Chapter 1: «You’re impossible.»
Summary:
Inspired by prompt generator “Falcio gives Brasti a piggyback ride.”
Some HCs I used:
• Brasti’s backstory and the reason behind his hatred toward the knights.
• Brasti’s attitude toward animals being rather… interesting because of his profession as a poacher.
• Brasti’s eyes being green since he’s a redhead (I don’t think his eye colour was specified in the books but I may be wrong).
• Cats are awesome so the trio gets a cat now.
Notes:
I feel like Brasti is that kind of person that has two types of moods regarding being given a piggyback ride. If he's injured, he'd get embarrassed but if he's completely fine, he’d climb onto either Falcio's or Kest's back every once in a while just to see whether they let him and how much he can piss them off with that. (As a side note I'll just say that the HC that he's the shortest out of the trio definitely helps.)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
«You’re impossible» were the words that accompanied him wherever he went, really. The first time he heard them, his mother caught him practising shooting in the forest nearby the village they lived in. Back then, being only a boy, he hadn’t had access to many options for discovering his talent which, of course, led him to steal a bow from a local poacher when the man was out of his hut. The mother of his caught the boy releasing arrows at different inanimate objects found within the woods, which he was doing very much against her previous objections and prohibitions. He thought she’d get angry as soon as his eyes met his mother’s. Yet, to his great gratitude, the woman he knew since the day of his birth was still full of surprises, as the very next day, she led the youngster to said poacher to teach him his methods properly.
The second time was a much less pleasant to him, though, still rather engaging ordeal. Good old days, as he liked to call that period of his life ironically. Not only has he not yet joined the Greatcoats, the life of his also turned into only a shadow of what once was. These several, long months of wandering throughout the country of Tristia, searching, hoping, sometimes even begging all the Gods and Saints he could come up with — much against his heretical attitude — to let him come across any and all knights they could send him. The sensations were too overwhelming; guilt, grief and bloodthirst experienced by the man, growing within him gradually, methodically, ever since the day he found the most important person of his life, slaughtered like an animal in the small, humble hut he has once called home. All the marks, footprints and traces available to his view, leading to one and one group only. Knights. Gods and Saints, all in one, how he despises knights. He killed a lot of them, which perhaps shouldn’t be a source of pride, yet to him, it always gave a sense of payment. Every time the man finally returned to his village, his master, the man who has become the only person caring about him now, would always repeat only one statement, nothing more, nothing less. «You’re impossible.»
The third time, the sentence was dropped by Kest, if he recalls correctly. They haven’t known each other that well at the time — the archer had just joined Greatcoats and was still in the process of meeting the other members. Well, at least that would be the case if there weren’t so many distractions leading him away from these intentions.
The swordsman found him, hanging off a railing of one of the balconies attached to one of the castle’s higher floors. Asked what the hells he was doing, the archer smirked dumbly, bestowing his soon-to-be one of his favourite people in the world with an example of the few smart remarks he has taught himself to use over the years — he was simply busy admiring the view, he explained. The paltry statement didn’t, of course, convince Kest (even if the poacher wasn’t aware of that at the time) but fortunately for the red-haired, the man couldn’t care less at that moment and quickly left, before daring to investigate the issue any further. The only thing he did, while on his way out, was mutter something under his breath. Later on, the archer would figure it out; «You’re impossible» was the comment.
He recalls well every single detail of what happened next, as, once out of sight, the redhead got back to his previous task, extending his arm. Yet again, he proceeded to grab the ginger cat sitting on a window sill in the external wall of the castle. How had the bugger gotten there, Brasti would never actually find out. It didn’t matter enough for him to wonder about it, though, as the animal was eventually brought back to safety and let out to continue its inconsequent wandering throughout King Paelis’ ballroom. And that would be the end of that story if it wasn’t for the unexpected twist that came crashing down on the poacher the very next day while taking a walk around the premises — much to his dismay, the ginger devil he saved a day prior, sat on the very same window sill, meowing loudly to the people below.
And while the stories of Brasti Goodbow, the King’s Arrow and the Queen’s Jest, being addressed as «impossible» due to his good and bad but mostly chaotic doings, could go on and on, possibly infinitely, it’s healthy to sometimes take the necessary time for yourself and focus on here and now. Or, it would be just that, if the now-happenings were less humiliating than they actually are.
