Cannot... stop... writing... Oscar fics.
I swear this is the last one I write where Kieran is 100% not funny. My apologies to Diana Gabaldon.

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Back in the Knights

I scrubbed furiously at the cast-iron pan, trying to get the sauce off that someone had burned onto it. Leave a non-cook alone for five minutes and he would practically ruin every piece of kitchen equipment in Crimea, let alone in the Royal Knights. It was almost no use: someone had decided to use tomatoes in the sauce for the meat, and while it had tasted fantastic (when we were on the road, food was either excellent or horrific), it had caked and seared itself to the pan. I, meanwhile, by dint of having missed dinner, had volunteered to clean up afterwards, not realizing that fifteen knights could make a mess as big as an entire mercenary troop. Well... eleven knights. I hadn't eaten, and neither had Kieran. And there would have been fifteen of us in all, if not for the fact that two of us had been killed today.

Suddenly my frustration got the better of me; with an obscenity, I dashed the pan into the fire, where the flames immediately flared up, licking up around its sides. That would get the sauce off, and it certainly made me feel better. It was getting harder and harder not to burst into tears, but something in me said that it just wouldn't be appropriate.

"Hey, don't get so worked up," a voice said behind me, and I whirled. It was Erk; but while the comment had been somewhat joking, his face was serious. He put a hand on my shoulder. "Need any help?"

It was more than just an offer to help with the dishes, but I shook my head, clearing my throat. "Thanks, but not really. I just..." I stopped and sighed. "I'm not good at this, despite what you'd think." Dishes, again, were not exactly what I meant.

He understood me perfectly, and his mouth twisted into a rueful smile. "Yeah. It's rough." It was a sign of exactly how well he understood that there was no sarcasm involved. That, more than anything else, worried me. "How is the captain?"

I shrugged. Sometimes when I was upset about something, but didn't want to show it, the pain would somehow transfer itself to my hands. It was doing that now; my palms throbbed as I grabbed a cloth to start on the plates. "I don't know. Still unconscious. Brand says he should be all right, but there's no way to know." And in the meantime, Erk was stuck commanding everyone as we slowly retreated back to Melior, drawing the rebels after us. It was amazing they hadn't seen through our battle strategy yet, but just as the queen had predicted, they were more motivated by fury than intelligence.

He eyed me; I noticed that his was blue hair so shaggy that it was obscuring his eyebrows. Erk was normally fastidious: clearly this mission was wreaking havoc on his personal well-being, too. "Well... just remember, you don't have to isolate yourself. The rest of us are worried, too."

It was his tone that made me look up at him, surprised. And seeing the expression in his eyes, my shoulders suddenly went limp in a kind of relief. "Yeah," he added quietly. "There's nothing we're hiding."

I opened my mouth, then closed it again, and finally said, "Thanks, Erk. I mean... Sir."

He suddenly laughed at that. "Goddess, don't say that. I don't want to be a 'sir' any more than you do." He turned to move away, and added over his shoulder, "Like I said... don't isolate yourself, Oscar."

Well... I won't now, I thought, turning my attention back to the dishes.

Going back to the Royal Knights had been the hardest decision I'd ever made, even with both of my brothers and Kieran trying to convince me to do it. Pestering me to do it might have been more appropriate for my brothers, and demanding yet more appropriate for Kieran. But in the end, they'd won out. The Mercenaries, popularity only marginally decreased by the peace in Crimea, didn't really need me anymore. And as the memories of serving under Geoffrey and Renning flooded back, I had realized that I could have the chance to gain back every former glory, as Kieran put it, that I'd ever had or wanted.

But it hadn't been as easy as I'd thought. Oh, the training was much easier, after seven years of constant fighting with the Mercenaries. And I'd been more than welcomed by Elincia and Geoffrey, the queen and general who had both seen me fight against Ashera, and were being prompted by one of their best platoon captains. In fact, after accepting Elincia's formal invitation to rejoin the Knights, I'd been promoted right into the officers.

