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Spirits were low upon their return to Gridania, weighed down by heavy hearts, burdened with the guilt of loss that was out of their control, yet within their reach to prevent. Reports of an unusual amount of beast attacks near fringe settlements in the Black Shroud had the Gods’ Quiver deploying an unwilling Guydelot and his fellow Quivermen to hunt the beasts. For over a week they’d patrolled the borders, thinning the beasts’ numbers and fending off attack after attack on vulnerable encampments. However, they had arrived at one such attack too late. Several residents lay dead at the maws of the beasts, and though the threat was quickly subdued, nothing could be done for the departed. Even as the survivors welcomed them into their homes and thanked them for their efforts, the cries of the bereaved were not easily forgotten, and none could escape their echoes. Morale plummeted overnight, and soon after sending their report on the attack they were informed they would be relieved by a new unit.
Their return journey, however, had to be made on foot. Accompanied by little else but the ambient sounds of the forest, their travels were somber, and by the time they reached the river crossing in the East Shroud, Guydelot had been gone for a little over two weeks.
Evening fell as they boarded the ferry and began the last leg of their journey on blessedly calm waters, the smooth surface reflecting the blinding orange light of the late-day sun between the shadows of the looming trees. A murmur rippled through the crew when the first glimpse of delicate woodwork emerged from the camouflage of the forest. Hunched backs straightened as they all strained to catch sight of home, hands growing restless in their laps, longing to see their loved ones once more, and to hold them tightly for those who no longer could.
All but one, who felt only relief at the thought of his own bed.
The boat rocked unsteadily as it came into port at Westshore Pier, bumping against the fenders as the passengers scrambled to grab hold and disembark. Once ashore, it was quickly decided that Guydelot, the youngest and lowest-ranking member of their unit, would receive the thankless task of securing the ferry. Thus did Guydelot find himself alone, tossing lines around the mooring bollards while the others hurried home to their families, his foul mood simmering.
The sky beyond the canopy bid farewell to the last fleeting rays of sunlight as he worked, the first stars beginning to shine in the twilight and the lamps of Gridania flickering to life, their aetherial glow bathing the cobbled streets in a warm light. The rhythmic bobbing of the dock underfoot and the repetition of his ministrations—toss, tug, wrap, knot—sunk Guydelot into a deeper melancholy, his mind wandering to thoughts he’d rather leave buried.
Thoughts of who he might go to for comfort in such times.
The thought that there was no one.
Guydelot hadn’t managed to form any lasting relationships in the city, which had suited him just fine up until now. It’d suit him tomorrow, too. But in that moment, wearied as he was, he felt a traitorous ache in his chest at the reminder of the consequences of his vagabonding ways.
One person did come to mind, however unwanted and un-asked for the suggestion was. Guydelot considered paying him a visit before heading home, but doubted even the overworked Captain would still be in his office this late; midsummer days were long, and though the sun had only just set, working hours were long since over. And despite knowing where the man lived, Guydelot questioned whether they were on good enough terms to allow unannounced visits, and wondered—again, unbidden—whether he could face rejection in that moment, no matter how casual. They’d barely spoken since returning from the Churning Mists, most of their exchanges mere greetings spoken in passing; so busy was he, negotiating the terms of his dreamed-of bard unit. The perilous end of their journey had felt (at least to Guydelot) like the last plank to bridge the gap between them, yet the moment that plank was laid the chasm seemed to have widened beyond reach. Now, without adrenaline loosening their inhibitions, nothing remained to help navigate the treacherous terrain of their new friendship.
The realization stayed Guydelot’s hands and wrinkled his brow.
With a frustrated huff he tugged the knot one last time and decided to let the whims of the current decide the fate of the damned ferry. He may not have anyone waiting at home, but he deserved a rest just as well as the rest of them, he reasoned. Throwing down the ropes, Guydelot climbed the slope from the docks into the city proper, melancholy soothed somewhat by the sight of the city awakening to it’s quieter second act. The drinkers and merrymakers would already be at the Carline Canopy by now, leaving Old Gridania’s natural beauty to bloom undisturbed in the dark. Together, the sway of lavender stalks brushing against one another in the breeze, the crickets chirping in the long grass, and the gentle lap of the riverbank behind him became a deafening flood of noise, drowning out his thoughts and offering a numbing comfort.
As he reached the top of the bank, the natural acoustics were interrupted by the sound of wood scraping against wood, followed by a familiar voice floating down from somewhere above.
“Goodnight, Ywain,” Sanson called.
Guydelot’s head snapped towards the voice. His eyes found him in the low light outside the Lancers' Guild, his profile visible for only a moment before the light filtering through the door vanished. The heavy wooden door latched audibly, and moments later Sanson stepped out of the shadows and onto the stairs. He wore only a loose, white shirt without any of his usual ornamentation, and his hair, usually pulled back tightly, was now tied loosely over one shoulder, seemingly recently washed and perhaps not yet completely dry. He occupied himself with tucking a journal into a pouch at his side as he descended, unaware of Guydelot in the gloom beyond the light’s reach.
