Chapter Text
The last thing Fernand expects to see as he escapes from the maw of hell is Jesse.
For a second he thinks to himself - this is a mirage, and I am in Mila’s embrace. It can’t be, of course. Mila doesn’t want him; none of the realms do, and blood still seeps through his fingers where the witch had torn through his armor and into his side. Surely that pain would have faded in death.
There are others here too, yelling, words that can’t pierce the veil between life and death. Jesse’s lips move. Maybe his words reach Fernand, except Fernand is still stuck on the fact that Jesse is here, Jesse is in front of him, flesh and blood and sunlight.
“Fernand, Fernand,” Jesse is saying, like he has the right to call Fernand’s name when he hasn’t even seen Fernand in - God, years. He’s too close, draws even closer when Fernand doesn’t move. His eyebrows knit together with concern. He touches Fernand’s arm, and his fingers come away slick with red.
Someone is healing Fernand. Clearly someone who doesn’t know who he is or Fernand suspects they would not bother. Maybe someone spurred on by Jesse’s fretting. Jesse always has deluded himself that he could save Fernand, as if nobility was a beast they could outrun like a witch instead of a corruption within their very blood.
“Fernand,” Jesse repeats, and Fernand fancies he can almost hear the syllables of his name above the blood pounding in his ears, the way his head spins every time he blinks. But Fernand doesn’t know what Jesse’s voice actually sounds like now, barely remembers what it sounded like in pubescence.
He remembers one thing clearly though: that Jesse hadn’t said a thing to Fernand about running away.
Fernand had honestly not expected to see Jesse ever again. He hadn’t let himself imagine it. Of course he’d get the opportunity when it was taking everything he had to keep his eyes open. With Fernand’s luck, it might even be the last chance.
That makes up his mind, and taking a shuddering breath, Fernand draws his fist back and clocks Jesse clean across the jaw.
...
The eve Princess Anthiese is born, Fernand is nine and trying desperately to be older. The palace throws an extravagant celebration in the ensuing weeks, the likes of which Fernand has only attended whenever a royal baby is born. Zofia’s nobility is invited to attend a nightly ball, each one more lavish than the last, and the festivities spill across the entire nation. Neighbors share food and drink, the volume of which is only ever limited to the physical capabilities of the people preparing it. The generous sun blesses the fields with a harvest that almost bubbles from the soil like water from a spring.
Lady Avanna says Goddess Mila has created a heaven on earth. Fernand’s older sister Beatrice conspiratorially tells him strawberries spring fully-formed on the vine, scarlet and delicious, when the goddess walks by.
That, Fernand has his suspicions about, but Bea spends all her free time in the gardens with the new boy their father has hired and also is four years older than him, which she insists makes her right 100% of the time. There are older kids around, but they don't usually talk to Fernand.
Bea tends to ditch Fernand at parties too, which makes him suspect it has something to do with getting older. He’s a little worried that Clive, who is ten this year, will suddenly decide he doesn’t want to be friends anymore. When he whispers that concern to Lady Avanna though, she tells him he isn’t being fair to Clive.
Clive wants to be a knight, and that somehow makes him the most patient and mature person Fernand knows. He even tolerates Aren and Dixon; Fernand loves his little brothers more than the world itself but they have recently figured out what it means to say no to someone, and also how to ignore anyone who says no to them.
Even better, Fernand’s father smiles at Fernand when he recounts his palace misadventures with Clive. The first time, his father had ruffled Fernand’s hair and told him to stay true to his friends, which Bea later said meant Clive came from a good noble family.
From what Fernand can gather, there are good nobles and there are bad nobles, and it is with this thought in mind that he prowls the palace grounds the second night of Princess Anthiese’s ball.
Why the king has decided to celebrate the birth of a baby during the evening is beyond Fernand, but any chance Fernand can take to prove to his parents he’s old enough to be trusted out of their supervision outdoors is one he’ll take gladly. He clambers atop a stone bench. The landscape of the palace gardens changes at night. Fountains loom higher overhead than when the sun is out; the trees whisper and the wind changes course as if to lure children deeper into the hedges.
Clive and the others are supposed to be hiding, so Fernand pauses in his search when he hears jovial humming. He suspects, at first, it could be a trap, but they are supposed to be playing simple hide-and-seek, not soldiers or tag, nor does Fernand think Clive would play a trick on him.
Interest piqued, Fernand jumps off the bench and follows the song past a tall metal gate clearly intended for appearances rather than practicality, each rail thicker than a fist and set far enough apart from each other that a fully-grown man could squeeze through. Fernand emerges into a spacious courtyard. He knows it can’t possibly be bigger than his manor, but standing at its mouth, it almost looks that way.
In the middle of the courtyard is an old coral tree, its branches stretching fifty different ways toward the stars, and hanging off of one is an unfamiliar boy with a mop of blond curls atop his head. His humming falters as he hoists himself up, grunting at the bark digging into his stomach. Fernand eyes his kicking legs with suspicion. The branch is high enough Fernand doesn’t think he’d come close to grabbing onto it if he leapt, which means falling from it would be gruesome.
But of course, Fernand is old enough not to be afraid of danger. He tells himself that as he marches right up to the coral tree.
“Aren’t you too young to be here by yourself?” he calls.
The boy peered down at Fernand. “Huh?”
“Get down from there before you hurt yourself!” Fernand says.
Laughing, the boy swings his legs more vigorously. The red flowers at the edge of the branch quiver under his bouncing. “I won’t hurt myself! I’m a tree climbing expert.”
