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"So, three mercenaries walk into a bar."
Flik gave a quiet sigh of exasperation and took a healthy gulp from his mug of ale.
"Ouch."
Viktor grinned madly in pleasure at the third man at their small table, not the least bit put out that his punchline had been pre-empted. Georg Prime's amusement was conveyed in a much more subtle quirking of his lips, but was felt clearly nonetheless.
The older man took smaller sips from his own mug, and had yet to need a refill. Viktor was on his third mug, while Flik had just barely started his second. It looked to be a long night, and the blue-clad warrior knew he'd have to pace himself if he wanted to keep his head.
The three mercenaries were seated in a quiet corner of a private dining room in an obscure inn in Kanakan. Evening had fallen hours ago, but a crackling fire in the hearth and a generous provision of table-lamps left the room bright and warm. Their employers sat at the larger table, strategically placed next to the fire, and paid no mind to the trio.
Wandering the world was a pleasant notion, but reality meant that Viktor and Flik had been forced to take on minor jobs to keep themselves in supplies; their potch from the Dunan Unification War hadn't lasted forever. Hunting down the occasional bandit here, helping train local militias there, and every now and again getting hired as personal bodyguards for travelling merchants.
Or former lords, in the case of their current employer.
Euram Barows hadn't said he was a lord, had claimed to be nothing more than a messenger concerned about reaching his rendezvous, but his entire bearing screamed of a pampered upbringing.
The blond had been incapable of not wrinkling his nose, just the slightest, when Viktor had escorted the man to their seedy inn in Toran to fetch Flik and their belongings. While his Falenan accent was strong, there was a crisp enunciation underneath that indicated the man was educated, and Viktor had delighted in making the slighter man squirm by pulling out the dirtiest of his bawdy jokes.
Five years of peace in Toran meant that many felt safe traversing its borders, not necessarily that it was safe, as Barows' original bodyguard had learned too late. The man had paid for his negligence with his life, although to his credit he'd bought enough time for Barows to escape the bandits that had set upon the duo on the road.
Needless to say the skittish lordling had jumped at the opportunity when Viktor had offered their services.
Flik let a tiny smirk flitter across his own features at the memory as he watched the other two at the table banter back and forth casually with good cheer.
Upon reaching Kanakan, it had been a pleasure to discover an old ally serving as their counterpart with the man Barows was meeting with. With their employers immediately settling in to exchange news, and no immediate threats in the area, the three of them were encouraged to socialize, and even provided with a generous cask of ale to aid them in their way to a drunken stupor.
None of them were that stupid.
It was obvious Barows and his friend didn't want their conversation overheard, and equally obvious that Georg had some idea what the two men were discussing. The older mercenary had greeted them both with a genuine warmth, but there had also been an edge to his eyes as he had pointedly sat down in the corner and struck up conversation.
Despite the rocky start to their relationship in the Liberation Army, Flik and Viktor had worked together for a long time now, and had grown accustomed to communicating silently as the need arose. A shared glance--with perhaps just the hint of an eye-roll from Flik--and Viktor immediately let a wide grin spread across his features and began to trade tidbits of gossip, pouring the first mugs for each of them.
While the other two men kept up a buffering shield of noise, Flik participated only marginally, preferring to keep his eyes open even if he kept his ears shut.
"Stormfist has kept its gates shut for the last three months, but our spies have determined that living conditions within the fortress walls continue to deteriorate. Luserina is confident that the people will rise up and overthrow the so-called council within a matter of weeks. The garrison at the Twilight Palace is on alert to move out the moment that happens..."
Euram watched Prince Freyjadour stare morosely into the fire crackling in the hearth, apparently deaf to his words. Yet the blond knew if he quizzed the other man on the news he brought, he'd be able to recite it back perfectly.
Recite, yes; care? No. Not for years now.
Still, every year they both made the journey to this inn, the Ruddy Sunshine, and Euram would spew out every single piece of news he could about their homeland to his prince, all in a futile effort to get him to return home.
"Your highness, Falena needs you. Please. Return with me. It's not too late to set things right."
Freyjadour's white hair reflected the flames perhaps a little too perfectly, making his head look to be wreathed in fire. It gave the false impression of passion within the younger man.
