a knight who has never let anyone close enough to see past their veneer: the showman, the gallant, the hard shiny shell they put on to fulfill their vocation in the castle, on the pitch, or on the battlefield. they must be steady, confident, and ruthless to survive and succeed. such is the stuff of great knights. there is no other choice.
but god, is it exhausting. the role wears them so thin. sometimes they retreat to the cloisters in the monastery just to escape the constant weight of the court's many eyes and the gravity of expectation dragging down their armour. the barracks are communal, after all, and it's nearly worse to be there, as the performance must be as convincing as ever in the casual and quiet hours amongst their fellows. still, though, still, even locked away in stone and wood and iron with no company but a candle, the holy place that they sit in the belly of watches, and it feels equally shameful to spend that time praying as it does pretending to.
but, of course, a squire needs to get close, closer than anyone else. physically, yes, but in all other respects, too. working with you, travelling with you, dressing and undressing you, tending to you, camping with you, learning you and from you. and their squire? oh, the young thing has such bright, keen eyes, and quick as a whip. observant, intelligent, and always studying. carefully sketching their understanding of what a knight is and ought to be in the likeness of their lord.
it would be truly arrogant to think one could fool a creature so mindful and clever.
so when they're alone, the knight relents, forslacks, unravels little by little. when their squire doffs them, each piece of armour pulls with it a frayed string, smears a carefully painted stroke of that facade, and before long at the ends of trying days, the knight is a mess. even when they would try to hide it from their squire, the knightling noticed and understood, but this unwinding emboldens them to act with this knowledge.
a coax. probably a good idea to rest, sir. a soft order. come here, my lord. hold still. let me help you. the knight acquiesces, frustrated and maybe a touch embarrassed, but with no resistance. they were a squire once too, they know the tribulations of a fussy lord, and anyway they have no fight left. they are a quiet and obedient hound. hold there. tilt this way. turn. step here. tell me if this hurts. the lull of their squire's voice, earnest and vibrsnt and easy in a ways they themself never truly felt, soothes them. the knight feels different. fuzzy. they gaze at this younger person who has done them service, their pupil, their companion, and realise they trust them more than any other upon this earth. that realisation pools rum-warm in their belly.
the squire notices the shift (of course they do, they notice everything). their knight's breath thickening, their eyes glazing, their body reacting more to their touch as they're laid bare of their shell. so the squire doesn't stop at their armour. they continue, as dutifully as ever, with the knight's clothes. hold still. put your foot on the stool. let me take your boots. praise slips in, innocent-enough reassurance, but the squire is watching very closely. good. lift your arms. now back at your sides. well done, sir.
the knight is soft clay at their fingertips. a flush animates them and their body, battered and sensitive, reacts like a lyre to each of the squire's clever plucks, mellifluous and sweet. hands roam beyond duty, praise shifts beyond consolation, touch and tone become intimate, shedding layers of formality. the reins pass, the table turns, and both are excited by the revolution and its inertia.
so much for a keen squire to learn when they've got their knight bared and undone on their back, groaning and gasping. that's it, my lord. allow me. let go, give yourself up. let me have you. take it like I know you can, so good, sir, very good, god above, you feel so good. that's a beauty, gwan, there's a good thing. take it, take it, take it. you're doing wonderfully. that's the way. let go. be mine for just this moment, be you and be mine.