Fernand’s eyebrow twitches. “You can’t be an expert. You’re a kid.”
“I’m seven,” says the boy. He leans farther off the branch to inspect Fernand, who puffs his chest out. Seven is definitely still a kid. “Hey, how about I teach you?”
“I don’t need your help,” Fernand tells him, pulling up his sleeves. His formal clothes don’t afford much mobility, and Lady Avanna will probably fuss if he wears holes through the knees of his trousers again. Choosing the path of his ascent carefully, Fernand scales the tree with the grace of someone who has been climbing the king’s trees for years - more escapades Lady Avanna shakes her head at. He finds a secure seat in a branch slightly higher than the kid’s and looks imperiously over. “See?”
“Oh, you’re really good.” The kid beams, more impressed than competitive, and it makes Fernand feel proud and abashed in turn. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Fernand Claremont,” Fernand says, enunciating his family name in the same manner he's heard older boys do.
“I’m Jesse.” Jesse considers Fernand for a second and then mutters his name a few more times under his breath. “Do you have a nickname?”
“Excuse me?” Fernand does not. Sometimes his father calls him Son, or Junior, or some variant of Boy, but Fernand doesn’t think that’s what Jesse is looking for, and besides, Fernand doesn’t really want Jesse to know that.
“It’s just that Fernand is kind of an old name,” Jesse says. “It’s weird.”
“It’s traditional,” Fernand scowls.
“Oh, don’t be like that,” Jesse says. “Umm...what do you call a horse that lives next door? A neigh-bor!” He blurts out the answer before Fernand has even had time to realize he’s telling a joke.
“It isn’t fair if you don’t give me time to guess,” he tells Jesse.
“You may be good at climbing trees, but you’re really bad at listening to jokes,” Jesse says.
“That’s not a real skill,” Fernand protests.
“Fine! Then you tell a joke.”
Fernand thinks for a second. “What do porcupines say when they kiss?”
Dropping his smile for the first time, Jesse scrunches his face in confusion. When he looks back up at Fernand, though, it’s with earnest expectation instead of frustration. “What’s a porcupine?”
“It’s...it’s an animal like this,” Fernand says, tracing a large, vaguely lump-like shape in the air with his hands. “And it’s covered in big spikes.”
“Have you seen one before?” Jesse asks.
“I’ve seen pictures. They don’t live near me,” says Fernand.
Jesse bites his lip as if he’s about to divulge a great secret. “I think I’ve seen one before. It lives under the shed. I thought it was a dog.”
“I doubt it,” Fernand says. “My books say they live on rocks, not in sheds.”
“Just on top of the rock?”
Fernand pauses. It strikes him as not true, even for an animal, to make a nest without any proper shelter, but while he considers himself intelligent, he does not think he’s qualified to question books yet. “I don’t know…”
Jesse makes a brief ‘hm’ sound, like admitting ignorance is an acceptable answer. Fernand supposes there must be a vast amount of things that Jesse doesn’t know, making it a state of default rather than a weakness. “I’m sorry for calling your name weird,” Jesse says to break the silence. “It’s a good weird.”
“Liar,” Fernand says. “It’s whatever. I’m not angry.”
“O.K.” Jesse beams. There are gaps in his smile where he’s missing teeth, but that doesn’t stop him. “Are we friends now?”
Fernand fidgets on his branch. He doesn’t quite understand the exact reasoning behind it yet, but he knows there are friends he’s allowed to have and friends that are bad for him. Bea would know; she’s been learning these things in preparation for succeeding father as head of their house. “I guess,” Fernand hedges. “Who’s your father?”
“It’s a secret,” Jesse says, looking around like the leaves would snitch on him if he told. Then he pushes himself up and gestures for Fernand to lean down. “His first name is Leander. Don’t tell anyone!”
Somehow, learning the name of Jesse’s father tells Fernand nothing about whether Jesse would make a suitable friend - the question itself was parroted from things Fernand has heard his father ask before. He figures Leander is a good traditional name though and nods. “O.K. We can be friends.”
Jesse lets out a cheer and launches himself off the branch, landing on the brick pavilion below on both feet though the forward momentum knocks him over a second later. He catches himself on his hands and knees. “C’mon, Fernand, let’s go play!”
“That was dangerous!” Fernand cries. A niggling voice in the back of his head doesn’t want to seem cowardly in front of a new, younger friend, restrained only by the knowledge that Lady Avanna would show no sympathy if he hurt himself doing something foolish.
He finally decides to climb down carefully, just in time for Jesse to get distracted by a new person entering the courtyard. “Oh, Clive!” he says, and Fernand drops from the tree so quickly the bark leaves scratches against his palms. He wipes the pearls of blood drawn to the surface on his pants, hoping they don’t show against the dark cloth.
“Clive?” he repeats. Sure enough, Clive walks over, tall and gangly and cocking a thin blond eyebrow. At the same time, Fernand abruptly remembers their game.
“There you are, Fernand,” Clive says. Hearing his voice is always gratifying and abashing at once; Lady Avanna has been trying to refine his speech that way for years. “You were supposed to find us, not the other way around.”
“O-oh.” Fernand flushes to the roots of his hair, wondering if he could actually pretend he’d momentarily forgotten the rules of hide-and-seek instead of the infinitely more disrespectful truth that he’d forgotten Clive existed. “Um, I found this kid instead.”
“So I see. Good evening, Jesse,” Clive says.
