The Knights' Vow

The air in this new age tasted of damp earth and the sharp tang of woodsmoke. I had wandered, as I always did, drawn by the faintest whisper of a story, a rumour of a child lost. This time, the whispers led me to the heart of what men called Christendom, a land of stone castles and dense forests, where the very air seemed to hum with a peculiar kind of fervent belief. It was a time of knights, of gleaming steel and banners snapping in the wind, a time when men pledged their lives to causes they deemed holy, or noble, or simply true.

I found myself in a sprawling courtyard, the stone flags worn smooth by countless feet of serfs and soldiers. The scent of roasting meat mingled with the less pleasant aroma of horses and unwashed bodies. Troubadours, their lutes strung with the finest gut, sang of brave deeds and courtly love, their voices rising and falling with practiced art. I listened, as I always did, my own heart a hollow echo in my chest. Their songs spoke of honour, of loyalty, of the pursuit of glory on the battlefield. They spoke of quests, of arduous journeys undertaken for the sake of a lady’s favour or a king’s command.

But their quests, I knew, were but pale reflections of the one that had consumed me for so long. Their motivations, though fierce, were fleeting, tethered to the ephemeral tides of human ambition and desire. The knights I saw, their faces often stern and etched with the rigours of their chosen path, were driven by vows, by oaths sworn before men and God. Their passions, though potent, burned with a different kind of fire than the slow, corrosive grief that had become my constant companion.