"...'Right'?"
Euram winced; he always managed to put his foot in it. Bravely he soldiered on--he had too large a debt to pay to his homeland to back down now.
"The people love you, they respect your authority. If Falena is ever to know peace, you will be needed to restore order."
Silence reigned for a moment between the two of them. Freyjadour didn't bother to look at him, remaining slumped in his chair with his hands steepled on his chest as he watched the fire dance.
Vaguely, Euram could hear the chatter of the mercenaries in the corner--it sounded like the brute was telling another one of his disgusting jokes--and he wilfully tuned out their voices so they remained only as white noise.
Just when Euram feared he'd have to make another foray into conversation, Freyjadour spoke up again, his voice so soft his former rival had to strain to hear him.
"They should have loved and respected her instead. Then they wouldn't need me to clean up their mess."
A lance of pain struck in his chest, and Euram could feel his face contort in a flinch he couldn't hide. He suppressed the grief even as it tried to well up and consume him. He had no right to mourn, not like the Prince did.
"This wasn't what she wanted," the former lord entreated, then wished he hadn't when for the first time that evening the prince's blue eyes met his own gold ones and pierced him to the core.
A cruel smile twisted Freyjadour's face as he deliberately lowered his arms to the rests on either side of the chair and levered himself out of his slumped position, suddenly looking regal as his posture improved. Euram swallowed nervously, feeling as if judgement for his crimes was going to be revisited on his head.
"Lymsleia never got what she wanted though, did she? She never wanted to be engaged to Gizel, never wanted our parents to be murdered, never wanted to be a puppet queen. She never wanted to be betrayed over and over again by the people she loved. If she never received her desires in life, why should I fight to grant them when she's no longer alive to appreciate the effort?"
The smile never left the prince's face, but his eyes were wild, and his hands gripped the armrests in a white-knuckled grip.
Five times Euram had appealed to the Queen's brother. He remembered the Prince's look of pure disbelief when he'd been forced to track the other man down to deliver the news that his sister was dead--drowned on her way into exile after the Parliament's 'bloodless' revolution. The white-haired man had rained curses down upon his homeland, furious beyond any consolation. Euram firmly believed that it had only been Sir Georg's intervention that had allowed the former noble to escape with his life at that time.
Every year since then, he'd returned with news of Falena's further downward spiral in the absence of the royal family's presence, and beseeched Freyjadour to return. He'd tried emotional appeals, petitions, logical arguments, but Freyjadour ignored them all. His anger simmered just under the surface, and while it had not surfaced violently since that first year, Euram knew he was treading a fine line.
But Euram was tired of pussyfooting around the Prince's feelings. He had grown to respect the royal during the Rune War, had felt overwhelming gratitude to the hero's mercy, had even hoped to earn the man's forgiveness for the chaos that his cowardice had sown throughout their nation by making reparations after the war. This was not that same man.
"She also wanted her brother by her side," Euram spit out with vitriol he hadn't realized was humming under the surface of his own skin. The moment the words were out of his mouth he wanted to call them back, knew that he'd just signed his own death warrant. He could feel the blood drain from his own face, even as he watched the same thing happen to Freyjadour.
Luserina had never allowed him to approach the Queen after the end of the Rune War; she had claimed it would be... inappropriate. He'd been forced to watch her from afar. While he had based most of his restoration efforts from Rainwall, occasionally business would take him to the capitol, where he could bask in her presence when she held open court.
She had been so graceful; so wise. So very, very sad. Knowing he was the root of her sadness had been a better deterrent than Luserina's disapproving looks whenever the urge to approach her had risen.
He couldn't help but notice her many longing looks to the east, to Estrise where her brother had departed from Falena at the end of the war, trying to outrun his grief.
She'd probably hoped to track her brother down when the Parliament had forced her to abdicate. He wondered if the removal of her birthright had come as more of a relief than a burden...
One thing he knew for sure: Prince Freyjadour was the person whom Queen Lymsleia had loved the most.
And Euram had just purposefully and maliciously hurt him.
He deserved whatever came of this. He was a monster.
