Big Book Of Smornby One Shots

The Color Of Blood (S ish)

TW: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Death, Minor Character Death, Blood, War, Swords, Dead Bodies, mention of drinking, mention of graves

A solitary light shines through the darkness shrouding the haven of House Smith. The oldest and heir of the homestead looks out into the night from his tower keep, watching the burgundy banners on the western wall flap in the wind.

The banners bear his familial crest, three black swords spread behind a gold gryphon. In the valley towards the rising moon are the graves of the ancestors of House Smith- warriors, tacticians, and commanders at arms. He is none of these things he is expected to be.

Below the tower, hidden away in the depths of the stone castle, he hears his father and his men-at-arms laughing in wine-drunk camaraderie. He left them some time ago, and came upstairs to his rooms instead of joining in. Tonight he doesn't feel like celebrating.

The air is crisp, the chill of autumn making the night frigid, but the hearth keeps him warm.

A knock sounds on his chamber door, and he turns slightly towards it as he answers.

"Enter."

It's Ross- his chief guardsman. Ross steps inside the room and shuts the door behind him. His silver armor shines in the firelight. The flames dance in the hearth, casting shadows onto his face.

"What is it?" Smith asks, watching Ross as the guardsman worries his lip between his teeth.

"What're you hiding up here for?" Ross asks. He stands at the door as if he is afraid to come closer, and Smith gestures for him to take a seat somewhere.

"I'm not hiding," Smith sighs with a shake of his head. "What would I be hiding from?"

Ross shrugs. He slowly crosses the room and stands next to the foot of the bed instead of sitting. "You're not downstairs." He answers.

Smith rolls his eyes and looks away. "Neither are you."

"I noticed you were missing." Ross starts again.

Smith sighs and leans his head against the window pane. "You're the only one who does." He says. He hears Ross move closer, the guard's boots falling heavy on the stone beneath his feet.

"That's not true." Ross disagrees, voice soft.

The logs shift in the fire, crackling as they are consumed.

"Isn't it?" Smith replies. "Did my father ask for me?" He gives Ross a look over his shoulder. The armor Ross is wearing shines red-gold in the firelight.

Ross frowns back at him.

"Well?" Smith asks, prompting him to answer.

Ross shakes his head. "No. No, he didn't."

"Then don't tell me otherwise, Ross." Smith murmurs, turning away from him again. "Don't stretch the truth."

Smith stares out into the night, searching the dark forest for anything amiss. There's nothing out there tonight- nothing he can see. He searches out of habit, after training with the night patrol when he was younger. The nightly watchmen were one of the most loyal group of men he'd ever met. They followed the orders of his father, the king, without any doubt of his reasoning.

Smith can't imagine people following him the same way. It's not as if they couldn't learn to trust him as they do his father, it's just that he isn't his father. He may be his oldest son, next in line for the throne, but he's not a replica of the man who wears the crown. He's expected to be a leader, expected to take his father's place, but the loyalty of men always gives Smith pause.