Azula And The Knight

Their so-called Consecrated Priest walked amongst them, water glowing in his hands. Each warrior of their strange company removed his armour wherever a wound may lie and allowed the priest to apply the healing watery salve he commanded.

A waterbender, she knew him as. An old, incredibly wizened man nearly half-blind, unable to pick up a sword nor swing it, yet the best-paid man in their little mercenary company bar the captains. The others were warriors, clear and plain. Armoured in blackened steel, all but three scrambled to remove their plate or to have their squires remove it for them.

They were the Tattered Stars- A Mercenary company from far beyond the sea. And for this journey into the Earth Kingdom, they were to be her guard.

And guard they had. The local warlord in the area had tried to spring an ambush upon them while they were marching through a ravine. Quickly, with their two-handed swords and pikes, they had set up a defensive perimeter around her and held off an army of archers and earthbenders without a single casualty. Impressive, given they only had two benders in their army.

One of the three unharmed men removed only his helmet, pale white-gold hair cascading down his shoulders when he removed the cloth hat beneath, and caught her eyes for only half a second, his deep blue meeting her gold. With little more than a nod, he leaned back on his seat, a tree stump, and cleaned his sword. Nearly as long as the man was tall, it was straight, unlike that of the enemy. His cheekbones were sharp and prominent, and his cheeks sunken in just a little bit, leading towards a square chin and sharp jaw. Whispers of starvation and shadows of hunger marred his otherwise... Acceptable face.

"You there. I need a guard," Azula ordered, pointing at the young man. In truth, she no more needed a sword than the sun did, but if he were to meet her eyes, the least he could do as recompense was guard her.

He did his best to hide his annoyance or tiredness, though he did leave his helmet with another man. Standing up to his full height, like many of these foreigners, he was a tall man, a head taller than her, maybe 6ft 4 in the Fire Nation Imperial measurements. He loomed even over some of the other foreigners and towered over the bent-over Consecrated Priest, who briefly splashed a drop of water on his brow and moved it across his face with a distant wave of his finger. It was part religious ceremony, part healing.

The man lumbered after her--no, not lumbered. Despite the weight of his armour, he was awfully quiet on his feet. Some of the chain links clanked, and metal moved against metal as he rested his sword on his shoulder, but he didn't clank. He knew how to move in so much steel.

With this nameless warrior as her shadow, she wandered through the rest of the camp, making sure that this mercenary company was setting up suitable defences. They were deep in former Earth Kingdom territory, only a few dozen miles from the former city of Omashu. It would not do to slack in the building of trenches or let up on the sentries.

"Mercenary," Azula said sharply, not even looking at the man following close behind her. "Is that old man the only waterbender in your company?"

Silently, he nodded. Azula muttered. They respected her office and person--Crown Princess of the Fire Nation--more than any local mercenary forces, who might forget themselves and speak to her without permission. But she did not wish to have to look at him for answers to her questions. "You may speak."

"Yes, Princess Azula. Watershapers... Sorry, benders, are rare amongst our people. Most find themselves in the palaces of Dukes and Kings, not amongst Mercenary armies," The young man replied. His voice was accented, crisp and sharp, almost refined, but betrayed a simplicity of lower birth or lower circumstance. A mercenary was both, and it was hard to say which one it might be.

"Then how did he find himself here?" Azula asked, noticing a group of pale foreigners playing dice with one another, trying desperately to hide their game once one of them spotted her.

"Same as all of us. Our services demand a price, and our crimes demand that we cannot perform them at home."

Yes. Each man inside their strange company was an exile.

According to father, according to his spymasters, according to the dockmasters that first met these foreigners and their old ships, they were each criminals from a continent a world away. Not all were from the same kingdom, for there were hundreds on this distant continent. But all criminals. For one reason or another. Much like the Rough Rhinos that Azula had employed once before. Usually serving their nations even when they were no longer allowed to do so officially.

They had found themselves in the Fire Nation in, according to them, pure chance. A squall, a storm, had blown them far off course over a year ago. They were not, as the citizens of Foyada City feared, an invasion force. But a lost, starved mercenary company of no more than a thousand men. Less and less as time passed.

"And what crimes are you guilty of?" Azula found herself asking. She didn't know his name, nor cared to, but should he be a rapist, she would prefer to be ready to burn him alive. Well, even more ready.

The soldier didn't immediately respond. Azula chanced a look back at his sharp face, watching the internal debate play within him for how to answer. She turned to look ahead quickly, hoping he did not notice her curiosity, slight and inconsequential as she knew it was.

"It was found I was not who I said I was. I am a knight now, and I led my Lord to believe I was a knight back then. He wasn't forgiving when he discovered the truth. Death, or exile," The soldier, a "knight", whatever that meant, explained.

"And how long have you served as a criminal in this company?" Azula asked, glancing at her sharp nails to tell the man she didn't truly care for the answer and merely spoke for the sake of speaking.

"Six years, Princess. Since I was seven and ten," The Soldier replied.

"A young man. And how long were you pretending to be a 'knight', or whatever you think you are," Azula asked cruelly.

