A/N: Ok, this has been floating around in my head for a long time. Let me know what you think, and if I should continue it! Also, I'm not going to get all of the dialogue exactly right, and I'm not gonna try. It's hard to do a fic like this. Ugh…

Disclaimer: I own neither A Knight's Tale, nor The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. I do own Cabrilyn, Otto, and Davis who will be making appearances later because I ran out of League to fill all the lead roles. Bummer.


In medieval times a sport arose. Embraced by noble and peasant fans alike though only noble knights could compete. The sport was jousting…

For one of these knights, an over-the-hill former champion, it was the end. But for his peasant squire, it was merely the beginning…

- - - }:{ - - -

The dull roar of the tournament crowd went unheard by the two men. They were intent on the armored figure leaning motionless against a tree not far from the tournament grounds. Since the knight had sat there to catch a quick nap, he had not stirred.

The youngest of these two watchers, and by far the shabbiest, had a strip of cloth in each nostril to block out the stench that constantly lingered around his aged knight master. He looked at his companion. "Two minutes or forfeit," he said. None of them could afford a forfeit – their empty stomachs wouldn't allow it.

"Lend us those," the elder of the two, a gentleman with red-brown locks and striking cobalt blue eyes, said, referring to the strips of cloth – he would need them if he intended to get anywhere near the rank, unmoving knight. The young man handed over the strips and watched as his friend made his way to the tree and placed a hand over the knight's mouth, checking for breath. There was none. The man was dead. "Dead," he declared, lowering the visor of the deceased's helmet.

At that moment, a third man came bounding up, a broad smile across his white painted face. "It's three scores to none after two lances," he said happily in his Cockney-accented voice. "All Sir Quatermain has to do is not fall off his horse and we've won!"

His joy was cut tragically short when his blue-eyed friend declared again, "He's dead."

"What do you mean dead?"

"The spark of his life is covered in shite," the man replied, removing the cloths from his nose and tossing them away. "His spirit is gone, but his stench remains. Does that answer your question?"

"No, no, no, no, no," the joy had drained from his Cockney accent. This could not be happening, he was certain… not now… not when they needed a victory so badly. "No. He sleeps, rouse him!" He tried, clinging to one last flicker of hope.

"We need to fetch a priest," the blue-eyed man said, coming to stand beside his young companion.

"No, he's not dead! We're minutes away from victory! I haven't eaten in three days!"

"None of us have Skinner!" The young man snapped.

Skinner ignored him. He moved to the late knight and shook him in hopes of rousing him. "Wake up. Come on you…" he muttered. It soon dawned on him that he was indeed dead and his mumblings were soon lost in a wave of cursing and shouting as he unleashed all of his furry on the dead man. They had been so close to victory, only to have it yanked away by the icy hand of death.

The sound of an approaching horse drew the young man's attention from Skinner's tantrum. It was a man, the herald for the nobles running the tournament. "Jekyll," the young man muttered, turning his friend's attention away from the fit of temper that was Skinner to the approaching horseman.

"Hey, squire. Sir Quatermain must report at once or forfeit," the man declared, haughtily looking down at the two over his nose. He had far better things to do with his time than associate with lowly peasants.

"Oh, he's…" Jekyll began, meaning to announce their knight master's untimely demise, but his friend stopped him.

"He's on his way," he said, smiling broadly. He'd gotten an idea that, if it worked, would at least grant them all a full stomach.

The horseman gave a short glance at Skinner, who was still trying to kick the deceased knight into life. His curiosity roused for just a moment, but he quickly dismissed it as some sort of obscure peasant ritual and urged his horse back toward the tournament.

When he was certain the man had gone, the young man sad, "I'm riding in his place." Ignoring the look Jekyll was giving him, he went to his temperamental friend – Skinner was bound and determined to beat the life back into the late Sir Quatermain. "Strip his armor, I'm riding in his place." Skinner ignored him. "Stop kicking him! Calm down! I'm riding in his place!" After being yanked out of kicking range, Skinner just stared in disbelief at his young friend.

"What's your name Tom?" Jekyll said, hands on his hips, staring at the young man disapprovingly. Tom ignored him. "I'm asking you, Thomas Sawyer, to answer me with your name. It's not Sir Thomas, or Count or Duke or Earl Thomas, and it certainly isn't King Thomas."

"I'm aware of that," Tom said shortly. The fact that he wasn't a noble had been rubbed in his face his entire life and he didn't neither need nor want to be hearing it now.

Jekyll sighed. "You have to be of noble birth to compete!"

"A detail," Tom said, sliding a piece of armor onto his arm. "The landscape is food. Do you want to eat or don't you?"

Yes, Jekyll wanted to eat, but seeing Tom imprisoned or, even worse, killed hardly seemed worth it. "If the nobles find out who you are, there'll be the devil to pay."

Tom smiled mischievously. "Then pray that they don't."


A/N: Ok, I know some of you are probably thinking "Why did Quatermain have to be the one to die?!?" Because it fit. Allow me to explain: Sir Ector teaches William what he knows, much like Quatermain teaches Sawyer. Also, when Quatermain dies, he basically tells Sawyer the now it's his turn to create a legacy, the same thing kinda happens with Sir Ector and William, though it's not said out loud. Do you get my logic? Ok, let me know if I should continue this. In the meantime, I'm going to be watching A Knight's Tale over and over and over and over again…