'If He has Erred, on His Head be It'

AKA: The 'Feelsy Nixee Death Fic'
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 'If He has Erred, on His Head be It' is a fanfic created and written by Strataffin. Inspired by a headcanon about the relationship between Nicole Knightley and The Yankee, it details an account of the aforementioned Yankee as reaches the point in his destiny where he largely to 'murder knighthood'. It is directly influenced by Mark Twain's original Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court and follows an iconic scene from the book, albeit now seen through the NEW Yankee's eyes...

Full Story
That little Merlinian prick-on-the-spinning-wheel was oozing all the qualities Yankee hated, rubbing his mulch-covered, clutching little hands and smiling a far-too-saccharine smile. Malicious gratification.

“I agree, I agree!” He said, his voice in that throaty, self-righteous tone that always wormed its way under Yankee’s skin. “...enough talk, let my lord the Queen deliver the battle signal.”

The Yankee shifted in the saddle, ears picking up the sound he knew so well: wheels on wood. He glanced up. Queen Pendragon, perpetually chair-ridden, had wheeled up to the railing of her viewing box.

He didn’t blame her -- she had to yield, it was her duty, the only option.

She looked so… pale. There were times, even now, where the Yankee couldn’t tell if her condition had worsened or bettered since High School.

The bugle blared, buzzed, an agitated, harsh tone.

He nudged his horse gently, and it started forward, methodical, foreboding. It was as if the beast beneath Yankee was just as apprehensive as its rider. His mind was flittering between several rather disturbing outcomes, all of which ended in death. This would be a last stand for someone.

Once the positions were taken, the two opponents faced each other like mounted statues.

Rigid.

Motionless.

Unflinching.

They remained that way for several minutes. Or at least, that’s what the Yankee assumed. Time was blurring into one homogenous mass, eternity bundled into compact cubes that whizzed by as much as they dragged.

Silence pounded like cannon rounds in Yankee’s ears.

Not a single person stirred within the arena, and the Yankee’s eyes wandered back up towards the Royal Box.

The Queen was staring at him.

Those eyes. Imploring, terrified. She couldn’t give the signal, and if one strained, you could practically hear her heart freeze, fracture.

But, at last, she lifted her hand, and another shrill, scraping bugle blast ripped the air.

Sagramore lifted his blade in a quick arc, letting it flash in the sunlight like a steely and terrible crescent moon. He surged forward, a force of nature, a tank, a wall. His horse spat and panted as the hooves struck the ground, kicking ghostly tendrils of dust in to the air.

On he came.

The Yankee did not move.

In the blank recesses of his mind, he barely registered the crowd screaming, begging him to move, avert fate and the blade that leapt towards him.

Still, he moved not an inch until the apparition was about three meters from him.

That was when things turned brutal.

The Yankee’s hand flew with unnatural speed to his side, snatching his sidearm from the holster. It was a Dragoon, the very same Hank Morgan had used. It was long-barreled, heavy, but the object’s antiquation made it no less lethal.

A flash.

A roar.

The weapon zipped back to the holster before any could truly see what had occurred. A riderless horse plunged to one side, thrashing, and just  there lay Sagramore...

Dead as you please.

The Yankee’s mind muted, emptied, and the Yankee was no longer himself; he was emotionless, void of sympathy or humanity. That blank stare glazed over his eyes and his jawline tightened, mouth turning into something reminiscent of a scowl, a subtle, unpleasant expression.

It took the crowd all of a few moments to establish that the life had gone out of Sagramore, and no cause of death was apparent either -- there was nothing like a wound or hurt upon his body. Granted, there was a visible hole in the breastplate, but the common peasants didn’t attach much value to a small detail like that.

They never did.

Annalog would have. Ah, Annalog, if she was here now...

There wasn’t any blood to speak of, either, muffled, absorbed by the layers and swaddlings of the armor.

They dragged the body off closer to the Box and the Crowd. Astonishment. The Queen didn’t fully register what had happened, but there were vague traces of realization, disdain mingling with awe.

