(I'm late, but here it is! I'm starting it off before Wolfram is officially appointed to be August's personal knight (which, fun fact, is a title called "Knight of the Body" if you didn't already know!), just to give them a chance to meet before circumstances demand it. Wolf probably already knows he's going to be appointed to one of the princes, but not which one—unless of course you'd rather he didn't know, which is perfectly fine also!)
It’s another beautiful day in Coris. There’s hardly a cloud to mar the wide stretch of blue above, nor the sun gently warming the land below. The wind carries a promise of chill; a sign that autumn is fast approaching.
It’s another beautiful day, thinks Augustus, though he only has time to admire the beauty for himself in the clear reflection of polished steel streaking towards his head.
The prince drops beneath the blade, raising a leadened arm to parry another attempt to clobber him with the flat edge of his sword. His knees tremble from the awkward crouch, but he pushes through the discomfort and rises once more. His own sword flashes in the sunlight while sweat drips from his brow, threatening to break his focus.
It’s the longest he’s held himself against Horace in a long while. His brother must know this, too, because a concentrated scowl splits the older prince’s face. Behind him their sword instructor watches impassively, every now and again offering corrections to their form or technique. He’s been silent for a few minutes.
The two combatants regard each other carefully, and August feels a twinge of pride to know he’s being seen as a genuine threat.
Then a loud clang rings out from the other side of the training grounds. August starts, his eyes straying to see what had caused it, and realizes his mistake too late.
His eyes widen and he pivots on his foot to fend off Horace’s attack, but it’s futile. He sees the wide grin on his brother’s face and then all at once the large expanse of blue sky. This time it’s no reflection.
The wind is knocked out of him as he lands hard on his back, and he gasps fruitlessly for air to fill his lungs. Footsteps rush over to him, then a pair of hands grab his shoulders and try to right him. He doesn’t have the heart to push Lettie away, so he bears the touch until he’s finally able to collect his breath.
Panting, he lifts his head to see Horace sneering down at him. Ashamed, August averts his eyes.
“…My prince?”
Only now does he register that Lettie is speaking to him. The ringing in his ears slowly subsides, and he swallows. His throat is dry. “A… Apologies, Lettie. Would you repeat that for me?”
The attendant studies him for a moment, lips pressed together so that they form a stern line. Before she can speak again, another voice cuts in.
“Are you well enough to continue, my lord?”
It’s the training instructor, and a feeling of inadequacy settles deeper into August’s chest at the clear look of disappointment in his eyes.
Rather than answer, the youngest prince pushes himself to his feet once again. It’s more difficult than it was a moment ago, and he sways dangerously into Lettie. He thanks her quietly, subdued, when she steadies him and keeps his gaze fixed on the ground until the dizziness passes.
“I can keep going,” he says, forcing himself to meet the man’s eyes.
He senses Lettie’s disapproval at his answer, but much as he wishes to please the older woman, it’s imperative that he does not miss any more of his training.
Lettie gives them a brief, if reluctant, curtsy and falls back to where August knows she’ll be waiting if he needs help. He loves her, truly, but he wishes she wouldn’t intervene. He makes enough of a spectacle on his own, let alone when she rushes in to care for him like that.
Bending down to retrieve the sword he dropped, he sends a quick word of thanks to the gods that Horace had only struck him with the pommel this time. Though his chest aches and is surely already blossoming into a troubling bruise, it’s far better than an urgent visit to the healers.
Heavens know he spends too much time with them already.
August wobbles to the side of the practice area, ignoring the voices raised in laughter as he passes his brothers. Rufus, who had been a silent bystander throughout his spar with Horace, now cackled, “Did you see his face? He needed his nursemaid to stand him up, gods help him!”
Flushing in embarrassment, Augustus tightens his grip on his sword and refuses to look at them. On the other end of the field he spots a handful of pages scrambling to clean up a mess of spilled training equipment. Clearly that had been the source of his distraction, though it no longer matters.
Behind them, he catches the gaze of a knight—one he does not recognize at first glance—watching the princes’ training intently. He must be newly appointed, he thinks, or perhaps returning from another post. August is used to being watched, and as such, pays him little mind.
Rufus steps forward at the instructor’s command and Augustus’ attention follows, slipping away from thoughts of the knight altogether.
—brief timeskip—
August’s ribs ache as he shuffles over to sit in the shade of the castle wall, half falling to his butt instead of the graceful descent he had planned. A puff of breath escapes him and his eyelashes flutter shut for a moment as he wards off another wave of discomfort.
Sweat beads on his forehead and he can feel the flush on his cheeks in spite of the mild weather. His entire body pulses in time to his heartbeat, and he knows he’s more than passed his limit for the day.
Lettie was right. I shouldn’t have overdone it, he thinks, expecting to feel regret over his prideful—and rather pointless—stand. Instead, he feels numb with bone deep exhaustion and a sense of failure.
The rest of the training was less intensive than his match with Horace, at least, with August only sparring once more with Rufus before its end. Even that, however, was more than enough for him to accumulate a few more welts and minor bruises. His brothers, as usual, were not accustomed to showing mercy, even to him. Perhaps especially to him.
Slowly leaning back on his hands and sighing, August opens his eyes to watch the few roaming clouds above—and starts at the sight that meets him instead.
It’s the knight from before, the long hair and staggering height unmistakable as he stands beside him.
August freezes, feeling very small where he sits. After a conflicted pause he relaxes, an equal mix of caution and curiosity in his eyes. “What brings you over here, Sir Knight?” he asks.