“Oh, Clive, you’ll get this. What kind of horse is your neighbor - wait.” Jesse breaks off and frowns. “I mean, what do you call a horse that lives next door?”
Clive pauses, and in the absence of conversation Fernand frets whether he’s offended by Jesse’s lack of decorum or something Fernand has done. “I suppose it would be a neighbor,” he says dryly.
“Yeah.” Jesse turns back to Fernand. “See? It ruins the joke if you let them answer!”
“No, you ruined it when you straight up told him the answer,” Fernand says. Clive gives him a curious look. “What?”
“Nothing,” Clive says, affecting innocence. “Jesse, do you want to play hide-and-seek with us?”
“Yeah! I’m a great seeker,” Jesse announces.
“I’m seeking,” Fernand says.
Clive shakes his head. “We can take turns.”
...
He is only a little irked when he opens his eyes again, a far cry from the Fernand who announced he would rather die than kneel before Alm. Even then, the thought of the new emperor is not what raises Fernand’s ire. That honor goes to the unsightly blond mercenary snoozing to his left, both arms folded against the edge of the bed with his head resting atop them. His mouth is ajar to permit a trail of saliva to dribble down his chin.
“Jesse,” Fernand says. His voice comes out weaker than he intends it, and he’s almost glad that Jesse doesn’t respond.
Fernand pictures himself reaching out to jostle him awake. When he tries, though, he finds that his arm is bound tight enough to his chest to prevent any movement. He swallows, briefly unnerved, before telling himself that he does not require the use of his arms any longer. The new world has no use for weapons or knights without wielders.
“Jesse,” he says louder. The man sleeps like a rock, which is something that clearly hasn’t changed since their childhood. Fernand glares at the crown of Jesse’s head before resigning himself to a less-than-elegant tactic.
In the same movement he pivots his body, Fernand aims his shoulder for Jesse’s elbow, hitting his mark with perhaps more force than intended. Jesse startles awake, wide eyes holding Fernand’s unimpressed stare for a fraction of a second before he falls ass-first to the floor. Fernand can’t even glower at that undignified display; a sudden pain erupts from his shoulder, spreading across his collarbone towards his chest, and it’s all he can do to keep from showing it on his face.
“Mila, Fernand, what did you do that for?” Jesse yelps. Then his hands are on Fernand, broad and stable. One finds purchase at the crook where Fernand’s shoulder meets his neck, the other on the bed right next to Fernand’s hip to stop Fernand from making any other sudden movements that might inflame his injuries.
Incredible. As if Fernand is the unreasonable party here.
“Forget that,” he says through gritted teeth. “What are you doing here?”
“Here?” Jesse repeats, looking around the room. “Umm… Well, I meant to leave before I got shackled down, you know, but I figured I’d stick around until you woke up.”
“We’re not friends,” Fernand says. He doesn’t mean to hurt Jesse’s feelings, only realizes after the words are half out of his mouth that they could be construed as bitter. Fernand isn’t bitter - he’s had more than a decade to get over it - but he finds that he doesn’t mind if Jesse thinks he is.
But Jesse just laughs, not hurt at all. “Come on, Fernand. We don’t have to be friends for me to want you to not die.”
Fernand thinks it would be fitting for him to wake up alone, actually. He notices Clive isn’t present, though of course, Alm has probably made him knight-commander or general of the army or any number of impressive titles to reflect his service. “I’m not dead yet,” he says. “Does that suffice?”
“You haven’t changed at all,” Jesse says. Fernand wishes. “If you want me to beg, I will. What the hell were you doing in Duma Tower? You were the last person I expected to see there.”
“What, hasn’t Clive told you?”
“Don’t really talk to him,” Jesse says with a shrug. “And he’s busy.”
“I’ll bet,” Fernand mutters. “Fine. I fought under General Berkut for Rigel during this past war. I vowed to slay Clive and made myself an enemy of the Zofian people, which is why this set up - ” He could not use his arms to gesture around the room, so he jerked his chin instead. His chest twinged. “ - is ridiculous and you should tell your emperor so.”
“Hey, hey, I know you’re trying to get rid of me but there’s gotta be a more convincing lie,” Jesse says.
Fernand hasn’t been trying to get rid of Jesse. He kind of wants Jesse to look at him with the same scorn Fernand had attached to Jesse’s name after Jesse had disappeared. It’s probably telling that they keep talking past each other, even after all these years.
“Ask someone else if you don’t want to listen to my answers,” Fernand says.
“Wait, no, it’s been so long since we’ve had a conversation like this! Lie to me all you want, I’m all ears,” Jesse grins.
Fernand closes his eyes, which Jesse clearly takes as an invitation.
“Any man would be lucky to - ”
“If you continue in this vein, I will attempt to strangle you, reopening my wounds and bleeding out on this bed, which is certainly worth more than both of our lives. Thus if you are truly interested in my survival, I advise that you shut your mouth,” Fernand says.
Jesse laughs loudly, though he does elect to spare Fernand from hearing the rest of his sentence. Instead he says, voice fond and deep, “Gods, I’ve missed you,” and it is somehow, impossibly worse.
...
Two months after the princess’s festival, Bea approaches Fernand after breakfast. At thirteen years old, she declared herself a lady and begun wearing dresses, ones that strike Fernand as vaguely familiar. She flounces – the only way Fernand can describe the way her skirts fluff up as she skips – up to Fernand and looks down on him, because despite being a girl, her age and early growth spurt means she still towers over him.
