that time i accidentally put Nom in Knight Hell
literally what it says on the tin but like genuinely I didn’t mean to put Nom in knight hell I just got possessed in Twitch Chat during a Bannerfall stream once and did this:
You might have to tap the second image to see it in full but like I got possessed to do that and then went “hey what if I wrote about what I think Knight Hell is like” and then I blacked out mentally and four hours later THIS appeared (PLEASEEEEEEE READ THE TAGSSSSS THEY HAVE WARNINGS. IF I HAVE MISSED ANY TAGS OR HAVE TAGGED SOMETHING INCORRECTLY PLEASE TELL ME SO I CAN FIX IT. Also some things may be incorrect bcs I wrote this before Bannerfall’s finale):
One does not expect to see a knight in Hell.
Noble, loyal, valiant defenders of the Kingdoms they serve, one assumes they would never commit something so terrible as to be damned or condemned in such a way.
And yet, there is such a thing as Knight Hell, and someone inhabits it.
Nominal wakes up abruptly as the sounds of cheers and cries for violence rush in, uncomfortably hot and half his face feeling gritty.
The voices. They sound wrong.
They’re just as they are in the arena, excited for the promise of combat and shed blood, of marvellous victories or tragic defeats, but it isn’t correct. It’s as though instead the shouts are being replayed a moment out of sync with some timing Nominal doesn’t grasp, reflected and murky like a dirty, cracked mirror.
Although, that may be in part due to the pounding in his skull–a dull, hot throb against his temples. He swears he can feel it in his brain.
Something heavy bears down upon him, not something tangible, but an immense burden nonetheless. Struggling beneath its weight, the Draconic knight finally opens his eyes, narrowing them almost instantly at the bright glare of light on sand.
He didn’t pass out here, no, he was…
All he knows is that something has gone horribly wrong, and he is the one to blame. This is his fault.
The weight presses even further upon him, almost crippling enough to drop him back to his knees, but the knight cries out and fixes his stance to remain upright.
“You’re finally awake. Took you long enough.” A voice sniffs, disdain and mockery dripping venomously in their tone.
Nominal tries to look for the speaker, sharp eyes scanning for the figure of a person, but to his confusion, not only does he find none, he realizes this is not the coliseum. The arena is slightly slanted, more of a bowl shape than the flat grounds he knows and entirely open to the sky. There is no river or ponds, no rocky outcroppings upon which to climb for an advantage or moment of rest.
“What—“ He tries, finding his throat sore and dry, voice hoarse and cracking.
“Have you not figured it out yet? Do you not remember?” The voice sneers, all-encompassing and crushing. Nominal reaches for his sword, ignoring how his chest feels tight and the impression that there is eyes on him. “Perhaps you need a reminder.”
There is the sound of screams, a multi-voiced clamor of shock, fear, betrayal, panic, and rage, and horrible, familiar crunches and screams of heavy metal on thin, easily overwhelmed steel.
Once again, his hands are red, crimson, bright, warm, and sticky.
No matter how many hours he spends furiously scrubbing at them, he cannot get rid of the feeling, nor is he rid of the blood beneath his claws.
15 bodies lay scattered and broken, heads and helmets dented in and chest plates shattered, hearts and ribcages exposed for the crows and insects to feast upon before the earth claims their bodies.
His hands are painted in their blood, it drips from the mace that hangs heavy in his hand, and the world is so awfully silent, save for the whimpers and sharp pants of fear behind him.
A singular word reaches his ears.
The word is spat out like a rotten food, putrid and vile.
“You surely did not think that you could break an Oath and escape my notice? The Lion has done his best to protect you, to shoulder your sins, but it is only right that you bear the consequences. He should not have to suffer for your decisions.”
Nominal exhales sharply, accompanied by a pained, broken note of guilt and pent-up hurt. The voice is right. Owain should not have to take on the responsibility of atoning for him.
