The Ramparts, as Cold and Implacable as Love

I remember the first time I saw you, riding across the plain towards my castle walls. Your pennant flew behind you, a red phoenix on a black field, the matching crimson plume of your helm rippling in the wind.

Your armies gathered at your back.

Watching from the ramparts, I knew you were a foe to be reckoned with. I had heard tales, of course, but it was different seeing you with my own eyes: the easy way you sat your horse, the breadth of your shoulders in your black armor. Yet our walls had never been breached, and you—even you—would not succeed. I ordered the women and children inside the keep, but I kept my gaze trained on you just as yours was on me.

First, you tried the classic storming of the walls. It wasn't a bad idea; you had superior numbers. But you didn't reckon on my buckets of hot pitch, the expertise of my archers. It took four days, but you fell back eventually. When you sounded the retreat, I smiled through the blood coating my cheeks.

The second offensive was more creative. A feint at the walls to draw our fire while an elite group attacked the western gate. I admit I admired your pluck. But I am no fool, and neither are my soldiers. Your men fought hard, but it was easy pickings in the narrow entranceway. I let one escape to take the bad news back to you. I imagined you smiled a little, too.

Next, you dragged in the engines. That, indeed, was daunting. My men trembled at the sight of the trebuchets, your people loading them with rocks coated in violet-tinged wizard fire. But I raised my sword high, even as the fiery missiles rained down upon us and shouted for my defenders to hold. We shall not bend to the Black Knight, I told them; he shall not break us. Did you see me then, the dawn light glinting from my blade? Did you hear my defiance, even as you screamed to fire again?

You didn't break us. But you did break the walls. The thunderous explosion, the crackle of flames, the cries of wounded men—I still hear them in my dreams. And I still see you, riding towards the breach, close enough now to see the line of your jaw beneath your helm. You gave me no choice; we fell back.

Those were the worst days. The keep was crowded, stinking. You made half-hearted attempts to assail it, but then you drew back. You knew you had time. I slept with my warriors in the bunkhouse and thought incessantly of you: the breach you made in my ramparts, your pennants flying within my walls.

I went up on the roof each day. My warriors begged me not to—too exposed—but I could not resist. The first time, your archers bristled, but your raised hand lowered their bows. I stared down at you, and you stared up at me. Finally, you turned away. I watched you as you went, my heart beating as fast as a war drum.

We should not have survived longer than a week, but we did. An ally smuggled our food through the postern door. I still wonder how they went undetected. Perhaps because you were distracted, because every day I came to the roof and we locked eyes until you turned away. Because every day you stared a little longer.

Days, weeks, passed. My warriors bickered. The women grew wan, the children listless. I knew I had to act.

We rode out on the thirty-ninth day. I polished my armor to a shine and led a golden wedge through your warriors. All was chaos: hooves and steel, sweat and blood. My men fell left and right, but I did not waver. My attention was only on you.

When we met, it was with a clash of blades that rang across the battlefield. My gleaming armor equal and opposite to your black. Your eyes beneath your helm, so close now as we closed swords. Your irises grey as the clouds overhead. Your lips curving in greeting.

We fought then. We swung, we blocked, we stabbed. We danced. We sought each other's openings, probed for weaknesses, learned the rhythm of each other's breaths. You pushed me, sometimes, and I gave way, only to find my strength and force you back. Then it was your turn to gather yourself, to drive forward again. None dared come between us.

I saw the opening before you did. I had the better of you, momentarily, and I raised my sword for a strike. But I had miscalculated. My side was exposed, your blade free to drive into my armpit. I saw it, then the flicker in your eyes: you saw it too. Your chance.

You were not supposed to falter.

I could not stop my swing. It bit into your neck where your helm met your breastplate. Blood spurted over your armor. You slumped, and your eyes rolled up to find mine. I could not speak. But I held you as you died, while around us, your armies broke, scattered, fled.

You broke the rules, Sir. Hesitation is not for men like us—no matter what we feel. Yet, you hesitated. If you hadn't, it would be me lying here, cold and still.

So here I am. It took me five days to hunt the necromancer and return with her potion. I dared not take longer; the longer you lie in death, the less chance this will work. I still do not know if it will. She said to pour the potion between your lips, and so I have. She told me it may take a while to act, and so I wait. She told me talking may help guide you back from beyond. And so I sit here, and I talk.

Your sword is here too; I fetched it from the battlefield. I went to place it in your hand, but when I clasped your fingers, I found I could not let them go.

Jess Hyslop is a British writer of fantasy, fabulism, and science fiction. Her short stories have appeared in venues such as Interzone, Black Static, and Cossmass Infinities. Jess can be found online at www.jesshyslop.com. Offline, she resides in Oxford with a number of slowly decaying houseplants.