“Father wants us in his study,” she says imperiously, which is how she does most things nowadays.
Fernand frowns. “We just saw him at breakfast,” he says.
“Are you in trouble?” Bea smirks. She turns around, her skirt swishing behind her. “What did you do this time?”
“Nothing!” Unlike Bea, Fernand does what he’s told. “Besides, he wants you too. Maybe you’re in trouble.”
He doesn’t remember the last time they were in trouble together, mostly because Bea spends most of her time with Father or Lady Avanna or in the garden, where she insists Fernand not bother her.
Lord Claremont, in fact, does not scold either of them. When they enter, he is seated at his desk, the window to his right casting his face in golden sunlight. In his hand, he holds a letter, which is not unusual. Fernand is expecting a letter from Clive; in the affect of his father, Fernand insisted on his own stationary, on which he dutifully catalogs the weather, and court gossip he overhears from Bea and Lady Avanna, and what new, horrible things the twins have learned each week. In return, Clive writes about Clair, newly one year old, his riding and sword lessons, and on modest occasions, encloses his secret experimentation with poetry.
Clive writes in straight lines and careful lettering, only occasionally smudged. But the letter Fernand’s father holds is penned in broad flourishes, and besides, contains only a single parchment.
“Fernand,” Lord Claremont intones. Fernand straightens.
“Yes, Father?”
Lord Claremont pauses, searching for words, which he evidently hopes to find in the contents of the letter. He purses his lips, eyes scanning the page. Fernand shuffles his feet, noticeably enough that Bea pinches his side, because she thinks she’s Lady Avanna who is always on Fernand’s case to stand still.
Lowering the letter, Lord Claremont says, “You didn’t tell me you made the acquaintance of Lord Savoy’s son.”
Perplexed, Fernand asks, “Who?” before his father’s tone registers – not reprimanding, only curious.
In response, Lord Claremont holds the letter out to Fernand. On closer inspection, it resembles Clive’s stationary not even a little. The parchment is thick and fine, the ink slightly shiny even dried. To Lord Theodor Claremont, it reads. My oldest son speaks highly of yours. My wife and I are hosting a dinner party for our younger son’s first birthday, and I hope I can count on your attendance. I believe Jesse would enjoy the company of someone closer to his age.
The letter – no, invitation – is signed Lord Leander Savoy.
“Oh, Jesse,” Fernand says. “He’s one of Clive’s friends, I think.”
“Obviously,” says Bea. “Fernand doesn’t have any other friends.”
Lord Claremont looks at his daughter, but Bea is an expert at ignoring him. “You must have made an impression on this Jesse,” he says.
“He’s a little weird,” Fernand says seriously. “He was climbing one of the king’s trees. I told him not to.”
“Father, did you have something to ask me?” Bea interrupts.
“No, Beatrice, I just wanted to inform you we will attend this dinner. All of us,” Lord Claremont clarifies.
“What!” Bea exclaims. “Sure, Fernand needs new friends but I don’t want to talk to this Jesse kid.”
“Then you may spend the evening with the adults or the other children,” Lord Claremont says. “I will brook no argument.”
“This,” Bea declares, “is your fault.” She glares at Fernand and, with another spin of her dress, storms off before their father can dismiss her.
Lord Claremont rests his forehead against his palm and closes his eyes with a deep exhale. “Thank Mila you haven’t your sister’s temperament,” he tells Fernand, who smiles with a quiet pride.
The day of the party, they set out for Jesse’s manor just after finishing lunch. The Savoy lands are located closer to the palace, where Princess Anthiese’s festival had been. Fernand remembers that ride had taken most of the day, and Aren and Dixon had complained the entire time, which in turn made Bea complain and Fernand wish he could meld into the seat and cease to exist.
So when Lady Avanna seats the twins next to Fernand in the carriage, Fernand prepares himself for four hours of nonstop noise.
“Ferrand,” Aren says. “Bea said…” He trails off, looking to the side like he’s forgotten the message he was supposed to deliver.
“This,” Dixon says solemnly. He holds out his hands, which are clasped together to create a ball.
“What…what have you got there?” Fernand asks, suspicious. He doesn’t trust the twins, and he definitely doesn’t trust Bea.
Dixon doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move either, keeping his arms extended towards Fernand. Fernand wonders how he ended up the only sane person in an insanely stubborn family and holds his palm underneath Dixon’s. Dixon drops a live, living frog into his hand. Aren shrieks, which scares the frog, which jumps out of Fernand’s hand, leaving a puddle of slime right next to Fernand’s thumb.
The frog disappears into Lady Avanna’s skirt, prompting Aren to shriek again, and Lady Avanna to jump to her feet, only the carriage has already stopped moving, so Lord Claremont grabs her by her shoulder and forces her back on the seat. With one hand, he deftly extracts the frog from Lady Avanna’s skirt, and with the other he opens the door to fling the poor thing outside.
“Sit,” he says to his thoroughly seated family. Bea covers her mouth with her hand.
It’s a bad ride.
By the time they arrive, Fernand is actually excited to find Jesse, because that means he gets to escape his family. Aren has cried twice. Lady Avanna started listing eligible bachelors from nearby territories in the last two hours and Bea made a game of shooting them down for increasingly nitpicky reasons, like the length of their eyelashes or the legibility of their letters. Dixon keeps discreetly untying Fernand’s shoes.
At long last, Father unfolds his arms and says, “There it is,” breaking his hours-long silence. They all look out the window.