No, it was the awkwardness of being placed into the platoon commanded by my lover. There was really no other way to put it. Officers weren't supposed to have relationships of any kind beyond cameraderie and plain friendship, but that was impossible with Kieran. To be fair, he was an excellent commander for his platoon: he had to be told every order verbatim, of course, otherwise he would run off and fight too fiercely for the other men to keep up. But in a time of peace, when we were merely qualming leftover rebellions and maintaining royal sovereignty, Kieran could be counted upon to unswervingly serve the queen's interests. Which, in all consideration, was probably the most important part of our duties nowadays.

But he made it absolutely impossible for me to ignore him. There was never any question of treating me fairly outside our nighttime relations: I was one of the officers, somewhat lower because of my six-year hiatus, but a respected member of the Knights nonetheless. At the same time, I didn't get any special treatment: it was obey the captain's orders or be demoted. And I did. I'd never found it difficult to obey a competent commander, regardless of how I felt about him or her. But, later on, at night, his competency suddenly turned to cunning... and against my will, I found myself enjoying it. Immensely. It was nice to lie back and not take initiative once in a while.

Regardless, I'd always felt somewhat isolated from the other cavaliers. Some of them, like Erk, had been my friends back before I'd left in the first place, and took my friendship with the captain as a quirk of our time during the war against Ashnard. But the others always seemed suspicious of my quick promotion, quick to jump in front of me for more glorious jobs, but somehow sullenly deferent to me because they knew I was good friends with the captain. No one suspected anything more, but it was difficult to imagine how. Kieran was anything but subtle.

So it was with utter relief that Erk's words sank into my heart tonight. Looking over at the campfire, I felt as if rivals had suddenly turned to friends. I scrubbed halfheartedly at one last plate, then sighed and tossed it into the kettle of soapy water, to let it soak for awhile. I didn't want to think about Kieran anymore: maybe now I could convince myself to join the other men at the fire.

"And so," Brand managed to choke out, through his laughter and that of the others, "so he falls on the ground and says, 'Oh Ashera! What will happen now to my wife and children?' And-" he paused a second as the roars of laughter rocked us "-I said to him, 'You're not going to die! Besides that, you're not married!' He says, 'What? She never told me?!'"

It was hard to breathe, I was laughing so hard. Marcl, the young knight beside me on the log, was practically wheezing. The other knights were in tears from Brand's story, and he himself was trying to contain himself to finish it. "Well, it ended up that he didn't die, of course, and later on I went to visit him - and lo and behold, Liza showed up! I asked her how the kids were, and she just looked at me funny, and answered, 'What kids?'"

The tale finished, he dissolved into snorting laughter with the rest of us. Erk, lying reclined on the ground, was practically howling. Someone started clapping, and the rest of us followed. Brand got up from his seat and took a mocking bow. "Thank you, thank you. Would anyone like to follow my tale?"

"I don't think anybody can," said Marcl. He shook his head slowly, brown hair flipping back and forth, still shaking and giggling. "Goddess, that was good. Where did you say this was?"

"Right near Melior! Hand to the goddess, he lived not a mile from the capital." A fresh round of laughter rippled around the circle, and Brand shrugged, sitting back down. "Well, we can't expect everyone at the capital to be as honorable as our queen."

Several of us were half-drunk, and someone - it must have been Ferron, she was almost as fervent about the Royal Family as Kieran - yelled, "Bless their Majesties!"

"Bless them!" we all yelled back, and tankards were picked up once again for the toast. I drained mine down, reflecting drowsily on the fact that we were commanded by the best Royals in Tellius - who else would understand that knights without ale in the evening would rather not fight during the day? Every regiment was always well-supplied, and the beer was no exception to our inventory. Only four of us tonight had offered to go on guard duty, and were therefore completely sober. It would be their turn to join in the revels tomorrow night.