His vision zeroes in on the ground, the sand that covers his feet and the tip of his tail coiled tightly around his legs. “I–I’m… I didn’t…” Words refuse to come to him; his throat closing up and the confusion of his situation preventing him from getting any clear ideas across. Darkness consumes his peripheral, adding another layer to the suffocating weight. It’s like his whole body is being pressed, squeezed in something’ hand, like a child playing too rough with a doll. He can barely see.
“Your sorrow did not cause you enough pain to seek true repentance. Instead you hid it, continued to lie and deceive to keep from facing the consequences. There is no running now. I have the final say in the judgement brought upon those who serve under me. Now, you must answer for your sins.”
The weight over his limbs draws back, and as soon as it has, Nominal draws his sword. Having grown up to prepare for combat, he knows very well the feeling of an enemy’s approach. His sluggish thoughts snap, suddenly sharp and flowing like a river as instinct warns him of danger.
“You must conquer my champions in combat if you wish to redeem yourself. Fail, and it will be more than your Oath that will be broken.” They command, as Nom finally catches up to realize who it is.
This must be the Knight God Owain was telling him about.
And if this is the Knight God, then he is being punished. His crimes have finally caught up to him—
This is like what 4C went through.
He hadn’t believed the rogue at first, but after seeing the state he’d returned in after being missing for over two weeks, there was a small part of the Draconic knight that had started to wonder if he was being serious.
Now he knows for certain.
The God falls silent after that, a small mercy as Nominal’s ears instead pick up the shuffle of feet around him, somewhere beyond his immediate awareness. He can barely see the sword he grips in both hands, knuckles white beneath the dark gauntlets fitted over them.
While his hearing is sharp, he has always relied better upon what he can see than what he can hear. He cannot hear the specific way his opponent will tilt their blade, nor direct his own to strike true with no target to follow.
Wings fluttering nervously, the knight slowly paces a circle, waiting for his opponent to make the first move.
His heart beats against his ribcage, and while he is taking deep, steady breaths to try and stay calm and prepared, his lungs ache and he can still hear a tremor in each one. How is he meant to fight what he can’t see?!
A shape moves against the darkness, looming close and darting away as he goes to respond, instead drawing a line across his exposed flank, though it isn’t deep enough to cut.
Grunting softly, the Draconic knight tries to see if he can see where they went through their footsteps in the sand, only for something to tear into his wing, tugging as it lodges into bone for a moment before finally breaking free.
Pulling out his shield, Nominal spins, hoping to trip them up with his tail, and while he makes them stumble, his opponent disappears before he can see them as more than an impression of shadow and metallic armour.
”How did you ever protect the slime against 15 of your brothers if you can’t even defend yourself?” The God sighs, causing an indignant, frustrated snarl to bubble up in Nom’s chest. It would help if he could see. It’s worse than Katie’s pocket sand–while not gritty and painful in his eyes, he can’t see more than a matter of inches, maybe even a foot, in front of him, and he has no way to know which direction his opponent is. He thinks there may be two.
They come at him again, leaving a light mark across the gap in his armour that allows his wings to move freely. Lashing out again, he finally lands his first hit, the satisfaction of feeling his sword sink into soft tissue and the retreat of his enemy. The cheers continue, muffled and refracted in a way that only feeds into Nom’s unease.
Ears pricked as his opponent(s?) stalk around him, the knight keeps his wings tightly folded against his back. The one strike that caught still smarts, bleeding freely as he senses the liquid running down the membrane. Enough hits like that and his wings will be no more than dead weight, although they are already a painfully easy target.
Hearing what sounds like a lunge, Nominal twists, driving the figure back and then moving again to parry what he’d feared to be another sneak attack.
Their weapons–axe and sword–meet, and though Nom tries, he cannot make out any defining features before they pull away.
Slowly pulling out his shield, the knight returns to listening.
That confirms there’s at least two of them. One is bad enough, but if he’s lucky, maybe he can deal with two.
The dust kicked up by the scuffles has begun to irritate his nose and limit his already near nonexistent vision, so he moves away cautiously, never keeping his back turned to one direction for too long.