Jesse’s manor is larger than Fernand’s, larger still than Clive’s manor. From the front gate to the portcullis, it takes another twenty minutes in the carriage, and when the trees finally break to reveal the manor proper, Lady Avanna lets out a slow exhale and murmurs, “Oh my.”
Beyond the portcullis is a magnificent courtyard, green and lush and blossoming with flowers of every color, every shape. A statue of a historic king Fernand recognizes from his texts towers prominently in the center; circling him are the two ends of the imperial staircase leading up to the front door, carved ornately from glossy wood. A set of soldiers in full plate armor descend immediately upon their carriage, opening the door and attending the horses.
Lord Claremont helps the twins out first so they can stretch their legs before offering his hand to Bea, and then his wife. Fernand climbs out by himself. Then they are escorted into the main hall, which boasts another set of impressive staircases, down which Jesse practically flings himself two seconds after Fernand crosses the threshold into the building.
“Fernand! You came! You came!” he yells, prompting the twins to shriek back at him.
Jesse throws both of his arms around Fernand, a breach of decorum so grievous Fernand freezes. “Um, hi,” he says.
Bea is going to mock him forever for this, he can feel it.
“Jesse, is that how we greet our guests?” a woman’s voice comes from the top of the staircase.
Leaping away, Jesse straightens at once. “No, ma’am,” he mumbles. Then he looks Fernand’s father right in the eye. “Thank you for coming, sir. Please make yourself at home.”
“It’s certainly our pleasure, son,” Lord Claremont says, just as solemnly. “We are honored to be here.” Though he addresses Jesse, he looks upward at Lady Savoy. With long dark hair, pin-straight, and gentle curves, she doesn’t resemble Jesse at all.
Lady Savoy meanders down the staircase, her hand ghosting along the florid bannister. Out of the corner of his eye, Fernand sees Lady Avanna still. Jesse’s mother walks with a familiar grace instilled in highborn children, an elegance as thoughtless as breathing. “Jesse wanted to greet you personally. You have perfect timing, Lord Claremont. The appetizers have just arrived,” Lady Savoy says. “Please, call me Elisabeth.”
“Theodor,” Lord Claremont says. “This is my wife, Avanna; my daughter, Beatrice; and my sons, Fernand, Aren, and Dixon.”
Fernand eyes Jesse, who at first glance is standing properly, with his shoulders held back and his chin straight. But his feet fidget minutely, clearly uncomfortable in his heeled shoes, and though his arms are ramrod straight at his side, his hands are curled into fists.
Gently bumping his shoulder against Jesse’s as he walks past, Fernand whispers, “You look like you’re gonna fall over.”
Jesse jumps at the contact but then his face breaks out into a grin and he runs ahead, taking the stairs two at a time despite Lady Savoy’s exclamation of, “Jesse!”
“I’m going with Jesse, Father,” Fernand says like a responsible son, and even waits for Lord Claremont’s approval before clambering up the stairs himself.
He hears the beginning of an exasperated “There’s no helping boys their age,” before Fernand is out of earshot. Jesse beckons to him from around a corner, where the halls split.
“I wanna show you my room,” he says.
“Don’t we have to go to dinner? Your mom said appetizers were served,” Fernand protests, but he walks over to Jesse anyway. He wonders if he’s the only kid Jesse’s age here. Clive’s family, apparently, had also been invited but baby Clair had caught some type of flu and his mother didn’t want to leave her.
“It’ll be there when we’re done!” Jesse calls, flashing another smile. “Here!”
He reaches a set of double doors near the end of the hall and opens them with a flourish. Jesse’s rooms resemble the master suite in Fernand’s manor: a large bedchamber sandwiched by three different closets, a personal privy, and a balcony. Though the sun is setting outside, the sunset and the lit lanterns make the room bright and warm. “Come look at what my father bought me,” Jesse says, darting inside to a desk set in the corner, clearly intended for studying purposes with a gilded set of books aligned neatly against the wall.
Jesse ignores them in favor of the slender rapier laid in front of them.
“Woah,” Fernand says despite himself, his eyes growing wide. The sword is a work of art, silver ornamentation forming the hilt and a neat, sharp blade protruding from the crosspiece. Fernand’s father hasn’t allowed him a real sword of his own yet, confining his lessons to practice swords, but here Jesse is, two years younger, with an honest fencing sword. “You know how to use this?”
“Not yet! But Father says he’ll hire an instructor,” Jesse says. Fernand surveys the length of the rapier again, and thinks it’s a little too long for Jesse, who still only reaches up to Fernand’s eyes. For now anyway. “He says any proper man has a sword like this.”
He looks back at Fernand expectantly, and Fernand flushes. “I-I guess so. But it’s dangerous to have around if you don’t know how to use it. Especially out of its sheath!”
Pouting a little, Jesse says, “I know that!” Then he smiles sheepishly again. “You wanna hold it?”
Fernand does. His father would be mad though, and dinner is still waiting… “Just for a bit,” he says.
The hilt feels cool in his palm, but there’s a weight that settles in Fernand’s hand when he picks the rapier up, one that has nothing to do with the metal he holds. He steps away from Jesse so he can settle into one of the stances he learned in his lessons, holding the rapier out in front of him. Jesse claps his hands together.
“I knew it,” he says. “You look really good with a sword. Like a knight.”
“You’re just saying that,” Fernand says, trying to hide how pleased he is. Lady Avanna is forever critiquing Fernand’s posture and footwork, and Fernand knows he isn’t as practiced as Clive is, but Jesse’s eyes sparkle in the evening sunlight, like he genuinely thinks Fernand is cool.