I must have slipped off into dozing for a moment, because the next thing I knew, Marcl was punching my shoulder. "Hey, Oscar! Everybody's going off to bed."

"Oh, thanks," I answered, and got up. Better than I expected: I despised being drunk, but right now I was pleasantly floaty, enough to not worry to much, but not enough to do anything stupid. Besides that, I was steady on my feet. "Sorry, I guess I dozed off."

"Long day," he said. The other men and women were slapping each other on the back and yawning. I looked over at Marcl as he added, "Glad you were there instead of me when the captain got attacked. I probably would've panicked." The goddess, he was young: probably only the age I'd been when I left the Knights.

Unsure what he meant, I just shrugged. "I guess I've seen commanders get attacked a lot. When I was in the Mercenaries, Ike used to go off and get himself hurt all the time."

Marcl's eyes widened, and I realized what I'd just said, reddening. By some unspoken agreement, Kieran and I rarely spoke of our time in the Mercenaries: mostly because it was in the past (we were both content where we were now), but also because not a single one of the Knights really understood the group dynamic that the Mercenaries had. For that exact same reason, every young man and woman in the infantry or cavalry always idolized the Mercenaries. "Um... well, it was just that he was young, you know?"

"Uh-huh," Marcl said faintly, eyes suddenly eager, never leaving me. I cursed my stupidity; everyone always wanted to know more about General Ike, his amazing rise from peasant mercenary to Lord and commander of Crimea's armies. But Ike had never wanted to talk about it, so neither did I.

"Um... I'm gonna go check on the captain one more time before I sleep," I added, and his face fell - but not much, and its resulting expression was resigned, rather than disappointed.

"Okay. Night, Oscar," he said, still cheerful. He would probably go back and share his tiny bit of information with the other younger knights as soon as we reached Melior.

"Sleep well," I answered, and turned in the direction of Kieran's tent.

"A small skirmish or two," was how the queen had described our mission, and even that had been an exaggeration. The rebels we'd been sent to put down were almost bandits, greedy and deluded. I felt sorry for them: they were the exact sort of people the Mercenaries had fought against to protect Crimea's people. So how on earth had Kieran gotten himself into such a corner?

Brand wasn't in Kieran's tent anymore: evidently he'd assured himself of the captain's well-being, and had retired to his own, only slightly more humble lodgings. I couldn't blame him: it wasn't as if Kieran were horribly injured and in danger of death anytime soon. I sat down next to his cot and put a hand on his forehead. He wasn't even feverish. Just unconscious, ergo incapable of commanding his troops.

I looked at his face, mobile features peaceful under the fierce red brows that were now relaxed, and I played the events of the day over in my mind. We'd managed to find the base where the rebels operated from three or four days ago, an abandoned castle not much different from the one Greil had housed the Mercenaries in, where Titania still reigned as lieutenant commander. There was no rhyme or reason as to why they were rebelling against the Royal Family: Geoffrey had just shrugged and said helplessly, "Maybe they're angry about being returned from stone. Who knows? It's just in some peoples' natures to rebel."

Unfortunately, they were well-armed, if limited in number, and most alarmingly of all, had a network of spies throughout the country. Killing off this rebellion would do a lot to restore Crimea to full peace. So Elincia had commanded a small regiment from Fifth Platoon to go out and lose, then draw them back to the castle, in the hopes that they might take any opportunity to attack the Royal Family. Kieran had been the natural choice for commander, since of any one of the Knights, he was the one least likely to be talked into rebellion. And that was saying a lot: the Fifth was chock-full of fervently devoted officers and enlisted men.

How had things gone so wrong? I reached forward absently and smoothed his hair down, its absurd spikes popping back up under my hand. It was probably, I reflected, because we'd underestimated their weapons. Their tactics had been rudimentary, but each fighter had been armed well, with multiple weapons of various kinds. We'd been ordered by Geoffrey to lose every fight on purpose: the first few had been fine, minor battles, merely scaring them before calling a retreat. But this one had been a lot closer than any of us were comfortable with.

