Beckham & Rhett | Knight And His Commander

The captain’s tent was silent except for the low hiss of the brazier and the distant, muffled noise of the camp outside. The battle had ended only a few hours ago, and the air still carried the sharp metallic scent of blood, smoke, and wet iron. Maps and hastily written reports lay abandoned across the heavy wooden table. A bloodied cloak had been thrown over the back of a chair. A half-cleaned sword leaned against a support beam. You sat on the edge of the cot, one arm tightly bandaged where an enemy blade had cut deep earlier that day. The wound throbbed with every heartbeat.

This was not a random skirmish. The attack had been deliberate. For months, factions within the court and beyond the borders had made it clear they did not want you alive to inherit. Some claimed you were too young. Others whispered that your bloodline was a threat to older alliances. A few simply wanted the throne destabilized long enough to carve out power for themselves. Assassins had been paid. Soldiers had been bribed. Today the enemy had broken through the line with one clear target in mind — you.

Beckham Longstride stood several paces away, posture rigid and unyielding. Messy golden-blonde hair still clung damply to his forehead, but his bright blue eyes were cold, almost hard, as they flicked once to the bandage on your arm and then away again. Everything about him radiated controlled fury. Beside him, at a carefully measured distance, stood Rhett Leclair. Short black hair neat despite the chaos of the day, cold grey eyes fixed straight ahead, the pale scar along his jaw standing out sharply in the lantern light. He held himself with perfect, rigid discipline. To anyone watching from outside the tent, the two men looked like they could barely stand the sight of each other. No softness. No familiarity. Just a captain and his knight, professional to the point of frost, the space between them deliberate and sharp.

Beckham’s voice, when he finally spoke, was clipped and formal.

“You disregarded the order to remain behind the secondary line, Your Highness.” There was no warmth in the words, only restrained, icy disapproval. “I gave that order because we already knew they were coming for you. The result is exactly what I warned would happen. You are injured. The left flank was forced to compensate. And my knight failed to intercept the attack in time.”

Rhett did not flinch, but the muscle along his scarred jaw tightened. When he answered, his voice was equally cold, perfectly measured.

“The captain is correct in every point. I was out of position when the breach occurred. The responsibility for Your Highness’s injury is mine alone. They came specifically for you. I should have anticipated the angle of the attack.”

Beckham turned his head just enough to look at Rhett. The glance was brief, sharp, and entirely without warmth.

“You should have anticipated it,” he repeated, voice low and cutting. “That is the second time this month you have allowed an enemy to close distance on the royal charge. At what point does ‘should have’ become unacceptable, Leclair?”

“It is already unacceptable, Captain,” Rhett answered without hesitation. “I will submit whatever formal report and disciplinary recommendation you require.”

“I am aware you will,” Beckham said flatly. “You always do. That is not the issue. The issue is that Her/His Highness is sitting here bleeding because you were slow.”

Rhett’s grey eyes remained fixed on the far wall of the tent. A thin edge entered his voice, still controlled but no longer completely empty.

“With respect, Captain, the secondary line was already compromised before I could reach it. The men on the eastern approach broke faster than expected. I redirected as soon as the signal was given.”

“And yet the blade still reached its target,” Beckham replied, cold and precise. “I do not need the sequence of events recited to me, Rhett. I was on the field. I saw exactly how long it took you to close the distance. It was not fast enough.”

Rhett’s jaw flexed once. When he spoke again, the formality was still there, but the words were sharper.

“Then relieve me of my post. If my performance is no longer satisfactory, replace me with someone who meets your standard.”

Beckham’s blue eyes narrowed slightly.

“If I wished to relieve you, I would have done it on the field in front of the entire company. You are still the most competent knight under my command. That does not make today’s failure any less severe. You were out of position. You were slow. And the result is that the one person we are both sworn to keep alive is wounded.”

A brief, brittle silence settled between them. Rhett inclined his head a fraction, the movement tight.

“Understood, Captain. I will not offer excuses again.”

“See that you do not,” Beckham said. He looked back at you, the same cold professionalism still in place, though something darker moved underneath it — the rage of a man who had almost watched the person under his protection die. “They will try again, Your Highness. Today was not the first attempt, and it will not be the last. Until the court stops bleeding coin into assassins’ pockets, you remain a target. My duty is to keep you alive. Today I failed that duty. So did he.”

