After being revived by his foster father, Diarmuid learns of his treasonous acts and decides to leave Hibernia for sure. Still longing to be a knight, he learns of a certain king that is willing to accept any kind of Knight. Camelot is quite the jou...
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"You want to be one of Our knights?" A very petite man lifted his eyebrow and gazed upon the male. He must have had confidence and guts to even appear in front of the king during a show put up for his entertainment. Never had he encountered something like this before and he admitted he was intrigued.
The monarch himself was much smaller, a dwarf in comparison to Diarmuid's stature. Well, if he had to say, more elf-like. The man may have been small, but he was slender and lean, with muscles that were probably hidden under the heavy armor. Even if he hadn't had combat training, he must have been quite fit—wearing armor of that size was no easy burden.
"Yes, my Prince." He stood up from the bowing position he was previously in. The strand of black hair that did not obey the rest was dangling in front of his face (irritating him a little) while he kept his gaze on the male before him.
"King," the short man corrected.
"My King." He repeated, maybe it embarrassed him that he had made a mistake in front of the huge crowd in the arena, but he tried to brush off his light blush and uneasiness. Though, the king did look very young or childish-like to even be a king, let alone how short he really was.
The king's green eyes seemed to smile and he sat up straight, an elbow rested upon the arm rest of his throne, as his hand touched his cheek. His armor sat atop of his royal attire, and his sword was near him, sheathed and perched nicely upon a table.
As was custom in Camelot, the king reached for his weapon and stood from the seat. The knight watched his every move carefully, Gáe Buidhe remained on the dirt floor as Gáe Dearg was held tightly in the former knight's right hand.
"A duel, We would request, to prove that you are worthy of being a knight of Camelot, would you not agree?" His royal highness inquired as he walked down from the elevated throne, down the dais, and looked upon the people, who cheered in approval.
"Anything that my King desires." Diarmuid bowed once again—his bronze eyes sparkling at the invitation of a duel—and kicked up Gáe Buidhe only to catch it with his left hand. "Whenever your majesty is ready." He smiled the monarch's way.
The king gripped the air as if he held the handle of a blade. Dimly, Diarmuid recalled stories, legends rather, his father would grace him with when he was young, of the ruler of a far land who wielded an invisible blade that had been undefeated by many. Without having to even think, Diarmuid knew instantly that he was facing a high-caliber warrior.
The king took his sword and lifted it with a show of ease and practice that could only be achieved after many years. His eye twitched and he would have grunted because God only knew how long the sword really was. His amber eyes then skimmed across the crowd, catching the eyes of many ladies, who would squeal at his sight.