∘☽⚔️☾∘
“Have I ever mentioned how absolutely, completely and utterly impossible I think you are?” Falcio asks for who-knows-which time, as his eyes focus on his best friend’s ankle, examining it carefully, wanting to be certain he hasn’t missed any other injury that the archer might’ve ‘forgotten’ to mention. He appears annoyed, that much is for certain, yet if you were not to see his facial expression, nor hear the tone of voice, while your entire attention is pinpointed to the movements of his hands alone, you wouldn’t dare think any negative emotions are present within the man. Every motion is thought-through, calm and gentle — very careful as to not cause the other man any more pain aside from the one he’s already experiencing.
Brasti huffs at the statement, looking around to distract himself from his First Cantor’s proceedings. All of them find themselves not that far from Castle Aramor, funnily enough. From where they are situated, on a small clearing hidden behind the trees, while owning the sight as good as the poacher’s you can clearly see a glimpse of the high and mighty stone structure, climbing high toward the clouds. Both Falcio and himself sit, almost awkwardly closely, on the grass which is still moist from the morning dew, while the third one out of their trio keeps himself busy, pacing around and checking every now and then whether they’re being watched, observed or randomly noticed.
“You forgot about «thoroughly»,” the swordsman adds, finally nearing them to check the progress. His thoughts still seem to wander far away, as if entirely focused on the enemy that never existed in the first place but the first impression of his would convince any usual bystander to believe that he’s fully concentrated on the conversation he’s just gotten himself involved in.
Brasti can’t help but perceive the bilateral priority of his friend. Despite himself, he wonders; why isn’t Kest the one to tend to his injury as — while watching his mother for so many years — he’s probably earned the most experience out of the trio to be capable of calling himself the medic of the group. On the other hand, making sure they are all mindful of any potential enemies creeping on them is currently just as important, if not more, and — thinking about it carefully — Falcio is just as deaf and blind as a healthy person can get; which could prove slightly dooming on unfamiliar terrain. So, of course, Kest it is.
The archer hisses slightly, as he feels a bandage being wrapped tightly around his injured limb. “Any other adverbs you'd like to throw at me in an attempt of abuse?” his attention falls back on the swordsman as he utters a smirk. Truth be told; he really hopes this apparent sign of very usual behaviour is enough to cover all of the actual emotions trying to make themselves seen as the two of his best friends interrogate him just for the sake of knowing.
Kest pauses, his eyes shifting up like they always do when he wonders about something intensively. After a good while, filled only with noises of discomfort coming from Brasti, the sword-wielding man shakes his head for a mute ‘no’.
“I’m going to ask you once more, and this time I expect an answer,” the First Cantor interrupts the exchange, casting one more criticizing glance at the result of his work (he’s never been the one to nurse any of their injuries; he blames Kest for that), before finally getting up to his feet, his own knees cracking in protest. He grimaces briefly at the sensation, the years of service catching up with him all at once. “How did we get here?” Of course, by ‘here’ the man means their ongoing circumstances, rather than the spot they’re occupying, while ‘we’ serves as a substitute for ‘you’, obviously meaning the poacher. This phrasing of the question confuses the redhead a fair bit, as he’s uncertain of why his “superior” would choose to make Brasti’s bad decision their common problem but he doesn’t ask nor comment.
Instead, as a reply, Brasti grumbles under his breath, visibly struggling to explain. “I climbed onto a tree and fell,” he admits eventually, unwilling to elaborate.
“We could say as much,” Kest deflects, scanning their surroundings yet again. Before the poacher can even ask about the source of this assumption of theirs, the swordsman is already carrying on with the explanation. “First off, in order to sprain your ankle the way you did, you’d have to fall from a relatively high place. Secondly, we found you in the woods. Hence, a tree.”
“Yes. Thank you, Kest.” Falcio huffs, the storage of his patience almost completely emptied by this point. “What I’m much more interested in is as to why, in the name of Saint Zaghev-who-sings-for-tears, would you try climbing a tree in the first place!”
