I betcha thought I've forgotten about this one, haven't you?

This is your last warning. I never write about canon couples... except when they're breaking up. If you don't mind that, enjoy. ;) An enthusiastic round of applause goes to my patient beta readers.

Basic disclaimers in Chapter One. Earlier chapters can be found at Luba's Fonts of Wisdom, and my own archive.

This one's for Poi Lass, She Who Asks Often.

Sir Jonothon had forgotten how much he hated the Knights' Hall.

With its high ceilings and massive stone pillars, the hall always exuded (at least to him) a suffocating solemnity. Stained glass windows and tapestries depicting the exploits of the early knights lent an air of idolized heroism which he particularly disliked. The Knights' Hall was one of the oldest structures within the castle, and in less civilized times it had seen more than its share of bloodshed. He always had an uneasy feeling that its history somehow tainted the otherwise impressive building.

The huge doors were opened by two uniformed Guardians, who saluted stiffly as he walked through. The hall was packed with knights and their squires, creating a babble of noise that would have deterred the more nervous inhabitants of the castle. Jonothon sent a prayer of thanks to the mage who had modified the air circulation system, keeping the hall relatively cool.

The knights and squires were seated facing a round, heavy oak table from all sides; their positions determined by their seniority. Only the Paladins of the four Orders, who constituted the Warrior Council, were seated at the table. Squeezing through a group of chatting knights, he made his way to his designated seat.

"What took you so long, Jonny?" A green-eyed knight smiled at him, moving slightly to give him more room on the wooden bench. Beside the soberly-dressed Jonothon, she glowed with colour. Her breastplate was decorated with a golden crest in the shape of a phoenix, matching the smaller replica that clasped her belt. That, and the spikes on hre shoulder guards, guaranteed at least a second look.

"Maps." He sat down with a small thump. "Thanks, Ray."

Sir Rachel grinned widely, recalling their training days. "You never did learn how to find a reliable mapmaker," she teased.

"An' you never did learn t'stick t'a bloody armour that doesn't raise eyebrows."

"Guilty as charged," she confessed, laughing. "Metal gray really isn't my colour."

It was then that he suddenly realised what was bothering him. "Since when do Guardians check passes at the gates? City's crawlin' with the blue-an'-golds. I 'ad 'alf a mind t'do somethin' just t'see 'ow 'igh they jump."

She looked around warily, motioning for him to move closer. "A month ago, someone tried to assasinate the High King," the knight whispered into his ear. "Don't spread it around. There're rumours about Genoshan spies buying information and no one's taking any chances."

"Slimy buggers. 'ow did Queen Ororo take it?"

Rachel met his eyes unhappily. "She was the one who discovered the assassin, Jonny, just as he was about to murder Magnus. And she had to kill him. Kill him with his own dagger."

"Hey, doll. How 'bout sharing a dop with me tonight?"

"Take a long walk off a short pier, Japheth." The raven-haired squire flounced off towards a smirking group of pages, herding them towards what little available seats left in the hall.

"Foiled again?"

Japheth grinned confidently at his fellow squires. "Sawright, she'll come to her senses now now. You'll see."

Clarice laughed. Sitting beside her, Samuel slung an arm around her shoulders and rolled his eyes. "This is th'seventeenth time she told ya t'get lost. What makes ya think she'll ever change her mind?"

"As always, my good looks and charm."

"Ah wouldn't wouldn't put any gold on that," Sam muttered under his breath.

"Be nice," Clarice mock-scolded.

"T'him?" He was rewarded by a painful elbow jab from the half-ice elf. "Ouch! Mah pa was right 'bout women. He said--ouch! Ah haven't even finished talkin' yet, sweetie..."

She smiled innocently at him. "Sorry, dearest. My elbow slipped."

"Ah'll bet."

"I'll be deurmekaar," Japheth swore, staring fixedly to his left. "It's that oke Sir Sean told me 'bout."

"Who?"

"See the knight in black, with those scars? That's him. Sir Jonothon of Starsmore Keep."

The squires and pages were seated behind the assembled Orders, their seating ranked by seniority. The trio, by virtue of having been squires for a few seasons, had seats quite close to the knights. Clarice craned her neck above the sea of heads, saying, "I thought he was in exile or something. Something to do with Lady Paige, wasn't it?"

Sam shook his head. "He wasn't exiled 'cause of mah sister. Sir Logan said that he left willingly. Ah don't know why, but Ah don't think it's hard t'guess th'reasons."

"The reasons to what?" Everett, squire to Sir Elisabeth, gave them a puzzled look. He politely stood aside to let a nervous page scuttle past, then took his seat. A wilting pink rose peeked out from under his shirt.

"Why Sir Jonothon hightailed it out of here like he had dragons chomping on his guava," Japheth explained.

"Our mystery knight is here?" Everett stared at the scarred man. "I didn't know that. Heck, I thought he was dead!"

"That's what you get for spending more time with Brigid than with us, Ev."

He blushed, much to his friends' amusement.

If enigmas were horses, half the knights would find themselves equine and chewing hay. Very few of them were talked about their backgrounds once they took the vow of knighthood. The past was past, as far as they were concerned. Wipe the slate clean, turn over a new leaf, make a fresh start. Jonothon suspected that a good number of the knights were reformed criminals -- though rigorous training ensured that none of the hardened ones were elevated into the ranks.