Yankee heard someone request that he come down ‘explain the miracle’, but he remained locked to his spot, back erect as he stood up slightly within the saddle.

The horse adjusted its footing, but other than that, the Yankee stood stark still in his tracks. At length, he spoke.

“If you’re ordering me, I’ll explain.” He said bluntly. It almost sounded like a threat. “However, as the Queen’ll tell you, laws of combat state I’m to sit here as long as someone wants to step against me.” His tone, while steeped in seriousness, was undermined slightly by his words, his nature, hearkening back to his teenage years.

He waited.

Nobody challenged.

Something… twisted, gnarled was awakening within Yankee, a part of him that had lay dormant for more than a few years, and in a silent, contained fit of confidence, madness, he called out, “If there’s anyone who doesn’t think this whole friggin’ field is rightfully mine, save your breath. I’m not gonna wait for you to challenge me… I challenge you.”

The Queen was oddly… understanding, condoning of this proposition. “Gallant, Sir Yankee.” She responded. “There’s bravery in that offer. Whom will you name first?”

“I’m not naming jack shiz.” The Yankee snapped. Above him, he didn’t see the girl he had protected like a sister, he saw a roadblock, a relic. “I’m challenging all of you. I’m standing right here, asking -- no, demanding -- you stake the whole dang chivalry of England against me.”

He was moving now, slightly, rotating the horse so he addressed the entirety, the full circumference of the ring.

A childish, false, forced smile found his face as he spoke yet again. “You know what, I can do one better... COME AT ME! Nah, not one by one, I’ll take on all-a ya at once!”

There was a ripple in the assemblage of Knights, and the Yankee heard an audible “What!?” within the noise.

“You heard me. Take the offer, if you’ve got the balls for it, otherwise I’m counting every last one of you as ‘vanquished’ right here.”

Why are you bluffing? The reasonable part of him thought. That voice was quickly drowned out by a louder, harsher voice.

Because I can. The other voice retorted. ''Because it's time to show everyone that’s ever pissed us off or laid us low that we are better than them. We’re playing our hand for a hundred times what its worth, and we will still rake in the chips. Now stand the frick back and watch.''

For what was close to a full minute, the air was once again dead… until fifty-odd knights were suddenly scrambling for their mounts.

Dang, this looked bleak.

The Yankee had exactly 11 shots before someone would take his head off, and yet his more… unhinged side was content to go down guns blazing like Custer, like a one-man Butch and Sundance. For America, but above all, for his own pride.

A writhing stream of metal and outdated values were clattering towards him at an alarming speed, moving from the other end of the arena.

He seized both guns and his mind automatically began to calculate distances, maneuvers, his arms spreading a little wider, allowing him to cover both sides of himself. He squoze one eye shut and looked down the barrel of the left pistol as the first knight began to draw nearer.

Bakk! ~ one saddle empty.

Bakk! ~ another saddle empty.

Nine shots left.

He thumbed the hammer of the left weapon back as he fired with the right, allowing him to fire two shots in short succession with a biting brakkbrakk!

Seven shots left.

One with a lance got the closest of all, but the Yankee still had the superior range, and the man fell limp from his perch, still holding the ridiculous striped spear.

Riderless horses broke and split, tore to either side of the red-jacketed man like waves upon a rock.

The Yankee knew that if he spent the eleventh shot without convincing these people he was a god, the twelfth man would most certainly kill him, have his arse on a platter.

He wasn’t aware he was essentially holding his breath until he finally exhaled, the stream of attackers slowing down slightly. The ninth bullet had found its mark, and there was one more wad of steel and blood lying useless in the dirt.

The tenth man was wavering slightly, which, in the Yankee’s book, was premonitory of panic. A moment lost now could put a sword through his chances… and his chest. There was something vaguely familiar about the sword that hung from the figure’s hip, but the fact of the matter was the Camelot blades ALL looked the same.

The helmet stared back at him with black, empty sockets.

