The warmth of a grand fire. The jovial hoots of inebriated victory. The idle wineskin dangling in a relaxed grip. The once hidden sight of women had now come to greet and tend to the men. The festive night after a long battle.

Apple was sat upon a log. He always somehow found himself upon the severed stump during their rests at camp. Never the ground, nor a stool was ever burdened by his weight. He wondered, with the clarity of an almost empty wineskin, was someone preparing a log for his rump every encampment, or was his rear simply adept in seeking them out?

In the distance he could see a stout woman – features hidden behind a modest wimple and dress, cleaning and oiling what he was certain was his chainmail. His gambeson, sword, cloak, and boots were being tended to somewhere else beyond his sight. So, their Apple sat, with only a pale pair of hose to warm his legs and a loose tunic to hide his modesty. His long auburn hair drying beside the fire after a quick wash of warm salt-water, a privilege given to him due by the dwimmer that dwelled within him.

Around him the soldier's gorged themselves on ales, meads, and water-wines, the pain of battle long forgotten from their minds until the morning after. The few lucky and more accomplished of the bunch were also met with the splendour of women – tending to them in some manner. Whether it be their wounds, thirst, or their basic urges as a man. Until very recently Apple never knew that it was the norm for armies to be tailed by masses of women; some wives, sisters, mothers, and others merely prostitutes who could pretend to be any of the former for a night.

The cheering, the dancing, and the singing that a brush with death brought to the senses; it was Apple’s favourite time of the day. A part of him even wished to join the men, yet he felt as if he could not. He was a foreigner; here not because his Lord demanded his attendance, but simply for some wealthy man’s pittance. He was not a noble or one of the noble's consorts, but he was at least a witan. A being gifted with ability to conjure wonders capable of decimating hundreds; something no title or amount of wealth could bestow upon an individual. He was too powerful for the common soldiers to identify with, yet not grand enough to stand beside the nobles. So, here he sat, in his self-inflicted purgatory – not that he particularly minded all that much.

He felt pity for his companion however. If he was an oddity, then Mula was completely bizarre creature of clandestine rumours. A woman and a witan were strange enough on their own merits, added alongside her brownish skin, piercing yellow eyes, and large canines were the final nails in her coffin of ostracising uniqueness. He watched her in the corner of his eye whilst she loomed over a group of young-looking men, her internal struggle to start a conversation with them as plain as the naked moon. Apple felt sorry for her. She was around thirteen years old now he believed, although her height was already greater than that of the average woman, it was perfectly normal for people of her age to seek companionship in some form – and he made a poor substitute.

Apple had even caught her trying to make small-talk with the women before, however they seemed outright terrified of her. Her gender and prestige were a combination that the common women were unable to comprehend. Her existence went against everything they had been taught since they had left their mother’s womb; men had power and the women did not.

Apple would sometimes try to think of ways to aid her in her quest for an acquaintance, unfortunately he had never been very good at the activity of befriendment either. In the world of nobility, if you were of poor character and therefore unlikeable, all you had to was find some lesser nobles to follow you around like new-born ducklings. Every word you said to them would either be the wisest thing someone had ever uttered, or the funniest – sometimes both.

He was at least happy that while no one seemed to be willing to befriend his protégé, they were all still polite and respectful to her to an acceptable degree. Her magical queerness and foreign features appeared to be outweighed by her deeds on the battlefield. Mula had saved many lives and hopefully they all realised that as well. “Good luck, little one,” Apple whispered to himself.

“Talking to yourself, are we Witan Valet,” Apple heard an approaching voice cry out. “Not secretly casting a spell, now are we?”

Apple looked up, no longer enjoying the feeling of sloshing his wineskin around whilst he lost himself in thought. “Hail, m’lord. Sorry, I was just thinking out loud – I was.”

“Must be something quite profound to have escaped your mind and found itself on your tongue.” Sir Warren replied. He walked around the large fire in front of Apple until they were around ten-feet apart. Without even needing to make a single command, as soon the Chevalier bowed his legs, a page seemingly materialised by his side and placed a stool on the grass, ready for his noble rump to sit on.

“Is there something troubling you, Witan Valet? If so, do not be afraid to voice it. The opinions of my men are something I value dearly.”

Apple sincerely doubted that, unless he only considered the people currently surrounding him whilst he sat to be his “men”. He had yet to see Sir Warren alone without his entourage of well-armed petty nobles, his several pages, and his two squires. Although, unlike his constantly armed friends, the Chevalier was currently dressed similar to Apple – the clothing still being a much higher quality of course. The only major difference being that whilst Apple had his catalyst placed across his lap, his lordship had his faithful war-scythe lent against his shoulder.