When Sanson stepped down onto the cobblestones and into the full flush of the lamplight, something sparked deep within Guydelot. It sputtered, then it roared, and like the last, desperate burn of a candle wick fighting not to drown, Guydelot surged forward. Instinct carried him over the few short strides between them, and with nary a thought he crashed into Sanson, cupping his face and tilting it upwards until lips met in a tender, firm press.
Sanson’s body went rigid from surprise, having no time to even look up at his assailant before their bodies met. But Guydelot had not the faculties to care in that moment, all thought replaced with a primal need to touch, to feel, and to cherish. His lips pressed insistently against Sanson’s, one hand burying itself in the cool, damp locks at the base of his neck, the other finding home cradling his jaw.
When his senses caught up to him at last, Guydelot was reluctant to remove himself, his lips chasing Sanson’s even as his mind told him to withdraw. When the stillness beneath him became too much to bear and the roaring in his ears gave way to silence, Guydelot pressed one last kiss against the corner of his mouth before pulling away and looking down into Sanson’s wide, blue eyes. He found no anger there. Confusion—perhaps flustered bewilderment—but no anger or accusation. Fragile hope threatened to swell unchecked in his breast.
“...Guydelot?” It was almost a whisper; tentative, but gentle.
The hand that had tangled itself in Sanson’s hair found it’s way down to his waist instead, brushing against the loose linen tunic along the way, eventually wrapping itself around him and pulling him close. “The one and only,” he murmured, eyes never leaving Sanson’s, and idly running his left thumb across his cheek. Sanson flinched, however minutely, and Guydelot froze before pulling away. “Forgive me,” he whispered.
After a moment of staring owlishly, Sanson started, his expression now laced with worry. “Did something happen?” He asked, stepping back into Guydelot’s reach, and placing one hand on his chest.
Blinking down at the hand, and then back up to Sanson’s face, Guydelot cautiously returned his hands to the smaller man’s waist, tension easing when Sanson made no move to remove him. “Mm,” he finally assented. “But nothing I wish to linger on tonight, ‘specially not with a handsome man in my arms.”
Sanson was silent for a moment, eyes turning down to where he began to pick gingerly at the fabric of Guydelot’s uniform. “Is that what you were hoping for, then? A companion to help you forget your troubles for the night?”
“Aye, I suppose I was,” Guydelot replied. Sanson’s hand stilled. Guydelot’s brows knit at the reaction, cocking his head to try and catch a glimpse of Sanson’s expression before the realization hit him. “But— Gods, Sanson—that’s not all that was, if that’s what you’re thinking.” His grip involuntarily tightened around Sanson’s waist, heart rising to his throat.
Sanson met his eyes once more. “What was it then? You bards typically have such a way with words,” he deadpanned. “I’d expect you to know how to say what you mean.”
“I’m afraid my words have abandoned me tonight,” Guydelot sighed, slumping his weight forward onto Sanson’s shoulders, clasping his wrists behind his back in a tender embrace. “To try and express what I’d like to, tonight…’t would be an insult to all my previous attempts, and, most of all, to you.” Guydelot closed his eyes, letting Sanson’s warmth seep into him at every point of contact. “Tonight, I have no flowery verses or fine melodies to convince you of my sincerity. Nay, tonight I am a simple Quiverman, not a bard.”
Sanson scoffed. “You’re a bard to the tips of your toes.” The hand on Guydelot’s chest fisted loosely into his uniform. “But, in that case...come over for breakfast tomorrow? And we can try then,” he said, a wavering hope in his voice. “I don’t need flowery verses,” he added in a whisper.
Guydelot straightened, leaning back and eyes opening wide, searching Sanson’s face. His lips curled into a smirk. “If you’re already making me breakfast, why not spare me the early morning stroll and let me spend the night, hm?”
Sanson scowled, pushing him away with all the ferocity of a kitten and pointing an accusatory finger at him. “No. Talk first.”
Once he’d regained his footing, Guydelot’s smile softened. He reached out and took Sanson’s hand in his, guiding it to his lips where he planted a delicate kiss on his knuckles. “Talk first, then.” His eyes darted upwards to meet Sanson’s. “But afterwards…?”
“Ugh,” Sanson groaned, wrenching his hand free. “Insufferable flirt. Then we’ll see.”
A mixture of warmth and anxiety that had been bubbling up inside Guydelot since he first saw Sanson burst in that moment, and with a bark of laughter he held up his hands in surrender. The weight still threatened to pull him under, but Guydelot thought that, perhaps, this was enough to keep him afloat.