Sir Evarin Omur
Days and weeks and months away from home had left a sour taste in his mouth and an even worse smell infused into the leather of his armor. There was something about going back, though. Somewhere in his mind was that child-like sense of returning. Other than the circumstances at hand, it wasn't an awful lot unlike riding back from Lord Perquin's stronghold a hundred summers ago. Back then, he had been Evarin the prince or—more importantly—the boy. Youth was so very, very easy. But, no more. Now he was Evarin the knight—one status exchanged for another, and youth traded for this.
“You should smile more, Sire,” came from his horse's left flank. The lift of a chin and a turn in the saddle would reveal the wide, emphatic grin of an approaching companion. Or, rather, escort, “We've been two days in from the coast and I've yet to see more than dour facades.” Rhys Haele was a good boy, gods save him. He could track and swing a club with the best of them, but being handsome of face and easy with his leisures had made him more than a bit full of himself. “I'm aware that the occasion demands it, but we're still on the grass.” Rhys shifted in his saddle and turned brown eyes to the horizon, “Save your frowns for the ivory streets of the Lady beyond.”
He took it back. That boy was a flea on the flank. Evarin would, however—with a huff—tilt his head enough to acknowledge the youth who'd been sent to fill an empty spot in that entourage and accompany him and his men to the capitol. “I've no reason to smile.” Why would he?
The boy straightened. “We've all heard what's happening, if that's what you're fussing over.”
No response was necessary. He knew that they weren't idiots. Every man from here to the Oldlands knew his tale. Bards sang of it, ladies simpered and spoke of thing like woe at their lost chance of being queen. And Evarin kept riding. He kept his head on his shoulders and his sword sharp.
Above all else, he kept his vows.
“Keosin was my friend,” he said, finally, after they had rode nearly a half mile more. “He was the father of my niece and your king. You wear your black and wipe that grin off your face like the rest of us, Sir Haele.” His voice was quiet, though. Not nearly the force it could have been. He knew it didn't have to be. All it took was for Evarin to catch his reflection and see what they all saw—king's blood; fiery-haired, tan-skinned, prominent, squandered king's blood—dark eyes would return to the youth's, “Respect is not an option.”
As things were, Rhys was not required to take notice of things such as appearance, lineage or—gods forbid—name. The title of “sir” shoved into it all, clumsy footed yet omnipotent, just the way a young prince had once demanded it. Back then, there had been no Rhys Haeles to contend with, though. There had been Sir Amarids and Sir Raynors—good, decent knights; men one could trust with their life; men one didn't mind being of the same standing with—not boys who took vows for the sake of tournament glory. “Our days are numbered, Sire. Do you not see?” He lifted a silver encased hand and pointed down the road. “There-”
Evarin had to squint and lower his visor a bit to catch sight of those glimmering shapes, but once he did, he didn't have to think twice about what or who they were.
Rhys smiled. “Without the king, your dear sister will be slightly more unbearable, I'm sure.” Clucking his tongue, he urged that tidy gray mare toward the front of the group. “Cheer up, Ev,” he called over an armored shoulder. “You'd hate to disappoint your queen by wearing that sour face when she has you piked!”
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