry Isn't Dead Yet is a story in two parts, detailing the life of Nicole Knightley when she left university to adventure the world. As of late, the second chapter is yet to be posted.

Be warned, the ending of the first chapter may not satisfy you. It sure as heck didn't satisfy me.

1: a letter
My dear Lana,

''This is my last letter. Thank you so much for keeping my secrets. I won’t be returning to Camelot yet, and I don’t imagine I will for any time soon. But I promise WILL come home. Destiny and all that...''

''I’ve decided to return to university at Ever After. I know what I told you back then. I just didn’t feel like it was for me. Now I’ve gone all around the world in two years. TWO YEARS, can you believe it? I didn’t think I needed to find myself until I actually did. I’m coming back, and I’m sure that I want to stay this time.''

''All my new friends are fine with it. Micah cried and hugged me goodbye, and Alina wished me luck. Castor was kind… how do I put it? He and I were never really close much, but I think I’ll miss him. And Samwell, I wish you guys could meet him! He was the worst person to say goodbye to.''

''I asked Castor to bring Templar home to Camelot, so if you find a big mean guy on your doorstep with a dog, you’ll know it’s him. And try not to get on his bad side. I’m pretty sure Castor was a berserker in another life.''

''I’ll send you a hext once I get back to Ever After. ''

''And please forward this letter to your brother in Ever After. Tell him to meet me at uni, I guess?''

''Ever yours, Nics''

2: a calm
Nicole Knightley put her sword down three years ago, when she went to Ever After University. It’s been two years since then and she hasn’t picked it back up.

To be fair, Nicole left the university life two years ago.

Since then, she has with her a fabulous set of daggers, another much different and less reputable sword, and a hand-me-down set of bow and arrows from Everes Cupid. (It wasn’t the love magic kind. Nicole had checked. It was an… interesting experimentation, to say the least.) And though she’d deign to admit it, Nicole has also grown fond of a pair of pistols that she acquired almost a year prior.

Her sword is currently in the hands of Lana du Lac, where Nicole had left them. Crusade, too, she left with the family. Nicole has no doubts that the du Lacs would take good care of both the sword and the dog. All they asked in exchange is that Nicole take care of herself.

And she handled fine. She has Templar at her side and one of Camelot’s most thoroughbred horses. And along the way, she found her own Merry Men — though they refuse to call themselves that. (Nicole couldn’t help it, of course. Even when she hasn’t set foot in the place for years, there are still spots of Ever After High that she can’t just wash away.)

There isn’t much of a name to them really… at least, among themselves. Yet no matter who they are, it still remain that they’re a band of marauders and mercenaries, paid blades with allegiances to each other, and the highest bidder.

And Nicole is having the time of her life.

“Sir Samwell,” she kicks her horse closer to the silver-haired man. He isn’t really a knight but old habits die hard. "Has… has no one replied?”

He tentatively reaches for his back pocket, checking for the MirrorPhone Nicole got at her short-lived trip to Ever After. “Sorry, Nicolette. No messages.” His stiff accent roughens the soft syllables to her name. Nicole enjoys her name when it’s Samwell who speaks.

She nods with expected resignation. Maybe if the message wasn’t that vague… the Yankee was always into intrigue. If an unknown number started spouting sensitive information only he would know, he would definitely reply.

The letters she sent to the du Lacs she knows are never going to be replied to. She even specified in her first letter that they should never contact her until she returns to Camelot. Besides, if she and the rest of her crew were always traveling everywhere, there’s no clear way for their letters to get to her.

But to the Yankee, Nicole sent one simple text. ''Don’t worry about me, if you were. I don’t think you were. It's been so long. I’m safe. I’m fine. I always will be. I’ll see you soon, in Camelot.''

Was it too vague? Nicole wouldn’t know. She tried to be as knowing as she could, without giving away too much. (Sadly, Nicole isn’t really known for her subtlety.)

“Hold on to it for one day more, Sir. I still expect.”

The older man lets loose a chuckle that reminds Nicole of her father. He adjusts the moon-shaped spectacles on his nose. "You know I advise against that, Nicolette."

"As you have every day for the past two weeks," she laughs softly in reply.

They ride in silence until Samwell breaks it. "Hope is good. I'll tell you when he replies." Without anymore than a look, he rears his horse and pushes forward to the front of the group. Templar, the loyal hound, bounds after the old man.

The beaten path gives way to them. Every patch of grass that wants to spout hides back underground when hooves attack. Most of the morning gallops away, until the first drop strikes.

Micah holds out his hand. “Rain. Could be a storm.”

The trickling rain sweeps through stronger and stronger.

Alina rolls her eyes and points at the sky. “It is a storm, kid. You know that means we need to take cover.”

Last time they journeyed in a storm, little Micah had fallen ill. They had to stay still for almost a week. Even with magic, and modern medicine mailed straight from Ever After… they can’t afford to have anyone (especially Micah) to get sick.

“We’re a morning’s ride from the last village,” Castor mutters. “And I decked the bartender. Don’t tell me we’re going back.”

Nicole’s gaze shifts to Templar, whose already taken cover under the trees that litter the path. “If anything, you’re going back there.”

“Excuse me?” Castor snorts. He’s three years older than Nicole and he had a foot and a half over her; Castor can break her in half if he wants to. Somehow, that doesn’t stop Nicole.

She shrugs. “You heard me. You’re taking the kids,”— Micah and Alina are visibly against that—,“and you’re riding back to the village for the night.”