And the crowning jewel of our fake loss had been the actual fall of two knights and our commander. I sniffled, startled and appalled to suddenly find tears pricking at the memory. The rebels had instinctively known who our commander was, and instead of trying to attack the weakest of us first, they had grouped their forces and gone after the loud red-headed paladin. Our own regroupment had been too late: Erk, our lieutenant commander, was off fighting a diversionary force. I'd heard Kieran's curses, and calling a few other men with me, had ridden back to find Mari and Jain dead on the ground, Kieran un-horsed, surrounded by six men and fighting for his life.

If only I'd tried a less distracting method of attack, I thought bitterly, watching his chest rise and fall rhythmically. In a brief flash of nostalgia and inspiration, I had raised my lance and charged the bandit rebels, screaming as loudly as possible, with the other three Knights behind me doing the same thing. It had worked just as well as that time seven years ago: like the bandits attacking Titania, two of the rebels had dropped their weapons and fled, followed by three others. But unlike Titania, Kieran had stopped fighting, eyes wide on me and mouth slack in surprise. The only man who kept his head was the myrmidon behind our captain, the one with a steel blade.

I leaned over and gingerly touched the back of Kieran's head, the spot into which the rebel's sword had crashed. He'd dropped like a rock after being hit, eyes rolling up, and I'd immediately speared the myrmidon, probably more viciously than was necessary. There was no wound, and the scar was almost invisible under his hair. Brand was a fairly good healer, as well as an efficient fighter. Besides that, there was no evidence that Kieran had recieved any particular harm other than unconsciousness: I'd always teased that he had a head like a rock, and now I was grateful for it. But it was still unnerving to remember how white all the men had been, when we'd had to lift our bleeding commander onto a stretcher and carry him away before the rebels came back. We hadn't even had time to retrieve Mari and Jain's bodies.

That would be taken care of sooner or later, I thought grimly, suddenly steeled to go back again. The rebels weren't savages: they would probably bury the dead from the battle, even their enemies. But we would go back later, after all this was done, and find our own, if for no other reason than to be able to say to their families that we had. Somewhere a mother was crying for her daughter, and a father was mourning his son.

The ale had made me sleepy, and I leaned back in my chair somewhat miserably - it was the captain's chair, usually placed at his small table for looking over maps and plans. Kieran never used it, of course. The lieutenant commander would tell him what he needed to know, and he would yell it to the rest of the troops. Strategy conferences were unheard of in Fifth Platoon.

I took his hand, winding my fingers around his as I started dropping off to sleep once more. Who really cared if someone walked in and found our hands linked? Not me. I just wanted him to wake up and fume again.

His coughing woke me up, but it took a few seconds before my muzzy brain realized it. I sprang to my feet to throw my arms around him as he coughed violently, and held him as he heaved over the side of the cot to be sick. "It's okay," I found myself saying, "it's all right, just stay calm." Perhaps I'd spent more time in healing tents during Ashnard's war than I admitted.

His coughing finally subsided, his bare chest heaving under my arms. After a moment, I helped him lie back down. He clutched his head, groaning. "Ugh. What in the name of Ashera happened? My head is killing me!"

"Rebels," I said succinctly, groping for the ewer on the ground. I found it and poured out a cup of water, adding, "Do you remember getting attacked?"

"No," he answered, flatly. His hands shook as I helped him guide the cup to his mouth.

Finally, as I set the cup back on the ground and waited, he grimaced and asked, "Are... were Mari and Jain killed? We weren't watching behind us, and practically twenty of those cursed, cowardly rebels popped out of the woods. I don't remember much else."

"Yes," I answered quietly. "They're dead. We'll have to go back for them later."

