To the Victor

by Samantha M. Derr

  The crowd was responsive; that was good. A new swell of exuberant cheers rose with each introduction. He was pleased to hear the resonate reception that Nigel received; he must have done something extra for the audience, because the crowd laughed and their cheer renewed, but Squeak couldn't see. Shortly after would be his turn, and he truly wasn't ready, his pony dancing underneath him, picking up on his anxiety.

  "Uther Lawrence Pipsqueak!" Arcturus Rimar belted out the words, and Squeak, somewhat startled despite having expected the announcement, moved forward into the field. "No affiliation."

  Was the crowd even cheering, or was the sound drowned out by the loud beating of his own heart? He couldn't tell, but he rode his small mount out there all the same, trying to appear dignified and important as they circled the arena. Through the narrow slits of his helm, he surveyed the crowd, looking for Lucy, though he knew right where she'd be. He would have missed her initial reaction, but perhaps there would still be something there when he made it around to bow to the king and his court in their special elaborate box, the one he remembered being barely tall enough to peer over when he was a child.

  And there she was. Was she always so pale and wide-eyed, or was it surprise that made her so? She applauded mechanically, going through the motions with the exhausted consistency of a person who had been clapping for quite a long time, and she was staring as if unable to blink. Was it disbelief? Or just the vacant expression of someone ready to just go home? Squeak licked his lips, touched a finger to the forehead of his helmet, and bowed his head. When he looked up, he tried to catch her eyes, and he must have, even with the helmet, because her startled expression softened, melting into a small smiled, and she bobbed her head back.

  Squeak trotted off the field as a whole new person, his heavy heart lifted by that familiar smile. Perhaps it was merely a formal response that she had given to everyone, but Squeak felt that it was so much more. He knew Lucy; he knew that warm smile and those soft eyes, and he knew that they were solely for him. She recognized him and was pleased to see him there, not upset or scared or angry. That alone had made the journey back worth it.

  Only on his way back to camp did he realize that he had been so focused on how Lucy would respond that he had taken no note of how the king had reacted at all. Just when he thought he could stop worrying, he began to speculate on Roland's face gone red with fury that he had to hold back because of the crowd. Or maybe it was red with embarrassment, tinged with annoyance. Or maybe there was no reaction at all, which would have been preferable, even if it did make Squeak incomprehensibly sad. If the king recognized him, surely there would be hell to pay, but it still hurt to think that he wouldn't.

  Back in his tent, Squeak stripped himself of his armor and tried to figure out what to do. He still knew all the secret ways he and Lucy would slip out of the castle; surely, if they were still there, he could slip back in. But that was fraught with too much danger; security would be heightened, and it would not bode well for anyone sneaking inside to reach the princess. So he would have to wait, and, in the meantime, he would have to decide whether the promises of hearty drinks throughout the camp was more alluring than getting some sleep. Nigel would surely partake, and Squeak thought of the prince's easy laugh, his handsome smile, and their bodies hot and flushed from the ale, Nigel throwing an arm around Squeak's shoulder, pulling him in close.

  Effectively distracted by the thought of warm breath and strong hands, Squeak hadn't noticed the cloaked figure entering his tent until it was too late. He turned sharply at the rustle of canvas, but not quickly enough to grab his weapon before the hooded figure came rushing towards him. So the king must have recognized him and sent someone to kill him! And here he had been too distracted by the stirring in his loins to properly prepare for an attack.

  But instead of being stabbed in the gut or having his throat slashed open or being tackled to the ground, Squeak found himself caught in a tight embrace. The sweet smell of lilac filled his nose as the hood fell away to reveal a flowing mass of auburn hair. "Oh, Squeak," the would-be assassin gushed. "It really is you!"

  A sense of things being right in the world washed away Squeak's fear, and he wrapped his arms around Lucy lightly, savoring in the sweet reunion before things inevitably went complicated again. She smelled exactly as he remembered, marveling that she should remain pretty much the same while he had changed so much. But she was here, after all that time, just as eager to see him as he was to see her. They held each other in silence for a while before, by some unspoken agreement, they pulled away at the same time to get a better look at one another. Squeak's hands rested on Lucy's shoulders, Lucy's hands lingered on Squeak's hips, so that they could easily fall into another hug at a moment's notice.