It’s embarrassing and thrilling in equal measure.
Afterward, Fernand makes Jesse sheath the rapier properly and store it away to prevent accidents. “Especially,” he says, imitating Lady Avanna, “now that you have a little brother.”
It didn’t seem possible before but Jesse’s smile grows even brighter. “Yeah,” he says. “I have a little brother.”
They miss the appetizer course but manage to sneak to the kids’ table, slightly smaller than the main table and set into a little alcove to the side, without drawing the attention of the adults. Most of the other kids are unfamiliar to Jesse; Aren and Dixon are the youngest, and the oldest is a purple-haired teenager a few years older than Bea.
Jesse’s brother is in a baby carriage at Lady Savoy’s side, at the head of the adult table. Even from here, Fernand can see wisps of dark, curly hair; the baby is the splitting image of his mother.
“That’s Jacob,” Jesse says happily. “Oh, and my father there.” He points out the round man next to Lady Savoy, with long sandy blond hair bound at the nape of his neck in a ponytail.
“He looks like you,” Fernand lies a little, because it’s something people say a lot to him when he points out his father.
“Yeah,” Jesse says, just as Bea reaches around some kid and grabs Fernand by the neck of his collar.
“Where were you two?” she says.
“None of your business,” Fernand says into his glass of cider.
“Beatrice, right?” Jesse says. Bea makes the kid sitting between her and Fernand switch chairs with her.
“Just Bea. Beatrice is so old-sounding,” Bea says, to which Jesse nods in agreement.
“What are you doing?” Fernand demands. “I thought we were too much of babies for you.”
“I’m incredibly bored,” Bea says.
“Go talk to someone else then,” Fernand says. “Go find a boy or something.”
“The boys here suck,” Bea intones, and then shifts her attention to Jesse. “So! Jesse. Why’re you friends with someone like Fernand anyway?”
Fernand aims a kick under the table at Bea’s ankle while Jesse says, completely seriously, “He’s fun. And he knows a whole bunch of things.”
Bea doesn’t wince and leans in. “He’s a bit of weenie though,” she says.
“I like that about him.”
Fernand considers burying his face in his arms but just then the servers come around again and place the soup course in front of them.
Bea sighs. “You two are kind of boring too,” she says.
...
The healer deems Fernand capable of leaving his bed a day later and rushes off after giving him a list of stretches and exercises to restore mobility in his arm. Fernand has enough experience with injuries and recovery to know that this release is premature, likely so that the palace healers can focus their attention on soldiers the emperor actually values. The fact that Fernand has been allowed to roam free, or as freely as his limited stamina affords him, suggests Alm has his hands full with rulerly tasks and has forgotten about Fernand.
Fernand can’t even imagine having the breath to cause trouble, but he still thinks he should be in a prison. He takes a short walk around the residential wing, pausing to sit whenever he starts feeling lightheaded. The palace is abuzz with courtiers and diplomats, people who have come to pay their respects to the conqueror king and people whose respects Alm will have to earn if he wishes to keep his title.
Fernand looks over them all and finds he cares little to learn their titles or their ranks. It’s not like he has any use for them personally.
By the time Fernand makes it back to his room, he’s ready to fall face-first into his bed and sleep for the next decade too. He’s barely taken two steps away from the door before Jesse kicks it open again.
“Fernand, you - you’re up?” His volume drops to a reasonable level at the same time the question itself changes. Turning to face Jesse seems like too much effort for what it’s worth, so Fernand keeps his back turned.
“Don’t raise your voice at the infirm, you brute,” he says. Annoyingly, his trembling fingers can’t manage to unbutton his coat. It had taken Fernand almost half an hour to properly dress himself this morning, and he anticipates it’ll take longer to divest himself of his coat and boots, but he’d be damned if he stepped into public looking anything less than immaculate.
“Sorry, I just… I talked to Clive,” Jesse says. Fernand can’t see his expression and is glad for it. There’s no accusation in his voice, just layers and layers of questions.
“Hm,” says Fernand, hard and flinty.
When he fails to elaborate, Jesse steps closer. Fernand feels his warmth approach from behind. “Hey. I’m sorry, all right?”
“I’m not angry.”
“Really? ‘Cuz I thought...I mean. I thought you were still mad about me leaving,” Jesse says.
Fernand finally manages to push one of his buttons free. Only two more to go. “It’s been a long time,” he says tiredly. “Besides, now we both… Let’s just say neither of us has room to judge each other.”
It’s Jesse’s turn to make a contemplative noise. His arms reach around Fernand to undo the buttons, deft, like it barely warrants thought. “It’s hard to believe. You were always the most excited to be a knight and protect your people and stuff.”
The rumble of Jesse’s voice lingers on Fernand’s skin long after the words dissipate. He allows Jesse to pull his coat off before retreating to the cool bed, still rumpled from his weight. “We were just children then,” Fernand says. “It doesn’t mean anything now.”
“Oh,” says Jesse, and even then he seems to be thinking of something else.
Fernand thinks about pulling the covers up to slip under them, but instead he just lies on top of them. His shoes are still on, which would have scandalized him while he was still serving Zofia. That Fernand is like a different person. That Fernand would probably be able to have a conversation with Jesse, would probably be able to think of some reprimand for shirking his duty and abandoning his friends and family.