"What? We didn't - " He tried to thrash upright, but groaned and subsided under my hands, his own fingers buried in his hair again. "Ow. No, no, that's terribly dishonorable! We have to get them now, the Knights don't leave our men behind!"

This was typically irrational of him, and I sighed. "Kieran. Please. If we could have gone back, we would've. You know that. Besides that, it's the middle of the night and everyone else is either half asleep or drunk. Lie back down, you got hit in the back of the head with a sword. Sir."

"Feels like it," he said shortly, clearly not missing the emphasis on my last word; but he stopped trying to resist me. It was clear his head really was killing him: his eyes were closed, face screwed up in pain, breathing in short bursts. "Sorry," he finally said, voice somewhat faint, and he went limp in my arms. "Dammit. Oscar... I got two of our knights killed today."

"No," I said firmly, quelling the quivering doubt that wavered in the back of my own mind, heart lurching at his helplessness. "No, we all underestimated the rebels. You're lucky to be alive. Hell, we all are. Mari and Jain were just unlucky to... well, to be with you. None of us knew they were going to go straight for our commander."

"Yes, but it's because I'm the commander that I should've anticipated something like that," he said, and it pained me to hear how serious he was. "Their deaths are my responsibility."

"Don't think about it now." Struck by a sudden impulse, I leaned over and kissed him. "Erk does not want to command this regiment - and if you're not fit to mount tomorrow, he'll have to. Get some sleep."

He didn't reply, but even past his pain I could sense his misery, and understood. I'd never commanded a large group before, but even when in charge of training exercises, I always felt much more guilty for someone else's mishaps than my own. It was natural for a commander to assume responsibility for anything bad that happened, even more so than any successes.

I moved back to re-right the chair I'd overturned, but his hand came out to find mine, almost flailing. "Wait! Don't... come back, please!"

I took his hand, his pleading tone striking fear in me. "Don't worry, I'm not leaving. I just want to sit back down, that's all." With one free hand I pulled the chair upright, and gingerly sat down in it, his grip fierce on mine. "I'll stick around until you fall asleep again."

"Would you light a candle or something?" he asked, eyes briefly opening and turning toward me. "I just can't take the dark anymore."

A chill went through me; I looked at the candle, sitting on the conference table nearby, lit. Then my eyes turned back to his face, illuminated, however dimly, by the light of that candle; his own eyes were closed again, expression just as miserable as before. It took a moment before I decided that lying wouldn't help matters any. "Kieran, there's already a candle lit."

His eyes flicked open, turning toward me, and I realised they weren't actually focused on my face. Disbelievingly, he asked, "There's already...? I can't see it." His voice was shaky.

My stomach turned over, and I swallowed. If he didn't believe me, he would've called me a liar straight out. "It's all right. I've... I've heard of this before. Titania... said she heard of someone getting hit in the back of the head once and not being able to see, when they were training and had an accident. It must be something to do with concussion."

He was silent, but I could see him growing paler. It was fear on his face, nothing less. His other hand came up slowly to close over mine, knuckles white. I reached out with my free hand and touched his face. Kieran was normally fearless, having hurt himself more times in training than most normal soldiers did during battles. Apparently, though, this frightened him: and I had to admit, it unnerved me, too. After all the times I'd seen him plunge an axe into his leg or knock himself unconscious, this should have been nothing. "Don't worry. Your sight will be back soon."

Again, he said nothing. But after a moment, he ventured, "Stay with me?"

"Of course I will, stupid," I said immediately, and leaned over again to kiss him. "I said I would."

Brand backed me up in my consoling the next morning, and in fact supplied a name to the person Titania had heard of. "Oh, yeah," he assured our captain as the two of us helped him dress. "Apparently this happened to Prince Renning a long time ago, when he was just a new recruit. His training partner accidentally whacked him in the back of the head with an axe, and he was out of the Knights for a week."

"Great," Kieran muttered, clearly not comforted. "Does he still get headaches from it?" He'd admitted to me that he was dizzy and somewhat nauseous, and it was still evident (at least to me) that his head hurt.