Is there a pattern to what they’re doing? They’ve managed to hurt him a couple of times, but neither have risked an actual confrontation. Maybe they’re just trying to feel him out, see what his weaknesses are.
One of those weaknesses is pretty damn obvious.
Still, if they’re looking for his weaknesses, he may as well look for theirs.
Another hit along his side, this time slipping beneath the plating of his armour and biting into his flank. Shouting both his pain and increasing aggravation, Nominal flares out a wing, successfully whacking the attacker in the head(?) and turns to pursue them.
He’s learned that they’re quick, but he can keep pace with them.
One has a preference for the spear, while the other prefers an odd but frighteningly effective mix between axe and dagger.
Shield-bashing into his target, the knight manages to trip them up, then presses his advantage despite his muscles voicing their exhaustion and the burden of something increasing upon him again.
It’s the one with a spear, which they use to try and ward him back long enough to scramble to their feet.
Rather than move away, though, Nominal lets their spear head sink into the wood of his shield, then shoves forward to stand atop them and finally drive his sword through their neck.
The darkness wanes only slightly, at last revealing the face of his opponent, the one he has claimed victory over and evened our his chances of success:
Nominal freezes, arms going slack at his sides as his eyes widen and the heat he’d been subjected to is replaced with an icy cold.
”No.” He breathes, though he may as well have merely mouthed the word for how quiet it is uttered. “No, no, no—“
He steps back, unable to look away from the Elf’s still body and the way the blood seeps from her throat. “I–no, that’s… she’s not real. I… she can’t be, I’m—“ Voice cracking, he doesn’t hear the other one coming up behind him before their dagger has found its way into his back and twisted.
The Draconic knight screams, both in his disoriented shock and pain, then the darkness consumes his sight again as he swings his sword. It catches something, torn suddenly from his hand and leaving him without a means of fighting back against the axe bearing down upon him. Stepping back, Nom reaches out, tearing the spear from his shield and letting its unfamiliar weight settle in his hand. His tail brushes Graecie’s hand, so he quickly moves it away and instead uses it to snap the spear’s pole into a shorter size, then rushes forward to meet his attacker, Shield-bashing to knock them off balance, then using his tail to slam into their undefended abdomen. He knows it hurt, not because they stagger back, doubled over in pain, but because he has heard it crack ribs before when he doesn’t hold back, and he has no reason to withhold his power here.
Taking advantage of their struggle to recover, Nom uses the broken spear like a knife to sink it into the notch just above their collarbone, leaving him standing triumphant as the crowd’s cheers surge. It lacks the same sense of genuine emotion. It is wrong.
Panting heavily, Nominal reaches behind himself and tears the dagger out of his back, pausing.
It is with mounting horror that Nom looks at the second fallen champion.
4C, covered in dirt and oozing blue from the broken spear jutting out of his chest, lays in more of a puddle than the shape of a body as his form loses integrity and fails.
The Draconic knight exhales raggedly, but upon trying to breathe in again, finds it more difficult.
It looks exactly like him.
For all Nom knows, it really was him.
He’s been put in Hell before, it wouldn’t be too hard to imagine he could be sent there again. But why here? Why for this? Why Graecie, too?
“You hurt those you claim to love and protect. Unbefitting for a knight. Much less so one who was praised for being one of the best of his Kingdom. You said it yourself. Perhaps you are not worthy of being called a knight at all. No, you’re just a man with a sword.” The Knight God states, as Nominal sinks to his knees. If even his own God doesn’t think he’s a knight, does he have any right to say he is? He’d thought a knight was meant to protect the ones they care about. And he had, as best he could, but was that not enough? He had hurt them. He accused Graecie of being the one who told Katie about his oath, and he cannot count the number of times he must have hurt Katie herself.
“Are they–are they real?” He whispers.
“They’re as real as they can be.” The Knight God replies, far too indifferent for the acts Nom has just committed. “But your fight is not yet over. Get up.”
He can’t just brush this off like nothing.