While he’s thinking of all the things that Fernand would do, the silence stretches long enough to unnerve even Jesse, who if nothing else seems reluctant to leave on his own. Fernand sighs, silent enough to be a long exhale. “Goodbye, Jesse.”
Jesse jolts, first hesitant and then relieved. They really aren’t friends anymore. “I’ll see you later, Fernand.”
...
When they get home from Jacob’s birthday, Lord Claremont puts his hand firmly on Fernand’s shoulder and says he hopes Fernand will have a long, fortuitous friendship with Jesse.
Fernand looks up the word ‘fortuitous’ in the dictionary in the study. It means a good thing, like winning a game of dice. His father doesn’t know Fernand knows what dice are; actually, a few weeks later, Jesse teaches Fernand and Clive how to gamble like soldiers do. Fernand decides that must mean their friendship is going ‘fortuitously.’
He gets Bea to explain that Jesse’s family is some branch of the royal family. Fernand had seen the king on the 29th day of Princess Anthiese’s ball, and he has a difficult time reconciling Jesse with the imposing figure of Lima IV, decked head-to-toe in silks and gold jewelry.
When he asks Jesse himself, Jesse gets quiet and then says, “It’s not like we’re royalty though.”
Fernand looks at Jesse, who has worn through the patches on the knees of his trousers again. Parts of his hair are plastered to the side of his head with drying mud, and a week earlier he’d confided in Fernand that he’d accidentally fallen off during a horseback lesson and swallowed one of his baby teeth. Golden hair or not, Jesse isn’t the kind of person people usually allow to even touch silk and jewelry. It makes sense he isn’t royalty.
“That’s good,” Fernand says. “I don’t think we could be friends if you were.”
Jesse smiles, the same way he always does whenever Fernand mentions their friendship. “Why not?”
“Because then you’d be a prince, and when Clive and I are knights, we’d be your servants, which means we can’t be friends,” Fernand says. He’s actually not sure there’s a rule that people can’t be friends with their servants, but he thinks there should be. He wouldn’t want to be a servant to his friends after all. It would make games pretty boring if one of them could just order the others to lose.
“Oh,” says Jesse. “I guess I’m glad I’m not a prince either.”
When Fernand arrives home, he asks his father about servant-liege relationships. Lord Claremont looks at him for a long time. If Fernand had to describe the perfect lord, his father would be his first pick: someone honorable, with the clarity of vision and purpose to perform his duty. He’s never been anything but fair.
“It’s complicated, Fernand.” The beginnings of concern tug the corners of his father's lips downward. There is a question in it. “A liege’s relationship with their people must be a specific kind. We have a duty to them, and they to us. Anything more than that makes things...harder.”
Fernand gives a decisive nod. “I thought so,” he declares, even though Jesse isn't there.
“Does this…” Lord Claremont struggles to ask. Fernand has never seen him at a loss before. “Does this have to do with your sister?”
“No. What’s Bea got to do with it?” Fernand says.
“What does Bea have to do with it,” Lord Claremont corrects. “Nothing, Fernand. Put it out of your mind.”
Fernand is a little curious but he isn't one to disobey an order. Besides, if it’s tied in with inheritance, it's not really Fernand's business. He's going to be a knight, not a lord.
Secretly he wonders if these are things Jesse, who will be inheriting his father's vast estate, must think about, but Jesse doesn't seem to hold the same regard for his lineage as Bea does. Fernand knows Jesse has lessons, but he's always finding ways to weasel out of them.
When Fernand thinks really hard about it, he supposes Jesse doesn't really fit in next to him and Clive, with their polished shoes and thoughtful decorum. They are people with dreams and foresight. Jesse likes making people laugh with silly jokes and cares about the small rodents he captures in the courtyard.
If it weren't for their fathers, Fernand isn't sure Jesse would be their friend at all.
The idea unsettles him, and he wonders if maybe it unsettles Jesse too, if that’s the reason he smiles without restraint - in another circumstance, he might not have had the opportunity to smile at them at all.
Fernand endeavors to invite Jesse to his own manor.
“It's smaller than yours,” Fernand says nervously when Jesse jumps out of the carriage.
He doesn't know why he feels this way. Jesse looks as happy as ever to see Fernand, and then he notices movement behind Fernand and gasps.
“A puppy?” Jesse cries, barreling past Fernand for the splotchy mutt struggling to leap out of Aren's grip.
“His name is Bear,” Fernand says as Jesse rubs his nose against Bear’s, relaxing minutely. The one thing his family has over Jesse’s is Bear, who happens to objectively be the best dog. “Our dogs had puppies. Lady Avanna let us have Bear. She’ll probably let you take one home too.”
“My father is allergic,” Jesse says. Bear snuffles sympathies against his cheek.
Jesse’s presence does not save Fernand from his afternoon lessons. Lady Avanna actually invites Jesse to join them.
“Your mom teaches you?” Jesse whispers when Lady Avanna takes up a rapier in front of them.
“It’s complicated,” Fernand says after chewing on his lip for a while. “She was my governess before my mother, um, passed away. But then Father married her, and she’s Aren and Dixon’s mother, so she’s kind of like mine. She still teaches us lessons. Father said he wouldn’t find a better governess anywhere else.”
Jesse studies Fernand’s padded armor, which bears, among the usual wear-and-tear blemishes, a few uneven patches courtesy of Bea and a dark ash mark from when Dixon had hidden it in the cook’s wood stove. “Your family sounds fun,” Jesse says.