  She really hadn't changed much at all, and yet she had. Older, more mature, a refined beauty rather than the untamed prettiness of her youth. Squeak could only marvel at how much she resembled their mother as he recalled from the old paintings, except those bright, dancing eyes that seemed to drink everything up about Squeak in one gulp. Those eyes were decidedly Lucillia Rose of Severille's, and no one else's.

  "Oh, you look so different," she gushed, "and yet I'd have recognized you anywhere, even without the name. Uther Lawrence Pipsqueak! I like that much better than Ursula Laurel, of that I am certain. It fits you much better."

  Though the sound of the name he'd been given at birth made him wince from the inside, he couldn't help but smile on the outside. "I rather prefer it myself," he said. His hands moved down her arms to find her hands and give them a squeeze. "Do you know why I'm here, dear sister? Why I've finally come home despite my hasty vow never to return?"

  "Why," Lucy laughed as though she'd never heard a sillier question, "to make your mark, of course! The Festival of the Forest and the Tournament of Champions is the best place for a new knight to prove himself, and I imagine you feel you've got quite a lot to prove, Squeak."

  "You are correct on that matter, Luce," Squeak said, "but there is another reason as well."

  Lucy's brow wrinkled, and her frown was a bit deep, but Squeak could see that she understood, even if she couldn't believe it. "Surely, you don't mean…"

  "Surely, I do," Squeak nodded. Lucy's expression turned shocked with an undercurrent of appreciation. She might deny that it was there, but Squeak knew better. And he knew that if he didn't say more, she would begin to argue, and Lucy had always been better at arguments.

  "Just hear me out, Lucy, please," he continued. "I know you're thinking I'm mad and I probably won't succeed anyway, but you have to let me try to do this for you. I was able to escape on my own, and this is your chance to escape now. I'll win your hand, and then I'll give it back to you to do with it as you desire."

  "If I was so concerned about it," Lucy said with an odd smile that Squeak couldn't quite understand, "then I think I would try to win the tournament myself. But thank you, Squeak. That's so thoughtful and kind."

  Still so bound to duty and tradition! Squeak smiled a little sadly, but he couldn't hold it against her. Hers was a quiet strength he would never understand, but he admired it all the same. She could make the best out of any situation, no matter how dismal. "It's the least I could do for someone who was there for me while all others abandoned me. Following your own path is difficult, but it's also the most incredible, liberating thing in the whole world. I want you to have that, Luce. I want us to smash down these absurd traditions together."

  "I can think of no one else I'd rather do it with," Lucy smiled again and hugged Squeak tight. "Oh, but I have missed you terribly. I'm so glad to have you back."

  They stood there for a long, quiet moment, just reveling in the existence of the other. Squeak listened to the soft sound of Lucy's breathing, calm and relaxing, just like when they'd nap together on the grassy knolls, basking in the sun like lizards when they were little. It seemed so long ago, but maybe, when this was over, when he'd proven himself, they could bask in the sun like lizards on the grassy knol
ls again.

  Lucy eventually drew away, though. "I should get going," she said. "I can only elude them for so long before they start to suspect all is not well. But I had to come see you, Squeak. I'm so glad you're here."

  She kissed his cheek and fled into the night. Squeak imagined her weaving gracefully between the tents with her cloak flowing behind her. He faintly touched his fingers to his cheek, realizing how much his heart had been aching to see her again. He felt calm, peaceful, infused with confidence, and, with those feelings buzzing around in his head, he prepared himself to go to bed. True, Nigel and the others were out there getting loose on ale, sloppy and close to each other while belting out bawdy songs, and Squeak would have loved to be stumbling in the dark with them, but he would regret it in the morning. He had to stay sharp and do his best. There was more to gain than just Lucy's freedom. In that moment, bolstered by his reunion with his dear sweet sister, he felt that, if he could pull this off, then surely he could eventually rule the world.