He killed his friends, took away the lives of those who he fought to save and protect. His efforts to save 4C were all for nothing, because here he is, slain by his own hand before him.
Again, this isn’t just something he can brush aside and ignore like it’s nothing.
“Get up. Or has a little bit of death done you in? I thought you would be used to it.” The God mocks, and while his hands curl, his lips draw back, and his tail flicks, Nominal remains on the ground. He still has 4C’s dagger in his hand. He’d never seen the slime without it, aside from when he had helped the knights capture him and took his weaponry. It was a pitiful few, but in the time Nom has had come to know the rogue, he has had learned that it’s all 4C needs needed to do considerable damage.
“Hm. Very well, then.” The Knight God huffs, and distantly, the Draconic man hears a new set of footsteps enter the arena.
If he sits here, he will die.
But if he goes back, he will have to deal with the fact that he has lost–killed–his friends. Katie would find out, either by the word of his mouth or someone else’s. He couldn’t keep his Oathbreak a secret, and he surely cannot keep quiet about the loss of two of his own people in Blue.
The footsteps draw closer, bringing with it the blindness once again, and finally, Nominal forced himself to stand. He is exhausted, both mentally and physically, after countless time in the previous battle. 4C thought he’d been gone for at most a day or so, but in reality, it had been over two weeks. The longer he remains here, the longer he will be away from the others. Away from Katie. As much as he cares cared about Graecie and 4C, he swore to protect his sister, and he cannot do that from here.
Rolling his shoulders, Nom prepares for his next battle, retrieving his sword and internally dreading who it is he’ll be facing next.
The battle is long and arduous, just like the one before it.
This time, however, his fatigue makes itself known, leaving him with deep wounds along his back and arms, even one that had caught his cheek dangerously close to his left eye.
There’s a particular gash along wing that left a jagged tear in it. While he’s not tried flying in quite a long time, any hopes of it have been shattered now. That isn’t an easy heal, even for a Mage.
His new opponent uses a sword, just like his own.
Assuming it’s another person he knows, it’s surely a Mage or a fellow knight, given the power behind their swings. He tried calling out to them, hoping maybe to stop the fight or tell them it was him, but he received no answer aside from a jab at his chest.
It’s almost easy to give in to the patterns he grew up learning, perfecting, and modifying to better suit him in particular. The lack of sight makes it difficult, but they’re not as fast as 4C was, so he can chase them or retreat when needed. They tend to come for a more head-on approach, which lends to the assumption that this is another knight. Owain, maybe? Without his massive sword? Though why would a God pit him against someone they supposedly approve of? Did they have something against Graecie, then? He can’t think of why they would.
His grip falters, and Nominal hurriedly throws himself to the side to avoid the enemy sword lodging into his throat.
He can’t think about that now. Not unless he wants to lose, though from the fact he’s bleeding from numerous wounds both new and old, it seems as though he might regardless.
He still has to try, surely. It’s the one thing he has a true say in.
The heat has started to make his head swim a little, sweat dripping from his forehead and soaking through the shirt on his back, breathing ragged and throat still dry despite having regained his ability to actually speak coherent sentences again. The cheers sound more like mocking jeers now, as though laughing at his efforts and finding amusement in his desperation and upset.
The battle is as physical as it is mental; if he stops to think about the bodies still lying somewhere in the arena, he will collapse again, and he will lose, but it’s hard not to think about it when he knows he’s likely to kill another friend.
Flaring his wings, Nominal flaps them hard enough to stir up the sand and make his opponent falter as he darts away and to the side. The more damaged wing of the two is slower to move, like trying to move your hands when they’re too cold. It still functions, but far less well than it should.
He turns back around sharply, shield-bashing them on his way past, though they manage to get a cut along his side in return. His armour is very close to failing, already broken and chipped in some places that have been long since stained red. If this fight doesn’t end soon, he may simply pass out from exhaustion, overheating, or maybe blood loss. It’s not like he has time to fix any of those issues. How long has he been fighting? It feels like a matter of hours, yet also like an eternity. Time being basically irrelevant here is anything but helpful. All he knows is that he’s swiftly running out of it.
