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The faint rumble of whispering voices echoing through the hallways barely made it into the room, through the Grandcypher’s thick wooden walls. Someone and some other were surely trying to quietly slip into their bedrooms, when their efforts were betrayed by the loud creaking of a door. Idly, half lost in a haze of placidity, Siegfried tried to guess from the direction of the sound whose bedroom it could be. Much too soon though, Percival’s baritone rumbled again from his side, his attention swept along with it.
Instinctively, with the tender languidness of a lion cuddling up to its mate, Sieg reclined his head over his own crossed arms until the mess of hair tickled at his cheek. He was rested over Percival’s side, leaning not the full brunt but the larger part of his weight over him. A large, thick blanket draped around both of their lower bodies, and an oil lamp hung by the bedside radiated orange light over both of their figures, as well as the open book carefully held in Percival’s grasp. A small, almost entirely consumed candle stood timidly on a table, fading away in solitude. The dying flame’s last remnants shone over the Dragonslayer’s silhouette, painting the greatsword’s profile in a faint glow. A bottle of wine stood nearby as well, telling the tale of late night chatter by way of the two half finished cups accompanying it.
The crew’s healers had said rest was mandatory ( yes, draconic blood and its regenerative qualities notwithstanding, sweet Lennah had emphasized). Percival, as always, held his word, and Siegfried decided to comply for once. They were weary and battle worn, after all. Today’s mission had ended up in quite a mauling, as told by bandages, scratches and bruises. As such, they had the night (and perhaps the couple days after) all to themselves.
Alcohol barely ever affected his senses, as he had been observing for quite some time now (he wondered whether the dragon blood had something to do with it, impervious to physical harm and all). Still, he felt tipsy. A stubborn smile kept clinging to his lips, as he tried to find the missing link between Percival’s silky voice and the text printed over yellowing pages.
They had grown into this little routine over the past few months. It started with a little idle chat about etiquette and decorum and how Sieg felt like he’d forgotten a bunch of important rules from the books King Josef would make him read, but remembered stupidly absurd details like forks go on the left side of the plate .
Soon enough it spiralled into books in general, into literature, into philosophy, into how he was interested in certain topics that sounded too scholarly for him and he never knew where to start. Into how poetry had always piqued his interest but he would surely be too much of a brute to interpret poems the way they ought to be. It turned into book recommendations, into sharing mutual commentary, and then into something a little more intimate; conversation, communion, something about the way they could now share their thoughts about whatever and look each other in the eye and always find a little bit of solace in the other’s words. Something about how Sieg found a silver lining in Percival’s old fashioned idealism, and how Percival found refuge in Sieg’s unwavering belief that however little goodness remained in this world, it surely would always be worth protecting.
Somehow, they were now leafing through an old romance novel. Percival said the author was a native to a village by the outskirts of Wales, and he had been lucky enough to find an original copy while browsing through the royal library. It was the tragic tale of a coming of age man, narrating the love and loss of his darling. It leaned into poetic prose, heavy with emotion and other subtleties. Sieg had taken his sweet time to read it, and now, as Percival flicked through the worn out pages with the utmost care and precision, and strung his thoughts in the usual tone, every line of text seemed to shine under a new light. As it usually did. Sieg did not underestimate his own intellect, but he would behold Percival’s eloquence and poise with a special kind of pride.
Mid-pause, Percival settled for a moment and turned his head delicately, to gaze at him. A calm exhale left him before he spoke again, “Are you listening?”
“...”, Sieg let his smile tighten as he gazed back, amused at himself. He found he’d been paying attention to the tones and inflexions of Percival’s voice, rather than the substance of his words. “Kind of. Sorry, I got a little distracted.”
Percival furrowed his brows and twisted his lips in an unamused frown. There was no bark or bite to it. At this point, being so accustomed to each other’s own personal languages, it was one more gesture. Like a breath or a laugh. Sieg stirred in response, clenching his eyes, smile never faltering.
One quick glance at the pages was reminder enough: this was one episode where the main characters finally got over their pride and allowed themselves the mercy of a first kiss and a first encounter. Tender, innocuous, serene.
Siegfried would pointedly try not to compare himself much to the people in books. The past was locked away, collecting dust, and it ought to stay that way. Nevertheless, when it came to matters such as romance and relationships, he knew himself hopeless. There was nowhere else to latch on to, and so he pondered. On how vastly different every experience was, as told by penmanship on parchment paper. Teenage love was overwhelming and fragile and almost excruciating in its intensity, or so the books told.
His own teenage years couldn’t have been further from the rose and the pearl. Blood, dirt and solitude had shaped his very core. He wondered, sometimes, whether Percival had ever expected something different out of love.
He closed his eyes for a moment, basking in the warmth. As Percival flicked over to the next page, he lifted his head again, eyes lit anew by curiosity.
“That’s the part where she calls him an animal and he says he knew she meant « I love you », no?”
“Yes.” And Percival cocked an eyebrow at him, like he knew what was coming next.
“That’s oddly familiar.”
“Why does it feel like you pointedly act the most insufferable when we’re alone together?”
Laughter rumbled forth, as Sieg cuddled up to his partner’s side again. “There it is.”
“It holds a narrative purpose, though. They can be petty right now because their time is not limited. Or, they don’t know it is.”
“I gathered as much.”
A ghost seemed to cross over his mind. Limited time. The fragility of it all. The looming tragedy. The image of Percival growing into the grandiose and dignified king he surely was born to be, building his kingdom over steady roots, but without Siegfried at his side. Making a stop every evening by his grave, laying a bouquet of flowers every now and then, the way he himself would unto Josef’s (but they would not be wildflowers —surely, Percival would bring him the most beautiful flowers his garden could muster, picked by his own hand).
Now was not the time for that.