“And you and Samwell?” Castor asks her, an unhappy expression paints his face.

At the mention of his name, the wise old man joins the discussion. “Nicolette and I are riding on to Duva. If the weather clears out by dawn, we’ll wait for you in town.”

“Let Alina do the talking, will you?” Nicole teased. “We can’t have you decking any more people.”

Alina, the only other girl in the crew, smiles at that.

“And take Templar with you,” Nicole adds a final message. The five split across the linear path. Hulking Castor, cheeky Alina and young Micah all heading back to the last village where they worked a job. Hopefully, the bartender at the tavern would pay Castor back with a well-deserved slap.

3: a storm
Nicole and Samwell continued the journey, with the sky tearing at their backs. By the time they reach Duva, the sun is almost gone. All the light in the world is a dull silver that the clouds project from above.

It seems a homely vilage. Other than the fact that it’s completely empty.

No people on the streets; no carriages, horse-drawn or hybrid, that parade about. Even the parlour — arguably the busiest part of any town — is silent from clsoe range.

“Peculiar,” Samwell comments.

Nicole nods. “Indeed.”

They dismount the horses and wander around. Samwell goes straight for the tavern, typically. Nicole crosses the street towards what appears to be a hostel, with its door open and smoke coming out of the chimney (though it fizzles out in a while what with the rain.)

It doesn’t have the concrete and stone walls of the corrupt mayor’s home that she robbed — and eventually ‘died’ in, or so the bank owner believes. It doesn’t have the crystal chandeliers of the mansion that she and Alina broke into to (or the steel metal bars where they were eventually detained.)

A large fireplace at the opposite end of the room is the main decoration of the room. An antique crossbow hangs over the mantel like a museum piece. It’s loaded with rusted arrow, but it’s doubtful if the crossbow is still capable of firing.

Live coals sizzle in the fireplace. Water was used to extinguish it. Nicole kneels to feel the coal. Moist, freshly doused. Someone was here, no less than an hour ago.

Nicole looks out the window, out towards the horizon towards the bronzed mountains and the soft stain the rain leaves on the surface. She hopes that Micah, Castor and Alina are having a better and less empty time at the other town.

Something catches Nicole’s eyes. Something just across the street.

Her thoughts are distractions.

Samwell has left the tavern and is now approaching a building. Gloomy light catches a line at the door. A wire.

A trap.

She looks behind her. What had appeared to be a decorative crossbow over the mantel… her eyes quickly follow the near-invisible line drawn from the trigger of the bow, across the street, and drawn taut before the door. A trip-wire—

Nicole hasn’t dealt with something that amateur in so long. Her mind no longer instinctively searches out for it, as it does with every other kind of trap.

Nicole runs out of the open door of the hostel. “Samwell!”

Too late.

He trips the wire.

- - - -

Nicole is trapped within her thoughts. An arrow whizzes past her, brushing her shoulder with its tail. If she were any taller, she’d be impaled in the back.

The world turns slower. In a split-second, in a thousand years, Samwell turns to Nicole’s call. She remains frozen in place.

Nicole doesn’t watch the iron-tipped arrow flare against the muddied loam of Duva’s afternoon storm. She doesn’t watch as the arrow meets its mark, as Samwell’s distinct white shirt stains itself with his red blood. All Nicole watches is Samwell’s face as it implodes into a thousand colors, a perfect mask of shock, unadulterated shock and pain.

“Samwell!” Nicole yells again. No less of a warning and more of a yell. Her cry is hoarse and raw as she runs towards him. The storm is torrential now. Her boots struggle to find traction on the wet earth. It’s difficult to tell what is rainwater and what is tears.

Raindrops fall on her back like cold daggers. A sharp gust of wind from the storm pushes her to her knees.

He’s bleeding, maybe to death. Even if Nicole managed to staunch the bleeding, it’s a rusted edge. She knows from how she examined the weapon earlier. He’s dying. But he’s still warm; still alive.

Nicole props him up against the wooden walls of the building. She wraps her arms around him, fighting tears like she could the crying sky.

Samwell’s head lolls and he stares at the dark gray clouds gathering about them, before turning her way. Nicole can see the pain and the fear and the relief in his face.

''Oh, god. He’s losing so much blood.''

“Nicolette?” He smiles through whispers, and Nicole nods frantically. Her eyes sting with tears and rainwater. He watches her with a sad sort of intensity.

Her head bobs for every mutter. “Yes.”

Painfully slowly, the rain breaks down on her back in colder strokes. Samwell lifts an arm. His wrist twitches almost imperceptibly. Three calloused fingertips drag across Nicole’s face before falling.

“Samwell…” Her throat feels thick, yet everything else feels so hollow. “No. No…”

She smooths his silver hair away from his worn face. He’s still warm, he’s still smiling; but his chest no longer rises or falls.

Nicole takes his bloodied hand (though which of his hands isn’t bloodied already) and holds it tight, as if she can squeeze the life back into his body. “Come on. Come on, Samwell. One more adventure, right?”

She sniffles. “One more…”

The tavern door swings open with prompt. Standing there is a man Nicole never thought she would see again. But Nicole chooses not to look at him. “Why are you here?”

It’s just like him to do this. Just to stand there coldly while she cries over her friend, her mentor and guide, her father on the roads: the man who was by her side in every adventure and every fight.

“Milton,” Nicole continues, “What brought you here to Duva?”

- end of part one -