Chapter Text
The polished steel gleamed under the flickering torchlight, a harsh reflection of the 15-years etched onto David Strider's face. His calloused hand wrapped around the hilt, the worn leather a stark contrast to the pristine knightly armor he now wore. It felt alien, heavy, yet undeniably empowering. Today, David became a pawn, no, a knight, in the grand chess game that was their world.
The air in the High Guard's enlistment chamber hung thick with the scent of oil and anticipation. Across the room, his reflection danced in the polished breastplate – a scrawny teenager swallowed whole by the imposing silver.
The booming voice of Grand Advisor Doc Scratch echoed through the chamber, his albino face gleaming with a glassy sheen under the flicker of torchlight. "Sir David Strider, step forward."
David straightened, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He took a hesitant step forward, the polished flagstones cold beneath his boots. Doc Scratch, with all the charm of a pristine white snake, surveyed him with amusement.
"Young Strider," Doc Scratch rasped, his voice like sandpaper on slate, "you stand at a crossroads. One path leads to freedom, a life of scraping by in the dregs of society. The other, the path you may choose today, leads to glory, purpose, the very foundation of our great kingdom."
David swallowed, the metallic tang of blood filling his mouth. He wasn't naive. He knew the "freedom" Doc Scratch spoke of was a euphemism for a life of backbreaking labor, barely scraping by in the mines that fueled the purplebloods' lavish lifestyles. This, however, was a chance to make a difference, a chance for a better future, not just for him, but for his younger siblings, his mother, for everyone who couldn't fight for themselves.
"I choose the path of a knight," David declared, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hand.
A satisfied smirk played on Doc Scratch's lips. He gestured to the imposing figure of Gamzee Makara, the Prince of Earth, who stood by the arched doorway, his violet eyes glinting with an unsettling amusement. Gamzee, unlike the manic clown David expected, radiated an aura of controlled chaos. His movements were precise, his blood-red attire immaculate. The troll held aloft a grand, royal arm, its hilt encrusted with various gemstones. This act would bring a close to the festivities, the knighting imminent.
"Then kneel, young Strider," Gamzee rumbled, his voice surprisingly deep and baritone, "and swear fealty to the crown, to the laws of our grand empire, and to the cosmic order as dictated by the esteemed Grand Advisor."
David knelt, the cold metal of the flagstones biting into his knees. He repeated the oath, each word a weight settling onto his soul, just as the weight of the blade's tip weighed on his neck and shoulders with each line he swore.
"To the crown, I devote my sword hand.
To the grave, my drinking hand.
To this world, my life."
As he rose, Gamzee placed a hand on his shoulder, the touch surprisingly gentle.
"Welcome to the High Guard, Strider," Gamzee said, a glint of something unreadable flashing in his eyes. "May your blade forever be sharp, and your loyalty unwavering. The fate of our world rests on the shoulders of knights like you."
David nodded, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach. Something about Gamzee, about the entire ceremony, felt…off. But the cheers of the newly enlisted knights around him drowned out his doubt. He was a knight now, a protector, a symbol of hope. He had a duty to fulfill, a debt to repay for the meager life his family had endured.
Later that night, as David lay on his bunk, the polished armor feeling more like a prison than a badge of honor, his brother Dirk stormed into their shared quarters. Rage contorted Dirk's features, his usual sardonic sneer replaced by a snarl.
"You joined them, Dave?" Dirk spat, his voice laced with venom. "You became one of their goddamn lackeys?"
David flinched. He and Dirk had always been close, but their ideals had diverged sharply in recent years. Dirk dreamt of rebellion, of overthrowing the purplebloods' oppressive regime. David, however, saw a more pragmatic approach. He aimed to rise within the ranks, to become someone who could effect real change from the inside.
"It's not about that, Dirk," David pleaded, pushing himself up on his elbows. "This is a chance, a chance to make things better for everyone."
Dirk scoffed. "Better? You call serving those tyrants 'better'? They've bled this planet dry, Dave! Don't you see that?"
"And how do you propose we fight them, huh?" David countered, his voice rising in frustration. "With spitballs and wishful thinking? I'm doing what I can, Dirk."
David's words hung heavy in the air, a spark igniting the tinderbox of Dirk's anger, his flint a reference to childhood antics. With a snarl that ripped through the tense silence, Dirk whipped out a gleaming broadsword, the moonlight glinting off the polished metal.
"Maybe not with spitballs, brother," Dirk spat, his voice dripping with icy contempt, "but with something a little more persuasive."
David's heart hammered against his ribs. He scrambled to his feet, his own hand instinctively reaching for the unfamiliar weight of his gifted knightly sword. He didn't want to fight Dirk. He loved his brother, but Dirk's reckless idealism was a recipe for disaster.
Their blades met in a shower of sparks, the clang echoing through the cramped quarters. Years of shared training fueled their movements, a deadly dance of steel on steel. But Dirk, fueled by righteous fury, fought with a reckless abandon that David, burdened by his newfound duty, struggled to match.
The confined space of the room quickly became a battlefield. Furniture splintered, debris flew, and the air crackled with raw energy. With a well-placed kick, Dirk smashed David's guard, sending the knight crashing through the flimsy window. A gasp escaped David's lips as he tumbled through the air, the cold night air biting at his exposed skin. He landed hard on the cobblestones outside, the breath knocked out of his lungs.
The crash served as a beacon, shattering the fragile peace of the night. Alarm bells clanged through the air, their mournful wail echoing through the streets. From the shadows, figures emerged – cloaked figures, armed and fueled by Dirk's call to rebellion. They materialized around David, their faces obscured by darkness, their eyes gleaming with a dangerous glint.
David scrambled to his feet, his vision blurry from the impact. He brandished his sword, his voice hoarse as he shouted, "Stand down! This is a misunderstanding!"
But his words were lost in the cacophony of the night. The rebels, emboldened by Dirk's defiance, surged forward, a wave of black against the pale moonlight. Their blades gleamed in the darkness, a chilling promise of violence.
On the rooftop across the street, Dirk stood silhouetted against the moon, back turned from his sibling fighting for life and limb. His chest heaved from exertion, a grim smile playing on his lips. He had ignited the spark. Now, the rebellion would consume the kingdom in flames. David, his own brother, stood unwittingly on the other side. A single tear traced a path down Dirk's cheek, a tear shed not for the city about to erupt in chaos, but for the brother he might have to slay to achieve his dream.