Chapter Text
Dewey ducked out of the path of the sword as it came hurtling towards him, candlelight reflecting off its blade, and the weapon sailed past him harmlessly. His opponent recovered quickly, blocking his retaliating swing. The resulting clash echoed through the room, bouncing off of wooden walls and adding to the tension. Dewey huffed and retreated a few paces, muscles rigid as his assailant grinned and fell into a ready position.
The creaking sound of old wood walls was faint in between the heavy breaths of warriors locked in furious battle. He paid no attention to the flickering light from the candles strewn about the room. He couldn’t care less about the cold night wind rustling the leaves outside. All that mattered was the fight, and getting out alive.
Dewey narrowed his eyes, shifted his foot, and pushed forward. His grip on his weapon was strong, his will was made of iron, he was a fighter, he was brave, he was—
– flat on his back.
The tip of his opponent’s sword came to a rest near his neck, and Dewey dropped his head mournfully to the floor in defeat. He knocked the weapon away easily with the flat of his free hand, struggling for the breath that had been knocked out of him.
“You brought your fists to a sword fight,” Dewey wheezed, pointing an accusing finger somewhere above him. “That’s not fair.”
“Oh, come on, you let yourself wide open!” Webby grinned down at him triumphantly. “Plus, it’s more fun like this.”
“Maybe for you,” he shot back, not half as irritated as he was pretending to be. He’d known Webby for years now; he was used to her quirks. “Help me up?”
She tossed her sword to the side, giggling softly as she offered him a hand.
“I don’t believe that that is the correct way to treat your weapon, dear,” a new voice suddenly spoke. Webby, startled, dropped Dewey’s hand and he fell back to the ground with a dull thud.
“Granny!” Webby exclaimed, having whipped around so fast that a nearby candle flame danced in the wind she’d created. The corners of her beak were turned slightly upwards in a sheepish expression, like she’d been caught sneaking cookies straight from the jar. From what Dewey could see – lying on the floor dejectedly – she could use some backup. He valiantly stumbled to his feet.
In the open door of the empty barn was Mrs. Beakley, already dressed and ready for the day in her sturdy training outfit and stern frown. She made for a scary sight, as she always did, but the amusement in her eyes betrayed her. Dewey knew better than to be truly fearful, though he didn’t always.
Six years ago, back when he and Webby had first met – through a stroke of luck or fate – he’d been terrified. He’d also been 6 years old, afraid of the dark, and living in an orphanage. The same orphanage that he’d lived in for as long as he could remember. There’d been a lot of other kids there over the years. Some of them came and went like clockwork, while others just showed up one day and never left. Some had been there longer than Dewey had, and everyone tended to avoid those kids; they looked sad and lost and hopeless. Dewey had wanted to help, but didn’t know how he could, and he could admit that he’d been a little bit scared of them. A little bit scared of becoming them. So he stayed away, and everyone else stayed away, and Dewey couldn’t ever make a friend without having to watch them leave.
Then one day there’d been Webby. Dewey had snuck out early in the morning one day and gone to walk in the market -- because some of the vendors were kind and gave out free samples – and he’d run full tilt into a girl a little smaller than him. Somehow, Dewey had been the one to fall over, and Webby had helped him up, and she hadn’t stopped helping him since.
They were fast friends and largely inseparable during the two weeks she stayed in his village, much to the amusement and annoyance of one Bentina Beakley. The older duck was a traveling trainer, going from village to village to teach the less fortunate how to defend themselves, whether it be with swords, fists, or by other means. Since the fall of the Kingdom many years prior, bandits and thieves had become disturbingly commonplace, and business was booming. Especially back then. Which meant that as quickly as Webby had arrived, she had to go just as fast.
And Dewey wasn’t going to watch her leave. He was 6 years old and afraid of the dark and he wasn’t going to be alone anymore, not if he had anything to say about it. So, he ran away with what little he owned stuffed in a potato sack, and Webby hid him in a chest of clothes on Mrs. Beakley’s wagon. Mrs. Beakley found him 2 hours later, and Mrs. Beakley let him stay. The rest, as they say, is history.
Fast forward six years and Dewey wasn’t scared of Mrs. Beakley, but he did have a healthy amount of respect, and so he couldn’t help but wilt a little under her stern gaze.
“It’s dangerous to spar without an experienced supervisor.” Mrs. Beakley used her foot to flick Webby’s sword into her waiting hand. “You could have been hurt.”
“Sorry, Granny,” said Webby earnestly. “We just wanted to practice before we leave today. And we’re fine! No one got hurt.”
“Totally fine!” Dewey wheezed, bent over with his hands on his knees. “Even if it wasn’t fair.”
“Not everyone fights fair, dear,” Mrs. Beakley said gently.
Dewey glanced up from his braced position – Webby was rubbing circles on his back apologetically – and finally noticed something strange. Webby brought it up before he could.
“I thought we weren’t leaving until noon,” Webby said. “You look ready to go?”
“We have to depart earlier than usual if we wish to make it to the next village by tomorrow,” Beakley explained. “It’s not a well-known place. The roads will be rough.”
Dewey straightened as the older duck moved closer and took his sword from his slack hand. When he and Webby had woken up early to get some practice in, they’d been counting on no one else being awake to catch them. Oh, well, thought Dewey, so much for stealth.