The two men stared at each other, pale-faced and white-knuckled. The tension could be cut with a knife. Neither the murmuring of voices from the back of the room nor the warmth of the fire in front of them could stop what was coming.
"It's my fault."
The whisper was hoarse, and the creaking wood gave the impression that if the Prince tightened his grip any further the chair would crack.
"It's all my fault," Freyjadour repeated, turning his gaze into the fire, fine trembling echoing up and down his slender frame.
"If I hadn't run away, if I'd stayed by her side, given her my support... If I hadn't left, they wouldn't have killed her.
"She was the only family I had left, and I may as well have killed her with my own hands..."
Freyjadour's head turned back to face Euram, but he stared down at his hands, which had finally released the chair and now hovered in front of him, palms up. Euram felt panic well up within him; this wasn't what he wanted.
Their chairs had been turned to face each other in front of the fire, so it was a simple matter for Euram to stand up and take the single step to kneel at his Prince's feet, gently enclosing those upraised hands within his own--effectively hiding whatever imaginary bloodstains the Prince was torturing himself with.
"Blame me."
The warmth in his voice surprised even Euram, as did the sympathy welling up inside him. The overwhelming guilt one could feel even for actions not committed personally was something he knew all too well. He had spent the last five years alternating between fury and exasperation at the Prince's stubbornness, to wallowing in his own melancholy over the current state of affairs. His own guilt was a familiar beast following at his heels. It didn't help that everyone in Falena knew of his actions, as well. Taking this burden from the Prince was a small price to pay.
Freyjadour blinked rapidly, finally focusing on the man at his feet, glancing with bewilderment at their clasped hands.
"What...?"
Euram tightened his grip. "It all comes back to the order I gave to engage the people of Lordlake, to my complicity in the theft of the Dawn Rune. Without the War, you would not have lost your family, you would not have left Falena. It's my fault the Queen is dead. Blame me."
Freyjadour once more pierced his eyes with a searching look. Euram held his gaze, and was surprised to find something relax inside the other man after a moment. Suddenly, the Prince's hands twisted, and Euram's hands were being held in return. Never losing his grip, the white-haired man stood, then carefully stepped around his companion to join him on the floor. Euram had to squirm in an undignified manner in order to properly face Freyjadour, while sitting comfortably, since the Prince refused to disengage their hands.
He spared an absent thought for what their bodyguards must be thinking, before truly taking in his new view. The Prince now sat with his back to the fire, and the the light haloed him even while forcing his features into a dark silhouette. The man's voice was still hoarse, and his grief still audible as he began to speak once more.
"Why not? I can be to blame, and you can be to blame. We can blame Lordlake for rising up, and the Godwin's for their dam. We can blame my grandmother for the Bloody Succession, and my great-grandmother for not controlling her daughters better. Why stop there? Let's blame Falenas for starting the Queendom in the first-place, and the Sun Runes for giving her the power to do so. Let's blame the Ancient Armes Dynasty for ending, the Night Rune for running away. In fact, truly this must be the fault of Sword and Shield..."
The Prince's grip on his hands had grown tighter the longer he talked, and he no longer seemed a mortal man, but some otherworldly creature dispensing Truths and Lies as only the spirits can. By the end of his spiel, his breath was ragged, and the shaking in his body travelled through their joined hands to make Euram shake as well.
And suddenly Euram knew how this had to end. He knew his history.
"Blame the Darkness, for shedding a tear."
Freyjadour shattered.
Georg watched mutely as Freyjadour launched himself into Barows' arms, his sobs silent but still wracking. A feeling of relief welled up within him.
Finally.
The mercenary had enabled the Prince's escape after the Sun Rune War, so the boy would never open up to him about his guilt and grief after learning of Lymsleia's end. Georg had his own guilt, but it had never eaten at him the way Freyjadour's had gnawed away at him on the inside.
He'd pushed Freyjadour to continue these meetings with Barows in the hope that the fool would eventually grow a pair and force his Prince to grieve.
Viktor and Flik had exchanged bewildered glances when the two Falenan men had disappeared behind the table, but only Georg's seat afforded a view around the furniture. Putting to use his extremely limited skills at misdirection, Georg had leaned out a little, as if he needed the extra distance to see around the corner, the retreated to his original position with a smirk and wagged his eyebrows suggestively.
