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Honor

Watching a swordfight while wearing elf ears wasn’t on my bingo card for this weekend, but here we are.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” I say to my best friend, Wes, as I buckle myself into the passenger seat of his car.

He frowns, his hand hesitating over the gearshift. “If you don’t want to go…”

“I do! I want to see what all the fuss has been about.”

He looks me over. “Are you sure you want to wear that?”

“What’s wrong with this? I just bought it.

” I smooth my hands over my “Renaissance maiden” costume, freshly purchased off the internet.

With its ribboned corset top and flowing green skirt, it does things for my plus-sized figure that modern clothes don’t.

Those sixteenth century fashion mavens might have been on to something.

I completed my look with press-on jewels on my temples and elven ears.

If there were a best-dressed competition at this shindig, I would win it.

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” Wes says, rubbing the back of his neck. “You might be cold, is all.”

I stare at him. “It’s June.” We might live in Washington, a state not exactly known for its balmy weather, but still.

“Also, it’s a bunch of dudes and…” His voice trails off.

I glance down at where his eyes have dropped. Okay, it’s a corset top and when you’re a fluffier girl, your cups generally runneth over in the chest area. But there’s nothing actually revealing about it—certainly no more than what other women will likely be wearing at the event.

I roll my eyes. Wes is just being overprotective, per usual. “Whatever, prude. Are we going, or what?” I gesture for him to get on with it, and he shifts the car into drive with a shrug.

Last fall, I had invited Wes to go to a Renaissance Faire at our county fairgrounds. I had thought it would be a quirky way to spend an afternoon, strolling amongst the “lords” and “ladies” and eating ye olde treats. Maybe buy a bejeweled fairy wand or magic bath “potion.”

While I was distracted by the wares for sale, Wes had gravitated to the sounds of clanging metal, where two men dressed up in actual suits of armor hacked away at each other with swords. He had barely budged during the fight and afterward, asked a million questions of the fighters.

At the time, I had thought it was just normal Wes-style curiosity.

IT guy by day, fascinated consumer of every historical fact known to man by night, Wes loved nothing more than a good documentary that went waaayyyy into the weeds.

Want to know how Genghis Khan’s army cleaned their teeth on their rampage across Europe?

Wes could tell you. Sudden deep-seated need to know the exact type of musket used by early American revolutionaries? Wes’s your guy.

Before I knew it, Wes was trying on steel armor and swinging a mace like he meant business. Meanwhile, I did my best to eat a turkey leg without looking like a cavewoman. This wasn’t the first time I had watched Wes do a deep dive into a niche interest.

In fact, our friendship had first started in kindergarten over a shared book of turtle facts.

I had never told him that I had been more interested in the cute boy rather than the book.

I made the mistake of giving him a kiss on the cheek at recess; his look of horror was one I’d never forget.

Thankfully, he was willing to overlook my faux pas, and my early crush had changed to friendship.

Of course, there was that one time in middle school when I had mistakenly offered to practice kissing with him, and he had turned me down flat.

Ouch. Fool me twice, shame on me. I made a vow to myself to never think of him in terms beyond friendship.

A dozen years later, he’s closer to me than a brother–and certainly more valuable than some schoolyard crush.

I would never do anything to jeopardize our friendship.

Which is what brings me to riding in Wes’s car out to the boonies for a scene out of A Knight’s Tale.

The interest he’d shown at the renaissance faire turned out to be more of a long-term obsession than a passing fancy.

Before long, he was telling me about joining up with a local group to practice fighting.

He started training with them multiple nights a week.

Most recently, he had dropped several thousand dollars on an entire suit of armor from a company in Ukraine.

This from the guy who ate Kraft mac and cheese for most meals and shopped at Goodwill for his clothes.

Every conversation revolved around his new hobby.

Not that I was jealous of a hobby. After all, Wes listened to me rhapsodize for years over my fantasy books. I could nerd out with the best of them.

When Wes’s armor finally arrived, I figured it was as good a time as any to incorporate myself into his new world. I invited myself along to his next group training fight and here we are.

“So, talk to me about this event. Do I have to call you Sir Wes today? Or milord ?” I cackle just picturing it. “Should I curtsy in your presence?” I mock bow in my seat.

“No, we don’t do any of that silly stuff,” Wes scoffs.

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t mind being Lady Honor, or perhaps Her Royal Majesty.” I trill the “r” and adopt a fake English accent, just to poke at him. Half of our friendship is needling each other.

Wes cocks an eyebrow. “I mean, if you want, I can tell people to call you that, but they'll think you’re weird. I mean, weirder than you actually are.” He smirks.

“Disappointing. I’ve been practicing being regal at home.” I do the royal wave.

“It’s mostly just fighting, sorry.”

“Fine. Who all is going to be there today?”

“The Seattle Vagabonds, the Bellingham Barbarians, the Portland Death Jesters, and my team, Olympia Onslaught.”

I blink. “Gee, sounds like a really fun crowd. And you all just get together and hack away at each other until you’re tired?”

Wes huffs a laugh. “Not exactly. There are duels, pro-fights, and then the melees, my favorite part.”

“Melees?” I ask, looking out the window as we climb into the mountains.

