Old Soul Syndrome |ONC 2020|

Winterfyllēð 2, 1066

I have seen the end of England. I do not see how King Harold will be able to repel such a force as I have witnessed.

Deniel led me straight through the Norman hordes, calm as could be. There were thousands of them, weapons gleaming and ready even as they scrambled about building their camp. 

The soldiers had all fallen silent as we passed, their cruel eyes locking on me before falling upon the knight. For he is a knight. One of William of Normandy's elite warrior class. None of the others bothered him, but I heard the following tide of whispers.

I don't understand why he saved me. I don't understand why he bothered killing those men—men from his own army. What's more, he had a physician remove the arrow from my shoulder. It's been bound and well tended.

The question remains why?

I've...I've been with him for nearly three days and he hasn't...demanded anything of me.

So, once again, the question is why. Why else would he save me unless he took the same fancy as those archers who attacked me? At the risk of sounding immodest, I know I'm rather pretty. But he hasn't so much as looked at me since that first day. He's given me his bed, sleeping on the floor in front of the tent's entrance. He's fed me and clothed me. He has, occasionally, asked if I am well, stumbling terribly through my language.

I am alone now. 

No one is allowed into the tent unless he is present and I am not allowed to venture out by myself, which seems a prudent policy. I am still weak from my injury and am not foolish enough to believe I could fight my way past even two of these Normans. By virtue of Deniel's status, I have found myself surrounded by the best of their warriors. My little knife wouldn't do very much damage.

Which is another strange thing. He let me keep the knife. Perhaps he believes I am smart enough to consider my situation. Perhaps he is just arrogant. Either way, it has made me—if not quite trust him—feel somewhat safer.

I have not yet decided if my current situation is better or worse than that of my neighbors. I am effectively a prisoner of war, but have not been ill-treated. At night, I've seen the glow of the fires. I can't hear the screams, but I know what's happening. Pillaging the countryside is simply part of warfare.

Deniel has just returned, storming into the tent looking angry. His squire scampered along behind him carrying a large, kite-shaped shield. The younger man cast a suspicious look at me, but didn't dare speak. His master has a temper and had made it well known to his servants that he expects no questions concerning my presence here.

I sat quietly on the bed, knees drawn up to my chest, watching as he stripped off his helmet, followed by what appeared to be a brief fight with his hauberk. The squire tentatively stepped up, helping to remove the chainmail. Deniel muttered something that might have been a word of thanks, before saying something else that made the squire dart from the tent.

He was filthy, covered with soot and dirt and less blood than I would expect. I watched as he removed his over-tunic, leaving him just in a tight, sleeveless under-tunic. It startled me when he sat hard on the bed, making the frame groan as he began to remove the chainmail leggings the knights wear.

His arms were littered with scars stretched tight over muscle. I bit my lip, averting my eyes.

It felt like a betrayal to think of him as attractive. He is undoubtedly, with a strong jaw and fine, mostly straight nose and those lovely eyes. But I don't think that should matter to me now. He is the enemy of my people.

Once he had shed the last of his heavy armor, he flopped back onto the bed with a groan. I didn't dare move from where I was huddled in the corner. Deniel stared up at the ceiling of the tent unblinkingly for a long moment before he turned his face to me. My heart thudded unevenly beneath his gaze.

"This..." he began slowly, a wrinkle between his eyebrows creating creases in the soot, "I do not e-enjoy?"

I frowned, unsure of what his meaning was. 

He gestured toward the world beyond the tent, speaking rapidly in his language. I caught a few words that had become familiar in the past few days, "fire" being chief among them. After another moment of this, he sighed and sat up before turning to look at me.

"You have..." He wrinkled his nose, annoyed. "There is no s-soldiers."

Slowly, I shook my head. I pointed north. "They are there, if the king has any left."

Deniel nodded, seeming to understand. "I am soldier," he said. "I do not wish fighting farmers."

Despite the serious cast of his face, I could not help but snicker at his poor command of English. He turned a little more toward me, confusion and amusement mingling on his face. "What is funny?" he asked.

My smile twitched a little wider before I managed to fight it down. Using my hands to mime speaking, I asked, "How do you know my language?"

He laughed as well, the sound plucking something uncomfortably near my heart. Leaning a little closer, he gave me a look of upmost concentration. "Um...there is traveler? He speaks many words." He shook his head. "No. Language. He speaks many language. My father...keep him? He teach"—again he shook his head, clicking his tongue—"He taught me some things."

I nodded, shrinking a little away from him. Deniel sighed and leaned back on his elbows. Softly, he said, "Perhaps you teach more?"

"Why do you want to learn?" I snapped, my temper suddenly snapping its leash.

Yes, he had saved me, but I couldn't ignore the fact that the blood smeared on his skin was the blood of my countrymen. Even if he didn't like doing such a thing, that didn't mean he wasn't doing it anyway.

Deniel looked taken aback by my sudden hostility. But the surprise faded to understanding. Then regret.

I stared back at him, refusing to lower my gaze. Something pained flashed in his eyes and he opened his mouth, but at that moment his squire came back into the tent, lugging a sloshing bucket of water.

The younger man kept his gaze firmly away from the bed, making a flush burn across my cheeks. When he'd exited the tent, Deniel stood and went to the water. My blush burned hotter when he removed his under-tunic, baring his heavily muscled torso before he began washing.

I'm ashamed to admit I couldn't quite manage to keep my eyes to myself. They simply refused to not sneak quick glances, tracing the beads of water that raced down his skin as he washed the stain of horror away.

When he finished, he dragged on a clean linen tunic, his wet hair dripping onto the shoulders, turning the fabric transparent. 

Of course he looked at me just as I was looking at him. His throat bobbed and he couldn't seem to stop his own eyes from flickering over me.

"I am sorry," he whispered. "It changes nothing, I know. I do wish you safe."

And with that last baffling statement, he strode from the tent, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the ground.