“Go back to the inn and get your things together,” Mrs. Beakley instructed, holding open the door of the shed for them. “We leave in half an hour.”
“Yes, Granny,” Webby said, and they nudged each other on their way through the door.
The first rays of sunlight were peaking over the horizon as the young ducks made their way to the village inn. The sounds of the locals beginning their day followed them down the neat dirt road, and Webby smiled and waved at every person they happened to pass. The villagers couldn’t help but wave back; even some of the gruffer ones offered a smile. After all, no one could resist Webby’s kind nature and overflowing optimism. Everyone ended up loving her eventually, and everyone missed her when she left.
Dewey suppressed a sigh. Webby and her granny were the only family he remembered having. There were certainly no family ties back in the orphanage. He doubted anyone even noticed when he ran away. People barely noticed him now.
Don’t get him wrong, Beakley was a saint for taking him in, and he loved Webby like a sister, but he never stopped feeling like a part of him was missing. Like there was a big, empty space in his chest. Filling it with Webby’s endless cheer didn’t work, and throwing himself into training didn’t make it go away. Nothing did, and it ached something awful. Especially at night when there was nothing left to distract him. It felt like loneliness, or pain, or grief. It was confusing, since as far as he knew he had nothing to grieve.
“Are you okay? I didn’t throw you too hard, did I?” Webby’s concerned voice broke Dewey out of his thoughts and made him realize that he had been subconsciously rubbing his chest. They were stopped at the door to the Inn, his friend examining him for any sign of injury.
“I’m fine,” Dewey reassured her, stepping past her to open the creaky old door, “but I will be wanting a rematch. I must reclaim my title of undefeated champion!”
“But that would be a lie,” Webby pointed out, walking backwards so she could look him in the eye with a cheeky grin. “You’ve been defeated a great many times.”
“That’s a gross exaggeration.”
“Maybe, but even if you’d only been beaten once, the title of ‘undefeated champion’ would be a lie.”
“Okay, I’ll just have to go for the title of occasionally defeated, but still a champion.”
“That would be your current title.”
“Ouch, Webbs, tell me how you really feel.”
Webby grinned at him as they gave in to giggles, and they entered the room they’d been staying in. She pulled aside the dull curtains hanging in front of the small window, revealing a brilliant sunrise that bathed the world in golden light and came close to burning his retinas. It also revealed the disaster area that was the floor, covered in clothes and blankets from their stay. Dewey winced. They’d have to stuff their things into bags pretty quickly if they wanted to leave on time.
“You’re getting better,” said Webby in reference to his sword fighting skills, beginning to pick through the mess. “You could fight someone with less training than me and win easily.”
“Too bad I only ever fight you,” Dewey teased. “It’s not like you’ve been training since you could walk, right? Oh, wait, you have been.”
“I’m telling you you’re talented, dummy.” She threw a pillow at him with scary accuracy. “Most people can’t do what you do, and you’re still learning!”
Dewey hummed in reply, haphazardly shoving random items of clothing into his bag. Mrs. Beakley would scold him for not folding them, but she was probably busy scolding random villagers outside by the wagon, so he was in the clear.
He closed his bag the best he could what with the overflowing clothes and set it down on the floor next to the door. Then he took his favorite jacket off the hook in the closet and slid it on over his light blue shirt. The jacket was dark blue, collared, and made of leather, with a pocket on the left side, right over his heart. Dewey patted lightly at said pocket, feeling the hard metal shape of the object inside, reassuring him that his prized possession was exactly where it needed to be.
Dewey turned around just in time to watch Webby painstakingly fold her last pink shirt and put it carefully into her neatly packed bag. He chuckled quietly, fondly.
“Ready to go?” Webby asked, slinging her bag over her shoulder and standing up.
“Yeah. Hey.” He gently grabbed her arm as she went past him to the door. “Thanks.”
Dewey felt a little down about himself and doubtful of his abilities more often than he liked to admit, and Webby’s unconditional support and kind words mattered more to him than he could ever say. He didn’t know where he’d be without her. The orphanage, most likely.
She beamed and ruffled his hair. “Can’t have my best friend thinking he’s no good.”
They hauled their bags down the stairs and out the front door to the familiar waiting wagon. The sun had been steadily climbing since they’d left the training shed, and it had finally made its way fully out from behind the earth’s horizon.
Webby took his bag from him as they hopped in the back of the wagon and threw their luggage into one of the three chests at the front. One for supplies, one for clothes, and one for weaponry. Beakley poked her head in and looked them over before nodding to herself.
“Where we’re going is more dangerous than any outer villages we’ve been to. I know it will be difficult, but I want you to stay close and do as I say,” she said calmly.
“Have you ever been there, Granny?” Webby asked.
“No.” Mrs. Beakley frowned. “But there are rumors. Promise me?”
Dewey and Webby glanced at each other.
“We promise,” they said in unison.
Mrs. Beakley tapped both of them on the head and shut the back of the wagon. The back was a piece of wood that only flipped up to cover the bottom half of the opening; it was just there so that nothing fell out during their journey. A canvas covering shielded the sides and top so that the inside stayed dry when it rained.
The older duck went around the front to her regular seat and took the reins of the two horses who would be pulling them, urging them forward. Webby leaned the whole top half of her body out the back of the wagon to wave goodbye to everyone as they passed, and Dewey patted the pocket over his heart one more time.