"Three years. Since I was four and ten," The knight replied. A small smile grew on his face, not that Azula allowed him to realise she noticed. "Though I assure you, Princess Azula, I am a knight now."

"If you believe I am impressed by some silly foreign title, you clearly do not know me very well," Azula snapped.

"Of course, my Princess. I did not mean to imply I mattered in any way, shape or form," The knight said in a tone that almost dared to sound snarky, sarcastic, or even some gross, insipid form of pride. "But it matters only in that it is no title of birth or rank. But strength. Our greatest warriors, those allowed to be trained as such at least, are all knights."

"Your greatest warriors? I was under the impression that nearly all of you are non-benders. You are unable, nay, unfit to grasp the greatest spirit-given power in the world. You fumble with swords, bows, and lances," Azula shot back without needing to look at her conversational adversary, instead focusing very tightly on a few of the men setting up a tent.

"If I may, Princess, I'd hardly call our performance here today 'Fumbling'. Bloody, vicious, stalwart, perhaps. But a fumble so rarely ends with us surviving and the enemy not," The Knight replied, once again not quite proudly, too well trained to dare to speak to her in such a self-satisfied tone, but his words and the damned smile on his face threatened to hold something that was not abject supplication towards her.

At last, she could no longer bear looking at him from only the corner of her eye. Azula turned on her feet and placed a single finger on his chest, the plate glowing the softest orange beneath her burning touch.

"What is your name, knight?" She said, spitting that last word. "I should report you to your superior."

Solemnly but without fear, the knight nodded.

"Sir Arhedain Gaelon," He replied. "1st company, Greatsword Knight."

It was indeed a large sword he wielded. But great? She doubted that very much. She removed her finger, leaving a print melted into his armour.

"It is rarely a good sign if I wish to learn a soldier's name, especially when they have done nothing worthy of praise," Azula warned.

"I understand, Princess. But I do not believe I can or should attempt to convince you of a different course, and so I resign myself to whatever you will do to me. Should I leave you, Princess? And find another bodyguard to escort you through this perfectly safe camp?" Arhedain asked. It was all perfect subservience and acquiescence, yet she couldn't help but think there was a challenge laced within his fine words.

"No, you will not," Azula eventually said. "You'll do."

She turned, not allowing him any final words, and marched on ahead. After only a moment to touch the fingerprint melted into his black plate metal, Arhedain followed closely behind.

There was always something unnerving in the eyes of the foreigners. Many had the blue or green eyes of the enemy, but they were sometimes clear, or sharper, or somehow wider than that she knew well. Their hair colours ranged from mud brown to burning red to golden or pale blonde, like this Arhedain close behind her. Perfect raven black, like that of her family, seemed relatively rare.

They were clearly human, clearly men. Their bodies, oft-quite well built, betrayed that. But something else than what she knew well. Strangers.

"Did you kill anyone in this latest fumble of yours, Sir Arhedain?" Azula asked, knowing that 'Sir' was an honorific of some kind, but not just how important it was. If she had known the pride that welled in Arhedain's heart when he heard his name after that word, she never would have said it.

"Three men, my Princess. Two earthbenders of no great skill and a swordsman who put up a little better of a fight," Arhedain replied.

Azula's eyebrows rose for half a heartbeat, but she quickly regained complete control over her face.

"You found it easier to kill an earthbender than a nobody?" She asked, putting down whatever skill this man thought he had with something so crude as a sword.

"Since coming to this land, we have all trained extensively in our own ways of fighting shapers of all kinds. It is rare to need to do so back home, but it does happen. A great many manuals and treatises have been written on how to defeat a shaper. How do you defend yourself, attack, and stay mobile when even the ground beneath your feet threatens to fall to their will? Conversely, a swordfight is always a challenge. We train for it, but all men train for it. A shaper so rarely thinks about what happens if a non-shaper doesn't immediately fall to them in battle. A swordsman is always ready to counter," Arhedain explained.

Hmm. She certainly would not be so stupid as his opponents. Admittedly, even great benders burned in her flames. But should one ever survive the initial attack, she was certain she would rise to the challenge.

"How would you defeat a firebender?" She asked.

"Close the distance, quickly," Arhedain started to explain, his voice losing nearly all emotion, becoming pure instruction. "Charge through flames and smoke, using your weight and momentum to push through. A firebender relies on pain and concussive force to keep a target at bay long enough to focus his fire to burn them. Ignore those first two, and he will fail with the third. Firebenders are mobile opponents, so the impetus is on wide swings and quick strikes, perhaps even with your fists, rather than the precise stabs required to get through the stone or ice armour of earthshapers or watershap... Waterbenders."

It all... It all made sense. She knew, beneath that black steel armour and those chains, he and the other armoured "knights" wore cloth and leather, woven or shaped to insulate them from the worst of the heat outside.

"Bender, Sir Arhedain. In my empire, you will use my language," Azula chided. "And how would you fight a lightning bender?"

"Lightning?" Arhedain asked.

"Ahh, of course. With so few of your people being benders, you must be so far behind in that art," Azula preened. She clicked her right fingers, shooting a blue spark between her index and middle finger.