Apple was always perplexed about his master’s choice of weaponry. Everything about the man was a walking stereotype of nobility. Overly-polished armour, silk embraided clothing, even his tone of voice and mannerisms were all so typical for his birth. So, why the war-scythe? Whilst it was most certainly an uncommon weapon to happen upon, it was still most defiantly considered to be a peasant weapon. The one Sir Warren equipped looked well made, but it possessed no decorations nor polished sheen. No intricate patterns nor flamboyant colours. It was just merely a long wooden shaft, with grey-iron convex blade attached to the top. Apple was not even certain that the Chevalier could actually wield the weapon effectively, for he had never seen the man engage in combat beyond the occasional lackadaisical firing of his crossbow.

Apple realised he had crept into deep thoughts again and shook his head slightly. “No, m’lord, no complaints. I just like to lose myself in thought after a battle.”

Sir Warren began to gently stroke his long-oiled moustache, “I see – I see. Would you like to share any of these thoughts with me, good witan?”

Apple shook his head, “I’m afraid they’ll just bore m’lord.”

“How dare you not answer Sir Warren when he asked of you a question!” One of his crony’s yelled. His body lunged forward with incredulous zeal to his master.

Sir Warren brought his arm into the air passively to silence the man, “Peace, Phillip. It was not a command to my Witan Valet, just a request. It was his choice whether to heed it or not.”

The man took a step back behind his Lord and regained his proud perfect posture. “Sorry, my Lord. I just do not care for the casualness this hired witan displays around you. He did not even stand or bow his head at your arrival” Phillip replied.

Apple withheld a grimace at that remark, the man was not wrong, he had completely forgotten to do so. “Master Phillip is correct, m’lord. I am sorry, I forgot to make the appropriate greetings to you.”

“Think nothing of it, good witan. I am sure you are tired after today's fight. I saw running around the battlefield, breathing snow and slicing monstrous beings in twain with water of all things. Why, I felt weary just watching you.”

“Just doing what you pay me for, m’lord.”

“If that is true, I fear I should start having to pay you more.” He laughed. “Did you know the men have a name for you now? No longer are we just my Witan Valet.

“A name?” Apple repeated, “I hope it’s nothing too slanderous.”

“No-no, I actually believe it is quite a fitting name after today's spectacle. Would you like to hear it?”

Apple was a little worried now, “If you could be so kind as to indulge me, m’lord.

Sir Warren smiled, showing a row of perfectly sculpted white teeth, “Tueur de Wyrm.”

Apple felt his eyebrow cock, “I’m afraid I don’t know what it means. I’m still not used to your country’s old tongue.”

“It’s fine. I did not think you would know its meaning. It means: Worm Slayer.”

“Worm Slayer, as in someone who slays worms?”

“Indeed.”

“Like worms, the things you find in the ground or in the occasional piece of fruit?”

“The very same.”

“Why are they saying I slay worms? I didn’t accidentally eat one, did I?” Apple said, thinking back to all the times he had eaten apples, turnips, and onions in front of the men.

“Not that I am aware of. Those great masses of mud our witan enemy created looked a lot like great big worms, would you agree? After seeing you do battle with so many of the creations, the men started to shout the name in harmony, cheering you on. Now it seems the title has stuck. Congratulations, my good witan. The battlefield is the perfect place to gain an epithet.”

It would appear the noble that Apple once was had truly been forgotten at last. He had hidden his first forename a long time ago and chose to forgo his family name, and now he possessed neither. The youngest son of Clemonshire was no more.

Apple rubbed his hand down his face, pulling the skin and hairs along with it. “Worm Slayer, seriously? Can’t be monster or magician slayer, or even just giant worm slayer? People are going to think I kill common garden worms as a hobby!”

“It seems you are not too pleased with your new title, Apple Tueur de Wyrm. Or, in the common tongue, Apple the Worm Slayer.” Sir Warren said with a completely stone-like face, something Apple was a bit suspicious of.

“That has to be without a doubt the stupidest name I have ever heard. I killed a bear once, where were the people to declare me Bear Slayer then?” Apple groaned.

“Oh, come now, do not fret over it. It is a far cry from the name bestowed upon myself, when my back is turned: Clovis the Idle. Such a rude title. These men have no idea how much effort I put in into keeping this army functioning.”

“Perhaps if you led at least a single charge your men wouldn’t think you so lazy...” Apple thought to himself. He sighed. “On a slightly different topic, m’lord, what’s next for us? The marshlands are now ours. Are we to stay and build defences, or press on?”

“You do not need to know that information, Worm Slayer.” One of Sir Warren’s men mocked.