  *~*~*

  The morning of the tournament's first day arrived with the blast of a bugle and a whole lot of sunshine. The camp was full of excitement as the champions milled about, washing at the well, choking down breakfast, polishing their weapons and armor. At first, Squeak, well rested and full of ambition, soaked it all up, watching as he sipped from a tin cup of coffee generously offered by the camp across the way. But his heart quickly sank down into his stomach when the flaps of Nigel's tent next door rustled not to reveal the man himself, but two young women, hastily dressed with wild hair, hurrying away, huddled together with their giggles. Then Nigel appeared shirtless, and he stretched languidly with a great, cat-like yawn. The smile he gave Squeak when he noticed him watching was completely unfair.

  "You missed quite the night, Sir Squeak," he said, throwing in a wink for good measure.

  "Can't say I missed anything," Squeak grunted, actively blocking his imagination from inserting ideas into his head. "I'll take a good night's sleep before battle over debauchery any day. There will be plenty of time for that after I win."

  Nigel barked a laugh, spotted the neighbor with the coffee, and Squeak diverted his attention when he bent over to take a cup of his own. Then Squeak decided that he'd deprived himself of enough pleasure thus far and allowed himself to enjoy the view. He just hoped he looked up quickly enough when Nigel finally turned around.

  "To an excellent tournament," he declared, lifting his mug in a toast before quaffing it down. "And that I'm not slated to fight Squeak the Well-Rested, who will surely trounce my hedonistic behind. Have you seen the tourney board yet?"

  He hadn’t, and so they finished getting ready and went to inspect the posting together. "Might as well hang up my hat now," said Nigel, leaning in close to Squeak and nudging him with an elbow. "Looks like I've got a spar with you in basic combat. I don't think I'll stand a chance."

  It wasn't sarcastic or really even ironic; Nigel spoke in a low, teasing rumble that sent Squeak ablaze underneath his armor. His mind flooded with images of clashing swords, pressed hard against each other as they, sweaty, breathless, red-in-the-face, struggled for dominance over each other. Squeak's mouth was dry, and it took a true effort to swallow. Was Nigel trying to intimidate him, mess with his head? If he was, it was working beautifully, but Squeak wasn't sure he wanted to him stop.

  Their battle wasn't until well into the afternoon, though, and, thankfully, he had plenty to distract himself. Between his own challenges in other fields, in which he excelled, he could watch the others and calculate a strategy for their eventual encounters. He had the opportunity to watch Nigel joust around mid-day, but he ultimately decided not to. He didn't need that distraction. He didn't need to make himself nervous.

  He had very little reason to worry. Nigel, it turned out, wasn't very good. It was entirely possible that the prince was throwing the fight when they finally crossed swords, but why would he do such a thing? It felt sincere; he imagined Nigel had a strong drive to prove himself just as Squeak did, and he wouldn't just throw out a potential win. Squeak considered throwing the fight Nigel's way, perhaps, but no. It would have been a waste, as he'd just lose the next round. Squeak had to remember that he was doing this not for himself but for his sister.

  Maybe Nigel would let him tend his wounds afterwards. Inspired by thoughts of gently wiping his skin clean and wrapping his limbs in fresh bandages, Squeak grinned and leaned into his attack. "It's nothing personal," he managed to grunt out at one point. "I just really want to win."

  "I can see that." Despite struggling to hold Squeak's blade as he pressed in, Nigel laughed. "It will be an honor to lose to you, neighbor. You're quite good."

  "You're only saying that because it's true," Squeak joked back, surprised by the jauntiness of his banter, but the praise fueled him to perform even better. Nigel finally managed to push him off, and, while the prince charged forward with a hapless attack, Squeak moved quickly until the tip of his sword gently met his opponent's back. A cymbal crashed as the mediator threw up his hand, and the crowd broke out into wild peals of applause. Squeak felt a swell of pride as he lifted his arm and waved, pushing aside the stab of guilt he felt for defeating Nigel, even if Nigel didn't seem to mind. He scanned the audience, looking for the king's box and swept into a low bow when he did. Lucy had been a bright light beaming amid faces, chancing a bold shout of encouragement that would keep Squeak going for days.

  "Well played, Squeak," said Nigel, removing his helm to brush a sweaty lock of hair out of his eyes. He clasped a hand on Squeak's shoulder. "You're even better than I thought you'd be."

  "T-thanks," Squeak stammered, suddenly feeling his knees lose their strength. If only Nigel had known that he could have brought Squeak down with a well-placed touch and a well-timed smile! "You did well, too."