Rhett’s voice came quieter, but still perfectly even.

“We both failed. I accept my share of it without dispute.”

Beckham did not look at him when he answered.

“Your acceptance does not change the fact that the blade got through.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before. Publicly the two men still looked like a commander and subordinate who could barely tolerate one another — sharp words, rigid distance, the kind of friction that made other soldiers step carefully around them. Privately, the tension inside the tent was thick enough to choke on: guilt, anger, self-recrimination, and the shared knowledge that they had come far too close to losing you.

Beckham remained standing at exact attention. Rhett remained perfectly still, gaze lowered. The wound on your arm continued to ache. And both men waited in absolute, disciplined silence for whatever you decided to say next.

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Your chambers were quiet except for the low crackle of the fire and the soft whisper of wind against the high windows. The moment the heavy door shut behind them with a solid, final sound, the air in the room changed completely.

Beckham Longstride stepped forward first. The rigid, cold posture he wore in front of the rest of the keep loosened almost at once, as if he had set down a heavy shield. Messy golden-blonde hair fell across his forehead as he exhaled a long breath he seemed to have been holding for hours. His bright blue eyes, so sharp and unreadable in the corridors and training yards, softened the second they found you. The hard line of his shoulders eased. Behind him, Rhett Leclair closed the door quietly and remained there for a moment with his back against the wood, head slightly bowed, as if leaving the weight of every watching eye out in the hallway. Short black hair slightly tousled from the day, cold grey eyes no longer cold at all — only open, tired, and full of quiet devotion. The scar along his jaw caught the firelight as he lifted his gaze to you.

Beckham crossed the space without ceremony. He stopped in front of your chair, close enough that the heat of his body reached you, and lifted one gloved hand. He hesitated only a second before brushing his knuckles gently along your cheek, the touch careful and familiar.

“Finally,” he murmured, voice lower and rougher than the one he used on the training fields or in front of the other officers. “Do you have any idea how long the day felt? Walking the same halls, giving the same orders, looking at you from across rooms and not being allowed to come closer. It wears on a man.”

Rhett pushed away from the door and came forward, stopping just behind Beckham’s shoulder. Where the captain was all warmth and restrained hunger, the knight’s presence was softer, almost reverent. He sank to one knee beside your chair without being told, armor shifting quietly, grey eyes lifted to your face as if the simple act of looking at you properly was a relief.

“We kept the distance in public,” Rhett said quietly, his voice stripped of the icy formality he wore everywhere else. “As we always do. No glances held too long. No standing too close. Some days it is easier than others.” His gaze dropped briefly to the floor, then returned to yours with complete honesty. “Today was not one of the easier ones. I’ve been locked since the last time you allowed otherwise. The captain held the key. He refused to open it himself. He said the decision belonged to you tonight.”

Beckham’s mouth curved in a small, private smile that no one outside this room ever saw. He reached into the pouch at his belt, pulled out the plain iron key, and placed it carefully in your open hand, letting his fingers linger against your palm longer than necessary. His blue eyes stayed on yours, open in a way that would have shocked anyone who only knew the cold captain from the yards.

“I am used to commanding him,” Beckham admitted, voice steady but quieter now. “I am used to deciding when he gets relief and when he does not. I am used to being the one who holds the line. But not here. Not with you.” He glanced down at Rhett, and the look that passed between them was nothing like the sharp, professional distance they showed the rest of the world — it was familiar, fond, and edged with shared want that had clearly been restrained for too long. “Tonight the key is yours. He is yours. I am yours. Whatever you want from either of us... you only have to say it. We will not pretend here.”

Rhett remained on one knee, waiting without impatience, the chastity belt a silent, private weight he no longer tried to hide in your presence. One of his hands rested loosely on his own thigh, fingers slightly curled as if resisting the urge to reach for you without permission. Beckham stayed standing close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the last remnants of his public coldness completely gone. In this room there was no captain and knight who barely tolerated each other. There were only the two men who belonged to you — one still locked and kneeling, one standing open and waiting — and the key resting warm in your hand.

Both of them watched you, patient and unguarded, for whatever you decided to do next.

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