Brasti casts him a frustrated glare. “I had no idea there was any sort of a royal law prohibiting people from doing that!” he snaps back, unable to come up with any better reply.
With a corner of his eye, he notices Kest’s shocked expression. “Well, actually—” The swordsman starts but immediately gets cut off by a collective ‘not now!’ coming from both of his companions. He huffs under his breath.
If Falcio hasn’t known Kest better, he’d surely conclude that the way in which he folds his arms on his chest is an attempt to hide the grudge.
Unfortunately for Brasti, the First Cantor’s attention immediately shifts back to the archer, his gaze determined, even though there’s still that soft worry of his present, lurking from somewhere deep within.
“I suppose reminding you that I’m a poacher by profession won’t help my situation, whatsoever?” The red-haired tries one last time, the smirk on his lips becoming weaker.
For a second there, Falcio hesitates, visibly searching for an appropriate come-back, at the time same time trying to analyse the poacher’s statement. Could it really help his case right now? The dark circles under his eyes, cue that his brain is running merely on the fumes of its regular amount of capability, which is why he fails successfully at the task at hand, his mind blank. And, just as always during these wearing times, Kest is the one to step in and help his friend out of this pit.
“A poacher, not a forester, Brasti,” he states, making sure to put good pressure on certain words, in order to highlight them for the redhead, just like any patient mother would do in order to make her child understand the lack of sense in their lies.
The archer is just about to add something to this nowhere-leading discussion; maybe use a white lie or even a half-truth, if he manages to gather enough courage. But his voice dies in his throat the moment a blood-curdling screech cuts through the air, startling all three of them. Although contrary to the two of his world’s favourite people, the poacher seems to have a good idea of what the source of this dreadful sound might be.
“What the hells was that?” Surprisingly enough, Falcio recovers first, his tone somewhat hoarse. His eyes fall on Brasti, then Kest, asking mutely whether either of them has any idea to propose. With confusion he watches the archer avert his gaze, the colour of grass suddenly becoming much more interesting to him than being a part of this ridiculous situation.
The swordsman, on the other hand, looks completely lost.
“I didn’t hear anyone approaching,” he assures. A barely noticeable tremble runs through his left hand as it slowly travels toward the shield, hanging securely off his back.
The First Cantor nods acknowledgingly at him, no judgement present in his features. “I don’t think either of us did.” Once more, he throws a glance in Brasti’s direction. By habit, he reaches for a rapier, previously resting by his side. He doesn’t hesitate before drawing it, the touch of a familiar handle quickly calming his nerves.
Another growl. Another hiss. The two of King Paelis’ most trusted hand-to-hand, blade-to-blade combat men are almost ready to counterattack. In all fairness; why wouldn’t they be? There’s a danger lurking around, a creature ready to attack, while letting out quite ungodly sounds at anyone daring to challenge it — so why wouldn’t they fight back? Why wouldn’t they defend themselves; even more, defend a wounded friend who’s relatively incapable of using any kind of cold steel, even while fully at his health?
Well, the answer doesn’t appear until the archer sighs audibly, half in amusement, half in complete exasperation that the entire ordeal brings for him with itself.
“You don’t have to worry,” he assures lightly, his tone being one of those that hold all the momentarily necessary answers, yet don’t quite want to let the others on them, while also realising there is no other choice to be given.
The deep sigh is audible to both Kest’s and Falcio’s ears, as their eyes slowly wander, their gazes scanning every, even the smallest stone on their way, every single leaf, no matter whether still green or yellow by this point, every piece of grass; longer or shorter, until finally, finally, they land on the redhead. Eventually, settling on that person who, just this once (and maybe they should mark this date in their calendars) could explain their worries; answer their questions and draw them back from the edge.
“Well?” the First Cantor prompts eventually, trying really hard to mark the slight tremble of his voice.
“Well…” the archer repeats, gathering all the courage he can only muster to explain. “Well, that hissing creature may or may not be the reason why I climbed the tree…”
Kest’s about to ask another of his clever questions, one possibly leading him to identify discussed being, however, as if on cue, something suddenly jumps down from the green crowns above them, landing with a soft thump on the ground, a mere few feet away from them.
