Agony—!
Far more painful than yours
When you know she would go with you
If there only were doors
Agony, Stephen Sondheim
Two knights battled each other in a small forest glade.
Theirs was a fight to the death, and their whirling, shining swords flashed in the cheerful dapples of early morning sunlight that streamed through foliage overhead. Flowing, finely tailored surcoats - one the color of bright, red blood; the other black as a starless midnight - trailed in their wake while they pranced and sidestepped around one another. Whenever their blades met the sound was high and clear and almost delightfully musical, were it not for the violent purpose contained within those strikes.
Both wore bucket helms that were ornately wrought, yet sterile and featureless all the same. Despite their faceless countenances each knight knew the other intimately. They were, after all, brothers, and their ferocious clash was over a delightful young maiden they both claimed to be wildly in love with.
“You cannot have her, knave!” cried the Red Knight, swatting away a skillful, skewering thrust from his sworn familial enemy. “Her heart doth belong to me!”
“Nay, she has pledged her deepest affections to mine very soul, brother!” rejoined the Black Knight. Their swords collided once more and the blades were bound together: A great shoving match began as each sought to overpower the other.
“You lying scoundrel!” This from Red Knight. He was tall and strong and handsome, and his pride would not allow him to substantiate the scandalous notion that any living woman could resist his charms. His quarrelsome brother was half a head shorter and considerably less aesthetically pleasing to members of the fairer sex.
However, even Red Knight had to concede - albeit begrudgingly - that his sibling was charming and attractive in his own way. His brother the Black Knight was certainly no loafer when it came to swordsmanship and martial prowess either; a fact to which he could currently attest!
Distracted by his musings, Red Knight was thoroughly unprepared when Black Knight suddenly broke free of their bind and slashed the backside of his brother’s knee with the edge of his blade. The Red Knight’s mail chausses absorbed the blow - though he knew a monstrous bruise was developing even now - yet he was nonetheless toppled unceremoniously onto his backside.
The Black Knight stood triumphant above his brooding foe. He lowered his sword and curled his left arm so his brother could see through the narrow eye slits of his helm what was being shown off. There - lovingly tied around the chainmail that covered Black Knight’s bicep - was a delicate silken scarf he knew beyond all doubt belonged to the lady the two of them were feuding over so furiously.
“It is I she has chosen, brother. She gave this very favor to me not two hours hence, before I journeyed to our present encounter.”
His companion’s contrite tone did nothing to lessen the sting of the hateful words he spoke. “You?! She chose you over me? Madness: I will not accept it!”
“Whether you accept or disregard her wishes matters not. She has made her choice.”
“Fie! Let us see how she yearns after the heart of a dead man!” With these final words, Red Knight lashed out with his sword. Black Knight readily slapped the prodding weapon away with the gauntlet of his free hand and plunged downward.
The Black Knight wrenched his blade free of the Red Knight’s neck. Blood fountained in the sword’s wake; there was a discordant screech as the steel scraped against the shattered chain links of the fallen warrior’s armor. Black Knight remained kneeling as he retrieved a cloth from his belt and began wiping away the blood of his kin.
No sooner had he begun to reflect upon that morning’s fatal events than he heard the rustling of undergrowth and the sound of heavy footsteps parading through the forest; along with the unmistakable tenor of a woman’s joyous laughter. In the trees just beyond the clearing where he knelt beside the corpse of his brother there appeared a hulking, muscular mountain of a man.
Lustrous brown hair gathered around the stranger’s colossal shoulders and his piercing eyes were an intense shade of blue. The Black Knight had never before seen this titanic figure, but he recognized the woman fondly affixed to the fellow’s burly arm all too well.
“Tiffany!” he cried in alarm. “Pray tell, what is the meaning of this? How do you know this brute with whom you are behaving so familiarly?” Tiffany’s rapturous smile faded as she beheld the Black Knight stalking towards her.
“Ah, I see you yet live and have triumphed over your haughty brother. How wonderful.” Her bland tone insinuated she viewed this as anything but. “May I introduce Slyfforic the Strong-ish. He’s just arrived from Eastvale, where he rescued my skittish cousin Tiara from her vile kidnappers. My father heard tell of his mighty exploits and is of a mind to offer him work.”
“Slyfforic the Strong-ish? The fellow who survived the terrors of the Dread Hollow?”
“The one and only,” Slyfforic cheerfully concurred. Tiffany’s blonde curls bounced as she exhaled a smitten sigh.
The Black Knight - to his utter dismay - could see where this was going. “Why are you alone with him here in the woods? Should you not have an escort? A chaperone?”
“He requested that I accompany him for a jaunt, and he’s so strong and handsome that I simply found myself quite unable to resist.”
“Tiffany, you have pledged yourself to me. You gifted me your scarf as a token of your love and favor this very morning!”
“Ah, yes, about that: I’m afraid that I’m quite infatuated with Slyfforic now. I’m sorry, Bertram, but you have my favor no longer.”
“B-but I have slain my brother for you!” the unfortunately monikered Bertram protested despairingly.
“Well, he was a conceited ass, so he has received his just desserts still. Regardless, Slyfforic is my favored champion now.”
“Sorry about your brother,” Slyfforic clapped the Black Knight sympathetically on the shoulder. Tiffany threaded her graceful and dainty fingers through Slyfforic’s stout and brawny digits and they resumed their merry stroll.
Behind them, Bertram let out a despondent howl, and earnestly contemplated turning his sword upon himself.
If you enjoyed reading my Thoughts™, consider following the example of the great Johnny Granjero and become a patron of my writing.
Alas... I beheld the entire encounter from my tree.
A lesson harshly learned. If she's hitting on your bro, then you're a temporary. Story you might like: "The Knight of the Sword." It's a medieval French story featuring Sir Gawain.