Brand laughed. "I doubt it. He never mentions it, anyway." That didn't mean much, and all of us knew it: if Kieran had headaches all the time, he certainly wouldn't mention it. "Think you can ride?"

"Maybe," Kieran answered, doubtfully. I saw him fiddling with the clasps on his armor, eyes fixed resolutely straight ahead. "If I don't embarrass myself trying to get on that dastardly horse."

Brand and I both snorted, then hastily cleared our throats (almost in unison) and regained our composures. It wasn't much of an exaggeration. True to his nature and the tendency of Royal Knights to pick horses most like themselves, when we were leaving on the mission, Kieran had immediately chosen the most stubborn, ill-natured, difficult, and... well, dastardly horse he could find. He convinced us all by saying he enjoyed a challenge. Everyone had gotten a good laugh the first (and, to his credit, the only) time their captain had been thrown off. Since then we all looked in that direction when he mounted to ride, just in case that dastardly stallion got something into his head.

Brand grinned as he and I exchanged a glance. "Well, I'll be around for that... either to help or to laugh, sir, I haven't decided."

A ghost of a smile flitted across Kieran's face, and he looked towards Brand. "Right. Well, you should probably go get your own horse ready, soldier, to get a good vantage point for it."

"Yes, sir." Brand saluted automatically, face changing as he lowered his hand: I could see a mix of amusement (why bother saluting?) with relief (at seeing that his captain was all right). I was feeling a mixture of the two myself, and watched him go.

"I already talked to Erk," I said quietly, without waiting. "He'll come in about ten minutes from now, to go over what he thinks we should do next."

Kieran's shoulders slumped, and he groped to find the cot, then sat, putting his head between his knees. "Thank the goddess. I can't even think straight, much less plan anything, even if he could sufficiently explain the maps to me." He groaned. "I feel like my brain is trying to explode out of my head."

"Why the hell didn't you tell Brand, then?" I demanded. "He could've helped." I knew why, of course: he hated to admit that he was in pain to anyone, though why I didn't count and healers did was beyond me.

"A captain... um... shouldn't show weakness in front of his officers," was the lame reply from between his knees. My irritation vanished, and I laughed; that was, after all, the reason I loved him so much. No one could ever be as stubborn as Kieran.

I sat next to him and rubbed his back. "Well, if Erk takes command of the troops, we'll just tie your reins to his saddle, or maybe mine. That way you can ride with us without wandering off into the shrubbery."

Some muttered oath came from between his knees again; if I wasn't mistaken, it sounded a lot like, "Wouldn't do that... squinty dastard..." Immensely cheered by the sounds of surliness, I threw my arms around him and hugged him. After a minute he sighed and sat up, leaning his head on my shoulder. "As long as Erk doesn't keep everybody from fighting."

"Oh, he won't. He knows better than that." I made to get up, and he snaked an arm around my waist.

"Wait, don't go." He hesitated, then added, "I feel a lot less panicked when you're here." I felt my resolve melting as his lips unerringly found my ear. Apparently those nights with me spent in total darkness had given him some skills, anyway. "Please?"

After one unsuccessful attempt to speak (which resulted in a small, inarticulate noise) I cleared my throat and pushed him away a little. "No, I should go. Just think, if Erk walks in and finds us like this." I disentangled his arm, rising. It was a good thing I already had my chaps on - no one would look twice if I walked a little strangely. "Stay right here. You can happily molest me later on tonight, if in fact we're both still alive then."

He dragged me back down for one last kiss. "Dastard, of course we'll both still be alive! The great Kieran doesn't die." It never ceased to amuse me that he called himself that mockingly now, having discovered sometime during our shared stint in the Mercenaries that everyone else did.

"No, but he certainly does try," I teased, and as he finally let go of my hand, I left him grinning, his pain momentarily forgotten.