The peculiar tingling in Fernand’s stomach returns, like loneliness can be transmitted by proximity. “You can visit whenever you like,” he tells Jesse. “Bear likes you too.”
It startles a smile out of Jesse - not his signature toothy grin but a shy smile, an accidental one. Jesse is still smiling when Fernand parries his sword so hard it flies out of Jesse’s grip, its blade catching in a nearby crate with enough momentum Fernand thinks it’ll snap in half. The rapiers are blunted of course, nothing like Jesse’s swords at home, but Jesse’s eyes grow so wide it’s as if he thinks Fernand is ready for a knighthood already.
“It’s not that big a deal,” Fernand says. “Clive is better.”
“Nuh-uh, that was really cool.” Jesse bites his lip. “Maybe Father will let me be a knight too.”
Fernand struggles to imagine a Sir Jesse. “It’s a lot of hard work,” he says. “There’s more than just swords. You have to follow orders, and know how to bow and greet other nobles, and there are like fifteen different ceremonies.”
“Yeah but you get to protect people, right?” Jesse asks. “That makes it worth it.”
Retrieving the sword, Jesse brandishes it at Fernand for a second before Lady Avanna comes back over to adjust his grip. Fernand doesn’t even tease him about it. The image of that future comes more easily now: him and Clive and Jesse travelling Zofia helping innocents. They’re taller - adults - each of them bearing the proud emblem of the kingdom on their lapels. Fernand hides his smile. It’s a dream that feels too distant to even hope for.
Characteristically, Jesse proceeds to complain for the next two hours as he sits in on Fernand’s comportment and history lessons. To his credit, both those lessons are incredibly boring, though Fernand does his utmost to internalize them. Lady Avanna has more patience than anyone else in their family, but she still ends up releasing them early in the afternoon.
Jesse runs up the stairs ahead of Fernand and is inspecting every nook and cranny of Fernand’s bedroom when Fernand gets there. He throws an old stuffed rabbit at Fernand’s face. “This is yours? Cute.”
“It’s Bea’s,” Fernand lies, snatching Sir Bun out of the air and placing him gently on the dresser.
Snickering, Jesse jumps onto Fernand’s bed and spreads his limbs out leisurely. “A day in the life of Fernand! If I hid out here, how many days would it be until I was as smart as you?”
“Well, first you’d have to actually listen to the lessons and read the book,” Fernand says, perching on the edge of the bed. Jesse rolls over and grins.
“I read books!”
“Name one,” says Fernand.
“Well, I listen to stories.” Jesse sits up and leans right into Fernand’s space. “Hey, this old guy visited my dad last week and said he came from the desert where he takes jobs beating bandits and stuff. That’s pretty cool, right? It’s kind of like a knight.”
Fernand scrunches up his nose. “But mercenaries fight for money. That’s not the same as fighting for the people.”
“What if there was a mercenary but he worked for free?” Jesse asks.
“He’d still have to pay for food and housing,” Fernand says.
Jesse falls silent, but Fernand can tell from his expression he’s only thinking, not discouraged. “What if,” he says slowly, “if I became a mercenary, then you and Clive could give me money so I’d be able to work for free.”
Fernand considers pushing Jesse off the bed, but from this angle, Fernand would have to pull and Jesse could put up enough of a fight to make the effort not worth it. “Is this just another idea so that you don’t have to go to your lessons?” he says.
Groaning, Jesse falls back onto the bed and wiggles in the covers. “I don’t want to be like my dad,” he says.
“That doesn’t matter.” Jesse stills, letting Fernand extract him from the covers. Fernand keeps a firm grip on Jesse’s wrist even after he pulls Jesse back into a sitting position, staring directly into Jesse’s brown eyes. “Jesse. Stop running away.”
Jesse wilts. “It’s not fair,” he mumbles. “I just want to be normal.”
His head is bowed at just the right angle that his curly hair tickles Fernand’s nose, and Fernand has to learn away before he sneezes. On an impulse, he cards his fingers through Jesse’s hair and feels Jesse lean into his touch. “I think it’s amazing,” Fernand whispers, “to have the opportunity you do.”
“I’m not amazing,” Jesse says. “I’m just me.”
“It’s amazing,” Fernand says. “You and Bea. Our parents. You have the ability to protect people, more than a knight can. I think it’s the most important thing. Do you think think that’s stupid?”
Silently, Jesse shakes his head.
“Nobles have a duty to protect their people. Your house, your family… the fact that we met and became friends. It’s all because we’re nobility. Are you saying you want to give all that up?” Fernand continues.
“No!” says Jesse, looking up fiercely. Fernand jumps at his sudden movement, withdrawing his hand. “I’m just… You know me. I’m not ready for it. It should be someone like you, Fernand.”
“I’ll help you,” Fernand says. He sticks his pinky out, offering it to Jesse. “Promise. You’ll succeed your father, and I’ll become a knight, and Clive will do both, and we’ll make Zofia a better place for everyone.”
Jesse looks at Fernand’s pinky for a long time before he wraps his own around it. “O.K.,” he says.
Fernand curls his pinky tighter, trapping Jesse there. “This means you have to listen to your manners and law lessons,” he says. “I’m not gonna be best friends with someone dumb. You have to become the best lord ever.”
Giggling, Jesse looks up at Fernand. “Better than Bea?”
“Yup. You have more people,” Fernand says. “That means you have to be better.”
Jesse nods a final time, so Fernand releases his hold. Still, Jesse clings to his pinky a moment longer. “I promise.”