“It’s strange”, he rambled, grabbing onto the nearest train of thought in an attempt to rouse himself out of the stupor.
“What?”
“The way he speaks about love… It’s just a constant string of contradictions. Wasn’t there a word for that?”
“Oxymoron.” Percival smiled, the whole of his body tilting the slightest bit closer to Sieg. “Although that’s usually a little more literal than just a contradiction, but… Yes, it could be applicable here. This writer seemed to be fond of oxymorons and contradictions as a resource. I wish we had more of his writings.”
“Was there more?”
“None that I could find, no.”
“Hm… That’s really a shame. I like his style.”
“Now that’s new… I didn’t think such a pragmatic man as you would appreciate it.” Percival glanced down at him, playful mockery tinting his grin.
“Come on now. I would’ve said that about a handful of years ago.”
“And what do you like about it?”, the way his features softened showed it was a genuine question. “I still have a bit of trouble understanding your taste.”
“Well”, Sieg smiled to himself, eyes roaming over the book again, “it’s melodramatic, that’s for sure. I can’t relate to the concept of being a lovesick youth. But it’s… Genuine, in a way. Humane.”
Percival chuckled softly in response, looking down at the book again. Sieg watched the way his eyes glinted in the light, hooded by long and thick lashes. “You’re a handful, did you know?”
“I think we might be even, in that regard.”
The only response he got was the warmth of Percival’s head leaning over until it touched his own, carefully enough not to bump. He guessed the sleepy haze was taking ahold of him, too.
“Did you really find it strange?”
“Huh?”
“The contradictions. I mean…. Was it any different for us?”
The question, as well as the way it was phrased (he was still not used to talking about an us , like their newfound state of unionship was such an important thing), seemed to linger in his mind. Taking his sweet time to process it, he propped himself up and settled in a new position, so his weary arms rested on his lap and he could lean his side on Percival’s, gently.
Thinking back on their story he could, indeed, come up with a few oxymorons of his own. The way Percival’s glare was cold in its fiery rage, whenever he stood in battle against wicked men. The way the same stern, severe demeanor he showed everyone all the same seemed to take a turn for gentle solemnity, when facing Sieg behind the solace of a closed door. Or perhaps the way his flames, unrelenting and destructive if he so desired, could be channeled into a gentle stream of warmness, when he held Sieg’s ever freezing hands in between his own.
Scooting ever closer, he tickled at the back of Percival’s neck with the tip of his nose. He stirred, almost a small jump, in response, but didn’t make a sound. Despite himself, Sieg felt a chuckle bubbling up in his chest.
“...Not really, I guess. Not so much. I mean…”
“Hm?”
“We were certainly not lovesick teens. We never took hurried decisions to stop the world from tearing us apart, or whatever. But…”
“It was dramatic. You can’t possibly be trying to deny that.”
Sieg exhaled a huff of subtle laughter, again. “Okay, sure. I’ll give you that.”
The greater contradiction was, perhaps, his own coming to terms with his feelings for his former vice commander and how they had evolved over the years, like an unwilling but natural metamorphosis.
The way he had always reviled and eluded the very idea of relying on another, of letting his balance and his direction remotely depend on those of someone else. How he thought being vulnerable surely was the same as being weak. He could not falter. For years and years, his own strength was his only lifeline. He could not show a single sign of weakness. If he ever stopped being strong, he’d be nothing.
A plethora of things had happened from then to now, and here he stood. He had learned to appreciate the tender beauty of communion and filiality. He learned to be gentle, to be kind, and he even learned, painstakingly, to rely on another (this one was still a work in progress, though).
He cared for people, deeply. He cared for his comrades. He cared for Percival, and felt vulnerable in the openness of their shared intimacy. And still, his vulnerability made him feel stronger and more grounded than ever. Like he could face the absurd cruelty of the Sky Realm, struck time and time again by capricious higher powers and men who thought themselves owners of the power of gods. Even now, wounded and scarred in more than one way, he could face it all (treason, loss, the all-consuming power that still coursed through his very veins) because Percival was stood at his side.
It was not dependance. It was something far from the I can’t live without yous that writers loved to toss back and forth.
No, it was vastly different in its similarity (suddenly, he couldn’t stop coming up with oxymorons). What they had was… Unique. Not like he had much room to compare, but it was pointedly different to the look Lancelot and Vane shared when staring at each other over a crowd. Like the word sweet versus the word tender : one was purely gentle and warm where the other was tinted with lukewarm nostalgia. Perhaps it was because they met each other under different circumstances; because they were torn and reunited anew, and they only dared hold each other’s hand once they had already known the aching void, the cold burn of irreparable absence.
There was something tragic about the mirth of their union. Something lonesome, taciturn. Broken, perhaps. Even though every time they lay together like this, so quiet they could hear the pace of each other’s breath, he could feel something inside his chest being healed.
And still, as he glanced sideways at Percival yawning unceremoniously, he knew in his heart of hearts that neither of them would have had it any other way.
The same smile from before crept its way to his lips, once more. In moments like this, absurd as it were, he felt unafraid in the face of eternity. What they had right now, the spaces between them and the ends where they met; all of it was theirs. Unflinchingly, unabashedly theirs.
“We should sleep.”
Percival agreed with a hum. He set the closed book on the bedside table and then stretched his hand to extinguish the dimming light.
Lifting his head, Sieg let his hand rest over Percival’s shoulder and tugged at his night robe to catch his attention.
“Percy.”
His voice had come out soft as a prayer, and Percival turned his head to face him. Under the vaguely blueish moonlight sneaking through the windows, almost pitch black, ruby and gold still searched for each other.
They kissed, paused and long and tender, before settling down to sleep.
Without a trace of doubt, Siegfried managed to articulate in one last waking thought, he would not have had it any other way.