He raised both revolvers to chest level, aiming both at his opponent. Double or nothing.

...The host stood their ground for one full moment, and for a second, the Yankee heard something echo within the armor. A small, barely audible noise. It sounded like a gasp, but more… relieved, though a trace of fear was still present. The figure appeared to be choking on words, the noises suggesting a desire to say something.

However, nothing came.

Spit it out, or my guns will...The Yankee thought, gritting his teeth. This was going to decide it. If the knight came any closer, The Yankee would spend both bullets and go to his grave knowing he went out as a legend.

The figure suddenly gripped the reigns roughly, jerking the horse’s head sideways to break a hasty retreat.

He had done it. It was over, he won.

For a second, the Yankee’s hands slowly lowered, his rage and emotionless slaughter subsiding, ebbing back into the dark recesses of his mind. Chivalry and knighthood was a doomed institution, thanks to a few lead shots and a level of bravery, stubbornness that bordered on stupid.

But… … it still wasn’t good enough for him. “Sucker.” The Yankee said quietly. The guns were back up. The sound of thunder. Two holes, symmetrically placed in the back of the horseman. The horse and rider stopped, slowed in its course. There were those noises again. Choking, gasping. The armored figure’s frame tilted to one side gradually, sliding little by little from the saddle until they fell, a heap upon the ground. There was a yell, an expression of pain that was magnified by the echoey confines of the armor. The Yankee’s head suddenly swam, blood draining from his veins within an instant as the guns slipped, dropped from his now-loose grip. A coldness enveloped him as he realized just where he had heard the voice and seen the blade… ...Oh, Grimm.

He couldn’t breathe, and for a single, sickening flicker of time, he couldn’t move.

The crowd was hushed, though he doubted any of them realized what a grievous error the Yankee had just made, and he was positive none had experienced the feelings that were currently swallowing him up.

He methodically dismounted the horse, shaking slightly. Just breathe. Just breathe. The sand curled noiselessly around his feet as he took a few shuddering steps forward. His voice cracked as he tried to articulate, but all he could manage was to shuffled over and drop to his knees near the suit of armor.

Please, let it not be…

Frigid, white, bloodless hands lifted the visor.

The Yankee swallowed, eyes stinging. He inhaled raggedly, sniffing back the emotion, the fear.

His smile was bitter. “Hi, Nix.”

She had certainly grown since he last saw her. Since that night…

She was no longer the petite ball of spunk he invited into the Stronghold, no longer the ambitious University Student he had almost proposed to, no longer the woman he let slip away from him those years ago; this was a confident, beautiful young knight.

The blonde girl’s eyes were beginning to empty, but they flicked across the sky, trying to focus until they came to rest on Yankee’s face. The face suddenly understood and a small smile crept across her face. Her teeth were hinted with blood. She coughed.

“Oh, Author, what did I do to you…?” The Yankee said, leaning in closer. She looked so… hollow, so close to giving up the ghost.

For a moment, all he heard was her breathing.

“...You didn’t do this.” She said at length. Her voice was weak, but still contained that same fire he knew so well. “...He did.”

Yankee knew who she was talking about, and he didn’t believe it for one second. This was completely and utterly the Yankee’s fault -- no, not Hank Morgan’s. He could hear his own non-rhythmic tears as they fell against the breastplate, the only soundtrack to the scene.

“Oh, sweet Grimm, Nix…” He choked.

“Protect… the Queen…” Her voice was slowing.

The light from her eyes was slowly draining, the armor rapidly becoming a tomb for the young woman.

“Nix, please…” He tried. There were very few people who truly valued the Yankee, and the majority were a couple thousand years away. But this one... the one that Yankee had spent all those years trying to find again, was dying in front of him.

He had killed her.

“... you can’t leave me here.” His voice cracked. Camelot was rapidly becoming smaller, colder, like the empire he built was now… pointless.

Nicole Knightley forced out one more smirk, exhaling. “See you around… ...Boss.” She shuddered and lay still. The gun behind Yankee began to look quite friendly...