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There are things that must be done properly, and this is one of them.
It was not always thus, Vero knows. For Rosa, it happened in the dark, without fanfare, a private ceremony revealed only in the pink light of the next morning. She was young—too young by most measures, perhaps even (perhaps especially) her own. But that was years ago, when the king was younger than Vero is now, his reign a new and fragile thing. He needed to act then not in undue haste but certainly with urgency, his need for security driving him to place the burden of knighthood on the narrow shoulders of a teenaged girl.
It was not a mistake, and yet he has apparently learned from it, because Vero is twenty-two, now a year late by most standards. They have waited seven years for this, time during which the distant gossamer dream of knighthood crystallized gradually into something real, a promise made under the boughs of a great cherry tree on the other side of the country.
The tree was in its second bloom by then, its blossoms a delicate rose that contrasted with the fiery glow of autumn foliage, and they stood beneath its drifting petals when Viago took both their hands in his gloved ones, and said, “When you come home.”
Home. A year away on the shores of Lago di Novo, in the place where Vero was born and raised, lands that are now theirs by right and the king’s clever slight of hand but that has never, not even now, been a home to them. That designation belongs instead to the palace and its walls, the expansive grounds with their manicured lawns and Rosa’s garden. They came here as a hostage, became a ward and then a squire. Now they become something else.
A knight. The king’s knight. Viago’s.
The morning of the accolade dawns crisp and cold, the weak light of winter fracturing into brilliant colour as it streams in through the high stained glass windows of the chapel. The last queen’s private refuge is seldom used now, for the king’s household is hardly pious. Vero has spent the night here not in prayer—they have never given the Maker more than a passing thought—but in quiet contemplation of the sword set upon the altar. When they finally stand, their knees ache from the hours spent on the stone floor, but their mind is clear. They feel hollow, emptied out, a vessel now ready to be filled with new purpose.
There are hours yet to go until the ceremony, and Vero will not speak until they give their vows. There are traditions, after all, and this—this is a thing that must be done properly.
Vero sheds the rough penitent’s garb they wore in their vigil, dressed instead by Teia in velvet finery befitting their station, all black and deepest violet, the king’s twisting serpent embroidered on their breast in silver thread. In the quiet of the queen’s chambers, she straightens their jacket, her slim hands brushing imagined lint from their shoulders before she draws them down to press a kiss to their brow, her mouth soft against their skin.
“I’m so proud of you,” she murmurs, and Vero smiles but does not answer.
It is Mari who styles their hair, twisting the black strands into braids to keep it from their face, their usual simple style made elegant and polished. Like Vero, she is silent, understanding the importance of this moment and the ones that are to come. Still, she swats at Vero’s hand when they reach up to touch one of the braids, her usual mischief sparkling in the deep umber of her eyes. When Vero reaches for her instead, she returns their embrace, nestling into the warmth of their arms.
Behind them, the queen watches with amusement for a long moment before she beckons Mari away, leaving Vero alone to wait for the scheduled hour.
When they finally descend, Lucanis pushes open the enormous doors, inclining his head as Vero passes.
After the silence and solitude of the previous night, the great hall is an assault of noise and colour, great benches brought in to seat the dozens of nobles the queen has invited to observe this sacred event. They sit restless in their finery, chattering amongst themselves while the king is stone-faced on his throne, Vero’s sword now laid gleaming across his lap. His expression changes, though, the moment he sees them in the doorway—still serious and regal, as he must be in this moment, but something warming in the bluegreyviolet of his eyes.
Rosa is waiting there, just inside the doors, and she steps forward, a belt and scabbard in her hands. Her pale sunlight eyes are bright with some emotion they can’t quite place—pride, perhaps. “My squire,” she rasps, affectionate, and Vero returns her smile in silence. She belts the scabbard at their waist, though it’s light without any sword to fill it, then reaches to clasp their arm in a familiar gesture of support and friendship. Despite the occasion, Vero can’t resist the opportunity to tease, and they duck down to press a tender kiss to her cheek, feeling gratified when she blushes.
At the far end of the fall, VIago rises from his throne, the bright sword still held in one hand.
“Come forward,” he intones, and Vero turns from Rosa to make the slow procession towards his ornate seat. The nobles watch as they pass, and Rosa follows, peeling off at the front row to take her seat next to Teia and Mari.
Set at the base of the dais is a soft cushion, violet silk with silver tassels. They approach it with careful, even steps, never looking away from Viago as he descends the pair of steps to meet them. He looks every inch the king, his crown gleaming in the sunlight that comes through the high windows, the violet of his velvet doublet lustrous and threaded with gold. Vero loves this version of him, resplendent and grave, though they note the slight tug at the corner of his mouth where he is trying not to smile.
“Kneel,” he says, and Vero sinks to their knees on the cushion laid out for them, their head bowed. Above them, their king stands, straight-backed and serious.
Vero waits in silence, the hush of the room broken only by the slight rustle of fabric and the creak of wood as some noble shifts in his seat.
“Vero de Riva, having served seven years as a squire, you come before us today ready to take the vows of knighthood. Is this true?” Viago’s voice carries clear and strong, and it echoes faintly in the enormous room.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Vero tells him.
“You may speak your oath.”
Vero takes a deep, steadying breath, raising their head to look up at him. They gaze at each other, King and Knight, and for Vero everything else falls away.
“On bended knee, I solemnly swear fealty to you, my King, to your crown and your kingdom,” they recite. “I vow to serve you faithfully and with honour, to uphold your laws, to protect you from all harm, and to defend all that is dear to you. I swear this upon my life, and am bound from now until death takes me or the world’s end, and may I be struck down should I ever stray from my oath.”
There are words behind the formal words, other vows and promises they do not make out loud. Promises not of loyalty but of love, of commitment not to the crown but to the man who wears it.
“We accept your oath,” Viago tells them, and there’s a gentleness to his voice as he speaks his own. “And in accepting it, we in turn to swear our fealty to you, knight of our crown and our realm, to protect and to defend you with all our power, from now until death takes us or the world’s end.”
Viago reaches forward with the sword, tapping Vero first upon their left shoulder, then their right, and finally upon their head. “With your sword, I knight thee,” he says.
There is something that stings in Vero’s eyes, and they blink back tears as they look up at the man who is everything to them, their beloved king.
“Rise now,” he commands, “and take the sword from my hand. May it serve you as well as you serve me.”
Slowly, Vero stands, and he holds the blade out to them. Their bare fingers brush his gloved ones, and Viago smiles at them, soft and private, the expression meant only for them. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Vero says, and they slip the long silver blade into the scabbard belted at their waist.
Now Viago’s voice drops low, not the commanding tone he uses to be heard by the nobility, but the soft one he uses when they are entirely alone. “You’ve earned this,” he promises them, and he reaches out and grasps their shoulder. “You’ve earned everything.”