Perhaps this man had known of her and her father's ability to bend lightning. Perhaps not. He had certainly never seen it before; that much was clear. It was as if she had actually shot him with that bolt; he was so shocked.

Eventually, Arhedain fought off a smile, controlling his face enough that he raised only a single eyebrow.

"I guess I would die," Arhedain replied, the smirk he wished to wear oozing from his voice.

Azula couldn't help her smile, though she made sure it appeared crueller than it secretly was.

"Indeed. You'd do well to remember that, Sir Arhedain."

Azula turned away and continued her march through the camp, her new shadow of a guard following close behind her. Eventually, they came to the main pavilion tent, which was made of gold and ruby cloth. The two of them entered, the three captains stood over a table with a map of the local area.

All three turned, nodding their heads towards her.

"My Princess," All three said simultaneously, their voices a choir. Admittedly, a more masculine, deeper choir.

"So, one army defeated," Azula began, looming over the table with them. "What else is in the area?"

For thirty minutes, while her new guard stood resolute by the tent's entrance, she and the mercenary captains talked strategy. Local towns they'd march into as a show of force to keep them in line, anti-partisan activities in the nearby mountains, scouting for the warlord's main hideout. Normal stuff for a campaign such as this.

That was until thirty minutes later when Arhedain allowed one of her own men to enter the tent, a messenger hawk on one arm and a note in the other. "Your Majesty, a letter arrived carrying the royal seal and your name," the Lieutenant, whom Azula did not bother to remember the name of, said. She snatched the letter out of his hand while Arhedain escorted the Lieutenant outside. While the other men watched her, she melted the wax off the letter, letting it bleed out onto the floor of the tent, and read it, quickly translating it from a familiar code.

"Daughter. A plot brews in the shadow of the capital. The enemy gathers, though I know not their name. My spies and whispers have failed to root it out, and now I must turn to you," It said. There was no great mystery as to who sent the letter. Father, Fire Lord and master of all the earth beneath the sky. "Make all haste back to your home. Travel as lightly as possible, in disguise, if able. The longer we delay them knowing your path, the better we might surprise them. I shall give further instructions when you arrive."

Azula burnt the letter in her hand, scattering its ashes to the floor.

"Captains, I must leave you. See to the subjugation of these southern lands within three months, and I shall each of you handsomely rewarded. Titles, wives, what have you." Azula said. Glancing between each other, the captains conferred in silence, then nodded.

"Good luck in whatever you must do," One captain said, knowing better than to ask exactly what that was. Mercenaries do not question Princesses.

Azula turned, glancing at her guard once more. He raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

Azula hid her internal question well before speaking her answer aloud.

"I shall require an escort. This man will do."

Sir Arhedain Gaelon blinked in surprise but steeled himself quickly, nodding.

"He is yours to command," One of the captains said. "We shall have horses and provisions ready for you once you've packed."

______________________________

She thought, briefly, that having one of these foreigners as her escort might attract undue attention from the locals. These pale-skinned, blue-eyed, blonde-haired foreigners were unlike any other, and any who knew of them knew they were mercenaries in the service of the fire nation.

But also, with all eyes on a lone "knight", the less eyes would be on her, a simple fire nation citizen. She wore simpler clothes. A robe of black cloth rather than brilliant red and gold silk. A dagger at her side might hide her firebending if she needed to hide it. And her hair was free of its red-gold crown.

No, to all the world, it would be a foreign knight escorting a fire nation lady. Perhaps a merchant or a noble, but nobody truly important.

He, too, had dressed down. He had placed his armour in a bag, then tied it to his strange four-legged mount, wearing instead a wool top interwoven with metal. Poor armour, typically worn under plate by knights like him or by the poorer men of his company, but armour nonetheless. Arhedain had taken to wearing his long, blonde hair loose, letting it fall down to his shoulders rather than tying it up. Still, his greatsword sat in a special sheath tied to his horse, an axe slapped against his thigh, and a knife and its sheath were tied at the shoulder. Unlike her, he wore his lethality openly.

With practised ease, he threw himself over the back of the tall, white "horse", his feet easily resting in the stirrups.

Azula did the same with her ostrich-horse, a far more normal two-legged mount. She could not remember her personal steed's name but had commanded its usual armour to be removed. While she settled into the saddle, Arhedain rubbed his horse's pale white mane and cooed softly into its ear.

"I see you will enjoy travelling with your mistress," Azula said drolly, watching him treat this animal with a disturbing amount of affection.

"Favour rides better when gently prodded, not coerced. Her last rider got his head stomped in when he took the whip to her too many times," Arhedain explained. His horse brayed, clopping its front right hoof into the mud. With a smile, Arhedain patted its side.

"You would trust an animal that killed its last owner?" Azula couldn't help but ask.

"If nothing else, Princess, it speaks as to her ferocity. And I did owe him some money," Arhedain replied with a wry smile.

She did not approve of the joke and made that clear when she forced herself not to smile.

"I am waiting."

Arhedain nodded, clicking his spurs against his horse and setting off; Azula flicked the reins of her mount and set off beside him. It would not to lead and make herself a greater target, but she could hardly stand to ride behind a mere mercenary.