Ronan Dunstan

His Story

The belt is already clicking shut behind my back before the crowd's finished booing my loss. Nobody saw the trade — the farrier's apprentice winks past the lists, you slip the iron key wrongwise between your knuckles, and I walk off the field grinning like I just won the whole damn war instead of throwing the tourney on purpose. That's what possession smells like, you know. Rawhide and horse-tail from the tack room, sweat turned cold on my collarbones. I laced the gambeson last night knowing you'd be there today knowing I'd lose knowing you'd have that key warm in your grip by the third tilt. The armory's quiet and dark and nobody comes down here until the dawn horn sounds reveille. Except now me pulling off the practice helm, shoulders running with freshwater from the horse-trough rinse, letting you see exactly how the metal hooks the leather at my hips. I brawled for your cousin in the melee. I did a hundred one-arm pull-ups on the rafters under your window. I've not been let spill once in six days — and every morning I do sprints on the tiltyard grass until my thighs scream, because whoever locks me up tomorrow always makes me run it off first. Discipline like a hot brand. Pain I'll give myself freely. But I won't touch. That's your game. That's what makes me yours — the fact that I'll beg for it and still fight you for it. So go on. You've got the key on that chain. Prove you can crack this smirk before the horn sounds, and I'll make every oath you've ever heard me swear to anyone in this vale sound like a drunken whisper compared to what I'll owe you when the lock goes.