“It just means the group fights where teams of four or five go at each other.”

Sounds like a bloodbath. “Don’t people get…hurt?” Nothing about this is enticing, but I want to be supportive of Wes. Goodness knows he supported me during my regrettable OneDirection phase.

“Sometimes, but nothing major. That’s what the armor is for. You’d be surprised what kind of damage you can take in steel.”

I wince. I’d prefer no damage, thanks, not to me, and not to my bestie. “And people do this for fun? As a hobby?”

“It’s a sport,” he says firmly, giving me a look.

I cross my arms. “A real sport? With rules?”

“The rules are mostly that any armor must be historically accurate and some safety guidelines. Like you can’t strike at the neck or the back of the knees.”

“Well, I guess they’ve thought of everything, then,” I quip.

Wes laughs, knowing me well enough to hear the dry sarcasm in my tone. “Everyone’s there just to have fun, so no one is going to go crazy.”

“Are there any women fighters?” This seems suspiciously like something that only men would do.

“Yes–and we could always use more.” He gives me a pointed look.

I laugh. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll be happy standing on the sidelines, cheering you on.”

Wes clears his throat. “I appreciate you coming. Really. It means a lot.”

I flush, confused by the tender look in his eye. “Anything for my bestie. What are best friends for, if not to accompany each other on random, medieval-themed adventures?”

“Right,” he says, turning back to the road. A muscle tics in his jaw.

I stare at his profile, wishing I could read his mind.

The old Wes would have laughed. We used to joke about everything; I could spend hours in his company and never feel awkward or bored.

I’ve kept no secrets from him–from my first kiss to that time I had unexpectedly gotten my period in school and Wes had loaned me his gym shorts so I could escape to the nurse’s station.

Nothing was off-limits. No conversation was ever strained.

But now, the distance between us feels like a physical cut and I hate it.

I hate that the person driving this car feels like a stranger.

I can’t put my finger on exactly when it started, but the creeping sense of separation has been coming up more and more ever since last fall.

The only culprit I can point to is his new hobby.

I lean back in my seat and straighten my spine. Well, I’m not going to lose my best friend without a fight. I’m going to find out today what’s so great about this sport and find a way to get my best friend back.

“So, do I get to tie a ribbon around your ax or something?” I joke to lighten the mood.

Wes laughs again, and a little bit of the tension in my shoulders lifts. “That’s in jousting, and no. That’s for someone’s love, anyway. Not best friends.” His fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

“Right. Well, I’m sure she’s around somewhere.

Maybe one of these lady fighters. They sound rad and all, but do they know every detail of the epidemiological causes of the black plague?

That’s the real test.” Having once endured a one-man dissertation from Wes on a car trip to Vancouver that I’ve never let him forget, I’m going to bet they don’t.

Wes chuckles. “I’ll try to slide it into conversation.”

“If anyone can, it’s you.” It’s true, but it’s also one of the things that I love most about Wes. I love his nerdiness and his love of facts. I love how excited he gets about learning new things. I love him .

As a friend.

Obviously.

By the time we cross over the mountain pass, I’ve learned five new things I didn’t previously know about historically accurate armor and we’re back to the easy, comfortable banter that we both enjoy.

“Here we are,” Wes says. He turns off the main road onto a dirt road.

We’re out in the middle-of-nowhere Washington at what looks like an idyllic family farm.

Acre upon acre of apple trees span the grounds.

Once we reach the farmhouse, though, it looks like a strange mishmash of a movie set and a neighborhood barbecue.

Tents are set up over a long buffet table of food.

People wearing full suits of armor, looking like they stepped straight out of the Middle Ages, practice fighting moves or stroll around eating a bag of chips.

“Wow,” I say, trying to take it all in.

Wes grins. “Come on, I’ll introduce you around.”

As soon as I get out of the car, I immediately realize why Wes questioned my outfit.

Zero people are dressed as elves or even maidens.

In fact, it’s a far different crowd than the usual faire-goers.

These people are pierced and tattooed, with ripped jeans and black hoodies, like they randomly stumbled out of a hard rock concert and decided to become reenactment actors.

Several people eye me. I straighten my spine, refusing to be intimidated. If this is Wes’s new scene, well, I’m going to find a way to fit in. Just maybe in different clothes next time.

Wes introduces me to a few people, but the conversation quickly turns to an excited discussion about fighting techniques that feels like they’re speaking a different language. I stand awkwardly next to him, wishing I could hide out in the car.

“I’ve got to go get suited,” Wes says to me. “You good here? I brought a chair for you, Your Majesty.” He winks at me as he unfolds the chair. “And a blanket, a pillow, and your favorite snacks.” He pulls out a bag filled with extra toasted Cheez-its, caramel corn, and cinnamon-flavored candies.

“How kind of you, good sir,” I say with a smile. “May you fight bravely in battle.”

Wes laughs and shakes his head. “I’ll be back soon.”

I smile to myself as I get comfy with the blanket and pillow, open a box of Hot Tamales, and pull out my book. As I settle into the saga of a battle between elves and druids for the one true power, I sigh happily.

I truly have the best friend in the whole world, and nothing could ever change that.