The swordsman’s mouth immediately falls shut as his eyes take in the sight, squinting slightly. After a second, his gaze brightens a bit, then shifts to the rapiers-wielding man, amusement now clear in his features.
Falcio gaps if only for a few seconds. “But that’s just—”
A loud, accusatory meow cuts him off, which gives the First Cantor opportunity to try and stifle a chuckle.
Perceiving the reaction brings some colour to Brasti’s cheeks. “Not. A. Word,” he threatens, although his tone remains far from hazardous. Much to his dismay, the hiss doesn’t bring the desired result, as the other two appear to find it more and more problematic to keep themselves from laughing.
The ginger feline, in her turn, takes a few cautious steps toward the trio, before relaxing fully. With her tail high, she walks gracefully toward the archer, then slumps mercilessly onto his lap. The man wants to be annoyed but he can’t find the power — instead, he lets his palm fall into the mess of soft fur and pet it gently, causing the cat to begin to purr.
The entire time, Falcio and Kest observe the two attentively, delighted smirks present on their features, as small chuckles still escape them every now and then. Clearly, the entire situation has just gotten a whole lot less serious for them, which Brasti notices with both relief and a bit of irritation. Honestly, he guesses the former he shares with the other two, as their shoulders seem to relax gradually, the tension from just a moment ago now completely vanishing. To be fair, the archer can’t blame them for their reactions; his furry friend has probably scared the shit out of them both, even if neither of them would like to admit as much.
Curiously, the First Cantor is the first one to also recover, as the swordsman continues to struggle beside him. “Do you—” he starts but has to pause in order to control his breathing. His hand raises slightly, pointing finger extended, motioning between the redhead and the red ball . “Do you feel solidarity or something?” he states the question finally, unable to keep his voice from breaking into another round of wheezing any longer.
Not as much the sight (since the poacher chooses to stare at the animal in his lap rather than his two friends) as the noise informs Brasti that Kest might have just fallen onto the ground. That finally makes his expression shift into a smile, as his friends’ reactions are starting to become quite entertaining.
“Oh, shut up.” He mutters while reaching behind himself, his palms out of Falcio’s view. One of his hands finds a piece of branch laying loosely on the ground and he grips it tightly, before swinging it forward, aiming at the other man’s head. Obviously, with an aim as good as his own, the branch lands directly on its destination, earning a yelp and a small flustered, yet still amused “hey!”.
The feline, unpleased with the commotion, stretches, making herself incredibly long and hard to ignore.
“The bugger had lived at the Castle Aramor for years now. She’s good at climbing,” Brasti explains, when his two companions eventually calm down. More or less. “Getting down, though? Not so much.”
Kest nods in agreement. “So it seems,” his hoarse voice still reminds of the previously unstoppable hysteria.
“Does she have a name?” Falcio interjects, visibly fascinated with the creature. It shouldn’t be surprising, however — as much as the First Cantor doesn’t appear as a huge animal lover, he’s been known to always find his way around them.
Brasti shakes his head. “Not exactly a name,” another purr reaches his ears. “I call her the Red Devil, though.”
He can’t help but notice the raise of an eyebrow on Kest’s unimpressed expression.
“What? It fits! She’s a ginger and a fuckin’ nuisance. And if any one of the devils were to come up to this world in a form of a cat, I guarantee you this,” the redhead points as the soundly asleep cat. “Would be his first choice.”
They fall silent for a while, during which Brasti wonders whether his two best friends are really this disappointed in his choice of nicknames that they’ve just resigned from any further conversation. He’s brought back to reality with the speed of light, though, as Falcio’s next words reach his ears.
“So, what you’re saying is…” he talks slowly as if choosing the form of his speech wisely. “She’s an absolutely impossible to deal with ginger?”
“That’s an accurate description, yes.”
Falcio smirks again widely. Kest follows. With the two of them doing it simultaneously, the sight is rather frightening. Despite that, not the sight but the words in which he finally perceives the double meaning make him understand the, yet another, shift of atmosphere.
“Wait…” Gods and Saints be his witnesses for he swears when his damn foot finally heals, the first thing he’ll make sure to do will be tackling the First Cantor of the Greatcoats onto the ground, then banging his head onto the stone floor of the castle. “Don’t you— No, ” the archer threatens and squints at his fellow travelling Magistrate dangerously. “I see where you’re going with it.”