“Peace, Renold, peace. A messenger came by earlier at the behest of my Lady, stating to press on to the city of Pelpalduex, and rendezvous there with my Lady.” He explained, dismissing his man with causal wave of his hand in the same way he had done so with Phillip.

“Your Lady, Duchess Palmyre, I believe was her name?”

“You believe correctly. Dame Palmyre la Revenir, Duchesse de Berzek. Eldest daughter to the late king and rightful heir to the throne.” The Chevalier explained.

“Fancy title, that,” Apple mused. “Forgive me speaking out of turn, m’lord, but is it not usual for a woman to become sovereign of a nation?”

Several men stepped forward this time, “how dare you!” They all cried.

“Must I keep all of your feet glued to the floor?” Sir Warren asked incredulously, “It is a slightly rude question – yes, nevertheless a valid one indeed. You see, Witan Valet, our former king: Louis III perished of sickness almost a year ago today. His eldest, Louis IV was both next in line for the throne and a popular choice for nobles and commoners alike. Sadly, he would perish shortly after his father under dubious circumstances.”

“You suspect assassination?” Apple asked.

“To suspect anything at all would be highly treasonous, Witan Valet, you will do well to remember that.” He warned, stroking his moustache with a harsh flick instead of his usual flourishes. “With Louis IV’s death, that left two candidates with any decent claim to the Tapisserie throne: Duchess Palmyre and Count Jacob of Lyondun, her Lady’s younger brother. As to why I chose to follow a woman over a man? I have only had the privy to meet Lord Jacob once, however that was more than enough to know that he would be a disaster of a king. It is always the youngest sons that make the worse leaders; all of the privileges of nobility and none of the responsibility.”

Apple failed to find a rebuttal to that last statement.

“My Lady was sent to the provenance of Mukr’zem when she was barely more than a child. Honestly, Witan Valet, she was mostly forgotten by the people – myself included. It was not until the death of her father did her existence reappear in the minds of us Tapitans. A young girl sailed away to be one of many, in a foreign king’s concubines suddenly came back a grown Duchess in charge of a third of said country, is that not astounding, Witan Valet?”

Apple was indeed impressed by what the Chevalier had told him; a truly unlikely story indeed. He wondered how the woman had managed to accomplish such a feat. “Truly incredible, m’lord, truly incredible.” He replied.

Sir Warren nodded approvingly, “I am glad you agree. I never doubted that you would not of course, as you do not seem to discriminate against the sexes as most do.”

“Are you referring to Mula?” Apple inquired. “To be honest, me training in her in ways of magic was completely random – really random. I mean a really one in a million-chance kind of thing. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how we met.” Apple could not help but look down at the hand Mula had bitten when they first met.

“I can imagine it is a truly enthralling tale; I would like to hear it some time.”

Apple doubted he did, “and I’d love to share it as well one day.”

“Do you care, Worm Slayer?” Roland suddenly asked, his left foot had been tapping with an apparent impatience for a while now. “Do you care who sits upon our throne, or is it only coin that sways your heart?”

Apple looked down at the wineskin in his hand. He began to swing it from side to side, feeling the dregs of its contents slosh to each side, aiding in its pendulum-like motion. “Tell me, m’lord, do you know who sits upon the Loncian throne?”

Roland paused and brought a cold silence to the conversation.

“You can’t do it, can you? Don’t fret, m’lord, most people can’t.” Apple stopped playing with his wineskin and allowed it to collapse to the floor, its last few drops not worth trying to obtain. “That is your answer, m’lord.”

The silence continued for another few breaths before Sir Warren seemed to feel compelled to end it. “It matters not why you fight, Witan Valet, as long as you fight for me and my Lady; that is all I ask.”

Apple nodded, “Thank you, m’lord.” He replied, standing up with his final pleasantry, “If you’ll excuse me, m’lord, I am quite tired and wish to retire to my tent.”

Sir Warren nodded back in response, “I think that is mighty fine idea, good witan. I shall send one of my pages to wake you on the morrow. Pleasant dreams, Witan Valet.”

Apple allowed himself a small bow in farewell, “and you as well, m’lord.” With that, he turned on heels and strolled towards his tent, returning the polite nods and greetings that were given to him as he walked.

Once he had made his way to his tent, he was met with the sight several young women lounging around its entrance. Their plain clothing contrasted their obvious painted faces in the bright torches and pale moonlight. “Greeting, Sir Witan.” The boldest of the group said. “Would you be requiring our services tonight?”

Apple waved his free-hand dismissively, “thank you, but not tonight I’m afraid. Please, enjoy the rest of the night and find enjoyment in company elsewhere, the men have certainly earned it.” Apple strode past the women and made his way into his tent.

“He says tonight as if he doesn’t refuse us every night.” He heard one of the women huff outside his current abode.