Some were illegitimate children of nobles. Sir Rachel, for example, daughter of the Duchess of Grey and an unknown man. Of the others, many were fathered or borned by knights, who tended to marry amongst themselves. Their children, as a result, were often expected to uphold the same ideals. Jonothon's lips twisted slightly. He had tried to disown his 'destiny', but even running away could not break the ties of blood.

The Knight-General of the Warrior Council, Sir Scott of the Eye, embodied the chivalry and stern discipline of an archetypical knight. He was a tall, brown-haired man, as strong-willed in his sense of duty as in his unwavering compassion. Jonothon observed the way the knights were immediately silent as Sir Scott's gaze fell over them, without so much as him having to utter a word.

The ruby of his diadem twinkled softly in the somber light, and the younger knight remembered hushed tales of his first quest. Returning only with the gem, he refused to answer any questions about the quest. His sad eyes, however, spoke volumes to any experienced observer.

The Knight-General was at best first among equals in the Council. It was the four Paladins who held the real power, though a respected Knight-General commanded a lot of authority. There have been strong Knight-Generals in the past, as well as weak ones -- and Sir Scott belonged to the former group. The Paladins may question his tactics and orders, but none would hesitate before following him into battle. Not without reservation at times, but never grudgingly.

Sir Elisabeth, Paladin of the Order of Knight-Mages, looked as deadly as Jonothon remembered. In battle, with her plated armour and katana, she cut an exotic figure among her more conventionally-attired peers. The katana was present now, belted to her waist, but she exchanged her armour for a loose-fitting tunic and trousers. Her violet eyes coldly assessed the Knight-General, hiding any overt signs of emotion except impatience.

Jonothon belonged to the same Order, but he knew not much more about her than what was public knowledge. He knew that she was a powerful mage and had a puzzling connection with the Earl of Braddock, but that was all. Few outsiders trusted her, but unlike the knights they had little chance of seeing her fight with both magick and steel. If they had, they would have no doubts with putting their lives in her hands.

Sir Logan, representing the Order of Knight-Soldiers, caught his attention. He was speaking quietly to his second-in-command, Sir Colin. The ginger-haired knight looked unhappy, never a good thing in any circumtances. Both were armed with swords, and the ceremonial self-made daggers. Avalon's blademasters were almost always from this Order, reflecting their most cherished skill.

The Paladin of the Order of Knight-Scholars was a knight, scholar, and alchemist of repute. He was also the oldest Paladin, not counting Logan (whose age was was never determined). In his youth Sir Henry had run afoul of a temperamental mage over an alchemical solution and was cursed with a permanent growth of blue fur. Much to the mage's disgust, the bear-like knight became an instant hit with the ladies of the court. Jonothon liked his irreverent sense of humour, if not his predilection for long and rambling speeches.

Dressed in black, the Paladin of the Order of Knight-Rangers looked as if he could melt into the shadows. Sir Kurt was one of the mountain folk, and heredity granted him the stealth and agility essential to a scout. The knight-rangers took a heavy toll during the last war, as they were often sent into dangerous situations. Especially to report on enemy movements. They were carefully trained to handle any terrain and to remain inconspicious even in alien territory, but there was always a limit to how far the training could help them survive.

A consummate gentleman to the last, Sir Kurt rose to let a knight pass by, who greeted him warmly. She was one of the knight-rangers, a forest elf by the name of Sir Katherine. She was, he remembered, made a knight about five years before him. Like most elves, Katherine looked much younger than her thirty-six years. Hell, she was barely more than a teenager by elven standards.

She saw Jonothon looking, waved cheerfully... and bumped into Sir Scott. Ever so subtly her face fell, and a cold mask hardened her eyes. "Excuse me," she said formally, and walked to her seat. Her gaze held straight ahead, she completely missed the look that flickered on Scott's face.

Jonothon sat back and ran his eyes over the Orders again, not quite knowing how to react to the changes that were wrought in his years of absence. Loner by preference, he readily admitted to himself that he had no close friends among the knights. But it was disturbing to realize how isolated he became since the ill-fated quest that cost him his face... and the blossoming affection of a golden-haired girl. After the war against Bastion was over he fled and never returned -- until now.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a look of barely-restrained anger on Sir Sean's usually good-humoured face. As taskmaster of the pages and squires, he was accorded a seat on the Council though he belonged to no order. Jonothon's heart contracted within his chest. The last time he saw Sir Sean looked that grim, it was just before King Magnus told him that the training of the pages would have to be accelerated to fill his army against Bastion.

War, he thought. He had fought and bled and suffered through one that nearly consumed his soul, and now it was his duty to take up the sword again. In the last war he had come to hate fighting, hate the deaths and the seemingly never-ending screams as metal rend into flesh.

Wrapped up in his thoughts, he failed to notice his hands clenching tightly into fists and the worried look on Rachel's face as she glanced at him.

"If I could have your attention," Sir Scott began, voice reasonant in the suddenly-hushed hall. His brown eyes swept over the knights, lingering a little over Jonothon... and another. "I'm sure that all of you have heard rumours about our enemies amassing at the borders. I'm afraid the rumours are true."

Over the buzz of shocked mutterings and angry curses, he continued. "The Genoshans have allied with the Black Air rebels, possibly the Marauders, and more are joining them every day. We don't know the exact number of soldiers in their army, but it was estimated to be slightly less than five thousand -- so far."

He set his features into an implacable mask. "A missive was sent to the High King this morning, from the Genoshan king. We are officially at war."

"May the Goddess have mercy on our souls," Sir Henry breathed out, face pale under his fur.

"Amen," Sir Scott concurred, echoed by the rest of the knights.