“We barely manage with one of these,” Kest murmurs with pretended exhaustion as if just for himself to hear.
“Hey!”
“Alright, alright…” Falcio’s hands shoot up in a defensive gesture. “We better get the two of you devils back to the castle. Any ideas on how to perform that?”
Being answered with confused glances forces him to carry on. “Helping Brasti walk back will take us forever and I don’t know about the two—” The cat jumps in with another loud meow. “Apologies. I don't know about the three of you but I can think of at least one better way of spending the incoming night.”
At that, the injured one smirks smugly, a newborn spark appearing in his eyes.
“Sleeping, Brasti. He means sleeping,” Kest adds absently, while his gaze quickly scans both of his friends and the surroundings before finally landing on Falcio. “I might have just come up with something.”
∘☽⚔️☾∘
“I hate you both so much.”
The simultaneous reaction consisting of a mix of unphased “Wasn’t it already settled?” and “I don’t mind” makes the poacher groan in an even deeper frustration. If anyone were to ask him, he could swear the other two are very delighted with Kest’s brilliant plan, although the swordsman probably more than the First Cantor.
“I can’t believe you made me agree to this,” he tries again, agitated to be almost completely ignored.
“It’s not like either of us had much choice anyway.” That said, Falcio adjusts his grip under Brasti’s tighs causing the latter to flinch lightly but lean closer onto the First Cantor’s back. His arms tighten around his friend’s neck.
“You could have said no,” the redhead continues to argue.
“I didn’t hear you voicing any better ideas,” Kest interjects, barely bothered by his friend’s distraught state. Clearly, he gets the impression that the poacher is overreacting — and he’s probably right, which isn’t anything unusual. If only Brasti shared his views on the matter.
The Red Devil strolls casually by the swordsman’s side, her big, green eyes jumping every once and then to any movement perceived within her field of view. From time to time she wanders off, too fascinated with another bug or bird flying by to choose to ignore it, yet after a chase, she always comes back to Kest’s side, obviously far from minding his presence next to her. Now that the annoyance of being stuck on a branch is over, her gaze sparks with hunger, very obviously expecting some sort of tasty reward for keeping Brasti company when she did.
The archer keeps observing her in disbelief, his own emerald orbs glued to the feline at all times. “Ungrateful traitor,” he mutters eventually, yet his voice comes out barely above a whisper, the weariness of the day’s struggles apparently catching up with him.
The last thing he’s aware of is the light shake going through the body underneath his, indicating the First Cantor’s snort at his comment. Just then, he lets himself doze off.
Notes:
Apologies for whatever this is. No clue what I'm doing here.
Hope you enjoyed reading regardless and thank you for checking in!
Chapter 2: The Infinitesimal Issue
Summary:
Brasti seems to be struggling with the gravity factor.
Notes:
• Inspired by prompt generator: Kest, Falcio and Brasti sleeping on top of each other (bed, couch, hammock, etc.) when Brasti falls down on the floor.
• Inspired by incorrect quotes generator:
Falcio: The odds of this happening by coincidence are vanishingly small.
Kest: I would say infinitesimally.
Brasti: And I'd say teenily-weenily. We all know words.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Startled by a dull thump of something heavy hitting the wooden planks beneath them, Falcio opens his eyes, confused by the sudden awakening. Curtains drawn and with the depth of the night still present, the room is completely pitch black and he can barely make out any shapes. The movement, however, he perceives relatively quickly.
Limiting the requests of a variety of actions for his still half-conscious mind, the only sound that leaves his throat is a soft, questionable “hmm?” which inquires a need for an answer, although not necessarily critical.
His brain slowly catches up, noticing some things that haven’t been in his field of perception before; for instance, there’s a person sitting up beside him, as he continues to lie on his right side. The image of his current whereabouts, gradually forming in his head, makes him eventually realise there’s too much empty space between his back and the wall behind him.
One person next to him, the other being the First Cantor himself… His mathematical skills might be a little off per habit but this time he’s relatively certain that would make two. Only two, when there should be three.