  There was no time to revel in congratulations, though. They were both escorted off the field to make way for the next encounter, and, while Nigel now had his freedom with that loss, Squeak still had to wait around for his next match. "I'll bring you something to eat," the prince offered. "Climbing up the ranks is sure to spark a man's appetite."

  Squeak felt a little dizzy, unworthy of Nigel's charity, but he was too flustered and pleased to refuse. But then he couldn't help a small smile, a pride swelling up in him as he remembered the crowd, remembered Lucy's cheers, and he realized that he belonged here. He had earned this. This tournament would be his!

  Nigel returned with some light fare, fruit and meat and bread, to satisfy his hunger without settling too heavily in his stomach. Together, they watched the battles until Squeak's next turn, taking care to note the style of the winners so that he'd know what to expect. Nigel was fully invested in the fights, cheering and exclaiming and turning his head to see if Squeak was getting as much of a thrill in it as he was, and Squeak thought to himself that this was perfect. He didn't think he'd ever felt as happy as he did in those moments.

  The moment could only last so long, though, and Squeak was called back out onto the field. Oh, how the audience lost their wits when this tiny, spritely nobody from nowhere managed to best the behemoth of a man nearly three times his size! How they had held their breath when he faced off with another slight, swift fellow and turned his speed against him by adjusting his own! By the time he made it to his final match of the day, the sky turning red with the sunset as if to symbolize all the figurative blood spilled that day, there was no doubt that he would make it to the final round of victors. There was a new favorite on the rise, and word of Squeak's skill was spreading like wildfire through the camp.

  He could hardly refuse drinks with Nigel now, and the ale flowed freely in the surging celebrations of the evening. He was wildly popular with the others, especially those he would face tomorrow, who wanted to know him better, but Squeak only wanted to be close to Nigel, hearing his laugh and enjoying his overly friendly demeanor when intoxicated. The prince liked to paw and squeeze and rub, sloppy smile on his face, and Squeak eagerly anticipated
every moment of it. When he finally tumbled into bed, he felt shockingly lonely, wishing Nigel was still there, but no. He needed rest. It wasn't over, but, when it was, Squeak knew he had a new goal to chase after.

  Five days. The tournament was five days, and it was a whirlwind. By the third day, the true contenders were making themselves clear. Many of the legendary names were mostly in it for the prestige and would not be participating in the final competition for the princess's hand, but Squeak knew several who fought in earnest toward that goal. He couldn’t blame them. Not only was it a coveted political position, but Lucy was young and beautiful, known for her quiet cleverness and kindness, and many of the men (and some of the women) competing were quite smitten with her. He surprised himself when he liked most of them, too, and thought several would make a find match for her, but she should be the one to choose, not some silly tradition. He still had every intention of destroying them all.

  And Nigel was there to support him, too, his handsome princely squire, fetching him food, holding his arrows, tending to his bruises. Every so often, Squeak would catch himself doubting the situation. Why would a prince want anything to do with him? Perhaps Nigel had attached himself to Squeak because he could see Squeak's rising star and he wanted a piece of that for himself. But no. With a hopeful heart, Squeak would watch Nigel's pale face as he tended to a sliced hand or a mangled shoulder, grimly serious with a faint sheen of nervous sweat on his brow. He handled Squeak with care, almost reverence, as if he was holding back all the same things Squeak was feeling about him.

  Which could make this complicated if they ever went beyond the cuddles and the petting, but Squeak had enough on his plate. He'd worry about that after the tournament, because now he had to worry about the nosy king. As the end neared, he naturally gained a curiosity over who would win this important prize. Competitors like Lord Patel and Sir Ramsey of Gynnocota were obviously favorable to him, rich with prestige and land, while others, the nobodies, Lady Vanna of Vanhana, Wilbur who was a pig boy, and the mysterious Sir Squeak himself, surely caused him some concern. If the king's men rooted around for more information about Squeak, what would they discover? Probably not a lot, he hoped. He had confidence in how well he'd hid his path, and, besides, he didn't imagine his father would ever make the connection. Who would ever notice that Princess Ursula's story mysteriously ended at the same time Sir Pipsqueak's started?