When he hears the charge of footsteps, Nominal slows, then stops.
The tip of his sword brushes the ground for a moment, then he roars with exertion as he swings it in a powerful arc, hoping to–well, not his particular God, he really doesn’t like them right now–some benevolent being that his strike lands.
They must have heard him, because he feels the slight resistance and give of flesh, and the sword drops from his attacker’s hand, which instead clutches at their throat. Regaining his footing, he sinks the blade into their chest, one final action to make this end true and proper.
Both of them topple to the ground, Nominal’s hand releasing its grip on the handle of his sword and wings splayed out as he tries to simply breathe for a minute.
There was only one this time. It stands to reason it will take a few seconds for another to show up, should there be another.
Apparently having been granted a few minutes’ respite, his vision clears in full, revealing the whole of the arena around him.
“Perhaps this will be a sufficient lesson. Your sins are your own to bear and the penance yours to carry out.”
A strained wheeze rasps out of the Draconic man’s throat. It may have been a hateful, bitter chuckle, but it is harsh and painful either way.
Nominal’s gaze falls on the last–as this has begun to feel rather final–of his victims, stopping short at the sight of red hair and a pale green beneath the armor.
Nom grunts, beginning to drag himself forward toward them–her–with what remains of his rapidly failing strength.
He can no longer bring himself to sit up, as his body finally refuses to hold him up any longer, but he doesn’t need to see her face to know it’s Katie.
The line carved by his sword makes a bright red grin across her neck, seeping out and flowing in scarlet trails on their way to the sand below her. Its tang fills his nose, made only stronger by the blade still stuck in her chest.
Pressing his forehead into his sister’s arm, Nominal’s body is wracked with violent, silent sobs. He lost the ability to shed tears sometime ago during the battles, but his body didn’t seem to get the memo as his fingers and tail curl up.
The Knight God is silent, as is the chatter of the onlooking crowds he can no longer turn a wrathful eye to as they are squeezed shut so tight that they almost hurt. Nominal gasps, drawing in a deep, agonized breath before the tremors roll through him once more. He has many words he could say, but none of them could ever impress upon the listener the extent of what this means, what he has done.
This is far worse than breaking his Oath; he’s eliminated the most important thing he’d vowed to protect, who he would have torn apart Kingdoms to see safe.
What does he do with himself now?? If there was no simply moving forward from killing Graecie and 4C, then there is absolutely none here. Perhaps giving up would have been better.
“Do not give me a reason to bring you here again.”
Darkness consumes Nominal, but instead of oppressive and hot, scorching as the sand beneath him and the sun above, it is cool, silent, and forgiving.
Nom wakes up in Bannerfall in a bed, panicked and disoriented.
He had apparently like, passed out in the real world instead of being physically yoinked by Knight God, so when he was inevitably found (I think it would be by Scott) they put him in a bed. He still has the wounds he suffered in Hell.
Time was wibble wobbly there. It was almost a whole week for the rest of Bannerfall, maybe like 4 hours for Nom. The injuries were sporadic in appearance to his real body as a result, so there was always someone watching Nom in the real world in case he got a new one.
I’m not gonna lie I don’t remember writing most of this. I kinda just let my mind go blank and then this appeared and I was like “oh ok then” so I hope it’s alright.
I did draw a lot from Owen playing the Rogue God bcs yes and that helped me get how Knight God spoke down. Idk if Knight God has made an actual appearance before so maybe I made them OOC for which I apologize.
The versions of Graecie, 4C, and Katie were not real. I thought of them the same as I do in my Salvation fic, drawing vibes from the concept of the Not!Them in TMA.
I’m sorry if the fighting or anything else is cringe. Writing fighting and actual descriptions of characters undergoing grief and trauma is ironically not my strong suit 😔
I just wanted a few paragraphs of description how did it turn into this T-T
Anyway I hope you enjoyed!
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