Sir Robert sighed – or, he would have if it were possible. As he was a ghost there was always the question of whether or not he had lungs at all to sigh with, but since he was currently missing his body, the question was a bit moot. He was annoyed with the disappearance of his body – not only could he not sigh to display his current mood, but his nose itched. There were some days when a body came in handy.

He tried to ignore the itch that had plagued him for the past hour and wondered what kind of trouble his body was getting into without him. It probably wasn’t still lying on the ground where he’d left it after Cuminder had removed his head, but Sir Robert really had no idea where his body had gone to. Someone must have carried it off.

Not that he had any say in the matter, really. At the current moment, he was unable to speak, move, or do anything other than wait and stare and hope that someone would free him from this abominable place. The slow, tickling drip of ectoplasmic blood leeching from his neck had long since stopped – thankfully – but the dull ache from the spike going through his brain hadn’t left. Ghostly ravens often picked at his hair, mussing it beyond all recognition, and laughed delightedly when he couldn’t do anything about it.

At least they weren’t picking out his eyes – not yet, anyways. They would be painful to reform afterwards. He was a little thankful that he had the kind of hair that kept the ravens interested for as long as it had.

“Sir Robert,” a deep voice said conversationally.

Sir Robert knew who it was instantly, and wished for a moment that he had the ability to slice the speaker’s head off or, if nothing else, to narrow his eyes into a glare. Speaking to a head you’d removed from a body was bad form. Instead of his wished-for actions, he had to settle for staring blankly forwards and waiting for Cuminder to speak.

“How art thou this fine morning?” Cuminder continued, leaning on the battlement near where Sir Robert’s head was resting on its spike, able to be seen out of the corner of Sir Robert’s unmoving head. “The fog is most becoming upon your severed head.”

The fog leant the sunrise a soft glow, which Sir Robert silently agreed made it a nice morning. It was one of the few things he had found to be pleasant about being placed upon the enemy’s walls – they’d given him a view of the sunrise. For that small measure of respect, Sir Robert had long decided that he would return the favor when he removed Cuminder’s head. He had already picked out the spot. It had a nice view of an old apple tree as well.

Cuminder gazed out on the morning. “I doth hear tales of war, Sir Robert. Whispers in the wind of a rebellion to overthrow my liege.”

Sir Robert would have scowled if it were possible. Of course there were rumors of war floating through the air – was this not Armagondia? Was this not the land of war?

“I fear I doth wish thine head were returned to thine body, Sir Robert,” he said after a moment of silence. “ Prithee know that this battle will not be the same without thou at the front. I will reign victorious for mine lord and I fear I wilst not even begin to sweat.”

Silently, Sir Robert feared that Cuminder was correct. There weren’t many well-trained knights among his lady’s army, and few that would be able to stand up to Cuminder’s skill. The white metal of Cuminder’s helmet glowed brilliantly as the sun continued to rise into the sky, slowly burning off the morning fog.

A small city of tents had sprung up in uneven rows just over the hills, the spirits moving about seeming as mere ants in the distance, the fog easing so that Sir Robert could watch their progress. One large knight, Sir Robert thought it might be Sir Donald, strode quickly through the camps, a slight figure with white hair trailing behind him.

“The war shall be fought in the clearing below in the next morrow. My liege hast made grand plans to crush this uprising quickly. He himself will fight – thy will be well entertained, Sir Robert, as thy watch thine rebels fail.” Cuminder turned his helmet, looking at the severed head of Sir Robert.

Sir Robert wished he could look back, turn his head, perhaps even focus his eyes, but he couldn’t. He was locked away inside his head. He felt his heart drop – which was odd, as he had no heart – at the thought of Lord Aragon going up against his lady Dorothea. A beat later, a swell of anger rose towards Cuminder. Not only was it considered bad form to speak to the severed head of your enemy, it was the height of rudeness to brag about how little your enemy could do about it.

If Sir Robert could have spit at Cuminder, he would have. The white knight was showering dishonor on his entire line. Sir Robert quietly renewed his pledge to have the other knight’s head. He, at least, would show his beheaded enemy the respect he deserved. He had been beheaded in a well-fought duel! He didn’t deserve this dishonor.

“Enjoy thine day, Sir Robert,” Cuminder said softly. “I doth hope thine body is returned to thee shortly.” Pushing away from the battlements, Cuminder vanished from Sir Robert’s view, his heavy footsteps dwindling away in the morning silence.

Sir Robert stayed quiet – as if he had a choice - and gazed out at the small army that was gathering just outside Aragon’s foreboding castle. He wondered if his lady would be able to see his head up on this spike, and whether it would give her heart to fight in the coming war. If only he could raise his chin slightly, to show how proud he was of the men stumbling out of the tents.

The rebellion would crush the traitorous Aragon and the dishonorable Cuminder. His Lady Dorothea would locate and return his body to him and he would take his rightful place by her side. The rightful heir to the throne of Armagondia would once again rule over all. It would only be a matter of time.

However, his nose still itched.