The thought finally sends an adequate impulse through his entire being, one that forces him out of his slumber completely. Falcio follows the lead of the figure on his right, prompting himself on his elbows to sit up as well, his back falling heavily against the headboard.
Two pairs of eyes, visible only thanks to the dim light falling through the cracks of the heavy fabric hanging off the window nearby, focus on him almost immediately. He takes a moment to analyse the gazes and discovers rather easily that one seems just as groggily and confused as he himself feels, while the other appears entirely awake and alert.
Two pairs of eyes and adding him into the equation… Yes. Now, all is consistent — that definitely makes three.
A low grunt, coming from the floor level, draws his attention. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the omnipresent darkness is a waste of time (in such gloom, he is as blind as a bat), which is why Falcio’s eyes travel toward Kest instead, knowing all too well that his friend — being as aware of his surroundings as he always is — will notice his lost gaze.
But before the swordsman can answer, Falcio’s brain makes a move on its own. “Why is Brasti on the floor?” he hears himself voicing the general question all three of them, he assumes, are currently asking themselves.
Kest’s orbs are as big as saucers, cueing his own puzzlement. Brasti, on the other hand, only lets out another grunt in reply, before proceeding to stumble to his feet.
“Probably fell,” he mumbles, at last, his voice revealing just how out of it he still is. The archer shuffles slowly back toward the bed, then takes his time while climbing over both Kest and Falcio, before finally falling flat on his face, his spine pressed close to the cold bricks of the wall.
The other two exchange quick, knowing glances.
It was difficult to notice it before; spending most of their nights far from the towns and villages, sleeping on the grassy clearings or deeper in the woods, on plant litter’s level, telling whether one of them moved much in their sleep wasn’t that obvious. Of course, any prospective fidgeting would cause one of them to stir awake every once in a while. Yet, contrary to what one could hear about forests, they are far from still and silent at night, which is why neither of the trio ever made an effort to pinpoint the attention of the other two to the reasons behind one’s sudden awakening.
Only when their situation ameliorated, both financially and status-wise, and they began sleeping in taverns and inns, on actual beds, often having to share one room, did Falcio and Kest see it at last.
It’s been happening for days now, as, very unusually, they’ve been stuck in this village for a good while, investigating a case. Every single night would Brasti fall off the bed, down to the floor and every single night this would cause all three of them to wake up in confusion. Hence, the main reason why the archer’s regular position on the bed has been migrated from the edge to the one by the wall, in hopes it would solve the issue.
As clearly presented now, it didn’t.
“How the hells did you even manage that?” The query rolls off Falcio’s tongue, despite him not really expecting a coherent answer, as the poacher looks, once again, already in the process of dozing off. Still, he continues to speak, his mind desperately trying to process the issue. “The odds of this happening three nights in a row by a mere coincidence are… Vanishingly small.”
“«Infinitesimally», I would say,” Kest adds quietly, helpful as always.
They fall silent for a while, both of the men wondering whether to push the issue further or let it be for now, as the third one of their trio is clearly unresponsive. Their dilemma doesn’t last long, however, as fortunately, soon it gets resolved by the one who caused the commotion in the first place.
“And I would say «teenily-weenily». We all know big words,” the archer adds up to the previously started conversation, his words mumbled angrily into a pillow. “Now shut up, both of you, and let me sleep in peace.”
Without any reasonable arguments, the discussion is over before it really even started, as Falcio and Kest mutely agree that dealing with a sleepy Brasti is just about as productive as convincing a bear who’s just been awakened from its hibernation to not bite one’s head off. One way or another, chances are the situation will be brought up again by the next day, most probably while least expected.
Falcio could probably ask Kest about the exact percentage of said likelihood, yet his own numbers aren’t really mathing anymore at such an hour, which is the last straw that almost physically forces him to mimic Brasti’s actions and let his body drop heavily onto the mattress next to the man. Kest follows soon after.
It doesn’t take long for faint snoring to reach their ears.
Notes:
Still not sure how I feel about this one. Thank you for reading, though!
Fiollaigean on Chapter 1 Wed 16 Nov 2022 11:26AM UTC
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Last Edited Sat 19 Nov 2022 04:57PM UTC
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