“Does he not find us attractive?” Another asked.

“Nonsense. Even if he didn’t, time and drink always sway the loins in the end. Why, even Sir Warren the renown snob now accepts whores into his chambers.”

“Perhaps it’s a witan thing? Maybe magic changes them in some ways?”

“Maybe he’s one of them buggerers? Not like there aren’t always a few in an army this large.” Someone snickered.

Apple wondered if the women somehow thought the paper-thin walls of his tent were able to keep their gossiping from his ears. A part of him wanted to storm out there and reprimanded them for their slander, but that would just make matters worse for himself.

Was it truly so rare for a man to refuse the company of women?

A question that in the past even he would have said “yes” to. He would have to be careful of these possible rumours however, it might affect his standing within Sir Warren’s rank. Apple would have to find subtle ways to quell their possible infection.

Tired, Apple removed his tunic and tossed it aside carelessly. The truth was that he had slept with many women in his time in Tapisserie. He was witan with excesses coin, and was neither a complete horror to look upon, so he never had any trouble finding someone to warm his bed. However, they too might share his refusal for companionship if everyone they ever laid with would always shapeshift into a plague of little green men; indulging in little green men desires.

***********

“It is time for us to be off, good witan!” A loud nasally voice cried.

Apple stirred reluctantly from underneath his wool blanket, “I thought you were sending one of your pages to come wake me?” Apple asked with a dry throat and eyelids trapped by nightly crust.

“I did. He said you waved your hand frantically at him and repeated the word: icicle at him, until he left.”

Apple stumbled to his feet and stretched his aching body. With a practised motion, he grabbed his beloved Alice and hovered her over his face. In a few breaths refreshing cool water rained down upon his features, trickling all the way down to his feet – invigorating him.

“My word, that is a nifty trick.” The Chevalier praised, “If I am to ever rise in rank, I hope to employ a witan for the sole purpose of being my personal groomer.”

Apple ended his spell and began to rub the water nestling on the outer layer of his hair all the way through its entirety, undoing the bedhead curls with his comb-like fingers.

“You know, you should really consider cutting that long hair of yours. I do not know what the fashion is back in Loncia, but here we men like to keep out hair no longer than our ear lobes. That small beard of yours would also look much better as a well-maintained moustache.

Apple appraised the man in front of him, giving him advice, he had never asked for. Soft glossy brown hair that curled ever so slightly around his ears, and a moustache that looked to be made more of oil than hair. Although, Apple had to admit that the Chevalier overall was indeed an attractive man. He had never been one to particularly care too much about fashion and would always simply wear what his chamberlain would present him with. Recently he was too poor to be even considering things as frivolous as fashion. Yet, now he took great care to keep his hair long and allowed his face to sprout a beard. He even adorned himself with broaches and large iron buckles that wrapped around his tunic, as it all was the fashion back in Loncia. He might be missing home more than he realised.

Apple noticed that his Lord had become silence whilst he dressed, he turned to look at the man once more. “Is there something wrong, m’lord?”

Apple followed the man’s quiet gaze and saw that his ended on his body. “What’s wrong, m’lord, have you never seen scars before?”

Sir Warren exhaled deeply, “of course I have – even have a few of my own to boast about. However, to gather as many and as large as yours... Were you purchase captured at some point in history and tortured?”

Apple allowed himself a small laugh, whilst he tied his vambraces around his forearms. “Nothing quite so unpleasant thankfully. Most were admittedly caused by my own stupidity and poor methods used for closing the wounds. If you ever wish to acquire a hefty scar to impress a maiden, I’d recommended placing fire upon the infliction – the fresher the better. Be warned, m’lord, as it is still to this day still the greatest pain I have ever experienced.”

“I will keep that in mind,” the Chevalier hummed with pursed lips. “Pray tell, do they hurt?”

Apple waited until his hauberk was completely over his head before responding. “Hurt might not be the correct word. It's more like they make their existence known to me. I feel them with every movement I make, and every time something brushes past them. They are constant reminders of my own failures.”

“I see... You truly are the oddity of a witan. First you shock me and my men with your desire to do battle up close with your foes, something I originally believed you witan’s loathed. Now I see you are covered in enough scars to make the most grizzled veteran feel naked by comparison. Pray tell, are you a normality in your homeland?”

Apple draped his cloak over his shoulders and fastened it around himself, making sure the steel broach attached to its strings was proudly displayed. He was finally finished getting dressed.

“Am I a normality in my homeland, you ask – m'lord? I’m afraid I am the most normal person you would ever meet there, and that is sadly why I had to leave.”

“I am afraid I do not quite understand, Witan Valet.” Sir Warren admitted.

Apple smiled, “Pray that you never do, m’lord.”