Freyjadour would probably kill him when he found out, but Georg liked to live dangerously.
Interestingly enough, Flik had been the one to snicker quietly into his drink, while Viktor--Viktor, the Lusty Bear--had flushed slightly, and abruptly started in on a loud story about how they had recruited Gengen into their forces at their Mercenary Fort in Jowston before the war.
Georg had been pleased by the distraction; it saved him from having to come up with one himself.
When their employers had finally roused themselves from their activities in front of the fire--furtive looking and rumpled--Flik and Viktor had taken their dismissal for the evening as a godsend and tiredly trudged back to their shared room.
Half-way up the stairs to the inn's second-floor where their room was located, Viktor had staggered and slung an arm around Flik, the light flush from earlier still stained across his cheekbones.
The casual observer would assume Viktor was inebriated, especially if they'd seen how much of the potent Kanakan ale the bigger man had put away throughout the night. Flik knew better; he'd seen his partner put away three times the brew in North Window and still been able to make it to his rooms unaided.
The Blue Lightning smirked. Looks like Barows had managed to get his own back for the bawdy jokes en route.
Flik didn't say a word, merely shouldered the bigger man's extra weight effortlessly, shouldering them into their room and closing the door before pinning Viktor to the wall. There wasn't enough light to see, but Flik knew from previous experience that the ruddy stain on his cheeks would have spread down his neck to sprinkle across the other man's chest.
Craning up his neck slightly to capture Viktor's lips, Flik tasted the Kanakan ale from a much better vessel than the carved mug provided by the inn-keep. Viktor responded instantly, the way he always did, even if he never initiated things--except for that first time. Flik assumed it was some sort of residual guilt over Odessa, but he never asked. Some things were better left in silence.
Leaning back slightly, he buried his face in the other man's neck and allowed him to feel the smirk stretching across his lips.
"Sure you're up for this? I'd hate to see your reputation tarnished by one too many drinks..."
Viktor laughed, as Flik knew he would, and manhandled the smaller man over to the bed. His whisper was full of filthy promise as he started undressing his partner.
"Always."
It was strange. Despite holding the Prince in his arms the night before as his grief poured out, despite shedding a few tears of mourning into white-locks himself, despite the feeling that the two of them understood each other better than they ever had before...
Nothing had changed.
Euram and Freyjadour had held a much more civilized conversation in the morning over breakfast, their mercenaries once more congregating into their own huddle.
Once more, Euram's request had been denied; Freyjadour would not be returning to Falena. This time though, the Prince's response had been tempered with sadness, and a hint of regret. He thought he understood.
If anything happened to Luserina, he wasn't sure he'd be able to face returning to Falena either. At least, not right away.
This time he was leaving with hope in his heart, for the first time in five years.
Because as faint as it had been, there had been regret in Freyjadour's eyes. Perhaps in time, as the Prince came more to terms with his grief, that regret would propel him into action--would bring him home.
It might even be before the nation collapsed under its own weight.
Clasping hands with Freyjadour, he bid his Prince farewell. He watched with his own regret as the white-haired man collected Georg Prime and left. He turned to the two mercenaries remaining in the private dining room, and reached into his cloak for the coin-pouch he had prepared before leaving his room this morning.
"The remainder of your payment. I thank you for your service," he told them with as much dignity as he could muster toward men who had seen him in such a compromised position the night before.
The blue-clad one accepted the pouch solemnly, hefting it's weight judiciously, but not going so far as to double-check its contents in front of him. He turned towards to burlier man with an arched eyebrow.
"What? No final bawdy tale for the road?"
For reasons Euram would never understand, the man who had known no shame on the road suddenly looked uncomfortable, although he did his best to offer one of his usual grins to his now-former employer.
"I figure you've got it covered."
Euram had no idea what that meant, but thankfully Flik came to his rescue, clapping him in a friendly way on the shoulder and guiding him out of the room.
"Come along, Barows. We're going to the port ourselves, we'll escort you to your ship."
Flik didn't know who was more put out to realize they were both travelling on the same ship to the Island Nations: Viktor or Barows.
end