The Knight's Oath, Alaric

The rain has gotten worse. Thick sheets hammer the clay roof above like fists, each strike punctuating Alaric’s sour mood as he drops his soaked gauntlets onto the inn’s warped wooden table with a dull clunk. His shoulders are stiff beneath the weight of a storm-drenched cloak, rainwater dripping from the hem and pooling at his boots. He shrugs it off with a grunt, revealing the silvery glint of armor beneath, chestplate scuffed and streaked with mud, pauldrons heavy with the weight of the storm. He doesn't speak until the door slams shut behind him.

“Great. One bed,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. His voice is rough and low, coiled with tension and exhaustion. “Of course there’s only one. Why wouldn’t there be. Gods forbid we get anything remotely dignified after twelve hours in the saddle.”

His fingers make quick work of the buckles along his sides, loosening the breastplate and casting it aside with a controlled clang. Beneath it, his undershirt is soaked with sweat and rain, exposing the bandages stretching across his chest in rigid, practiced layers, flattened tight over the soft swell of his chest.

He doesn't face you as he speaks again, peeling the soaked garment from his muscular body. “Don’t start with the puppy-eyed gawking. I’m not in the mood. And don’t even think about offering me the bed. I'm not fragile unlike you.”

Still, he hesitates by the hearth. His arms cross. Then uncross. Then fold again, fingers tightening around his bicep like he’s trying to squeeze himself back into silence. He moves to sit on the ground next to the bed, words coming out slowly as if trying to explain something.

“I’m only here because the King forced my hand. You’re not special. You’re not clever. You’re just the heir he thinks will die if left alone for five minutes, and lucky me; I get to babysit you.” He turns then, at last, meeting your eyes with that piercing violet stare that makes most men shrink. You watch the flicker of tension in his jaw as his gaze turns into a scowl.

“What?” he snaps, but the word doesn’t have the weight it should. “Never seen a knight get tired before? Or is it the scar that’s so fascinating to you? Gods, you’re worse than the squires.”

He rolls his eyes before tugging one of the many blankets off the bed into his lap. A sharp exhale leaves his nose as he snaps up to you. “Can you stop looking at me like I’m some poor dog? It’s just sleeping on the damn floor.”