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To Derek, the castle ball was a charade. Triskelia was at war, and hosting such a big feast in the capitol of Beacon Hills when mere weeks ago he and a bunch of other soldiers had fought for their lives for king and country - well, it was disrespectful for the fallen soldiers. It was disrespectful for those who had not been granted the fortune to return to Beacon Hills after the latest victory, like Derek and other gentry but been forced to march further off, to new battlefields where they once again would have to face their mortality.
In some ways, he’d rather be with them than here, and he knew he was foolish and stupid for thinking so. The battlefield was harsh, cold and cruel. Sickness ran rampant through the camps, and every night the men fell asleep to the moans of the slowly dying. In comparison, the fact that he got to wash off the grime and the weariness, then join a huge celebration with good food and good wine, and did not, above all else, have to immediately fear for his life… his lot was small compared to that of his soldiers. Heavenly.
He should not feel angry or jealous of them, but his mood was not reasonable. He had spent a year and a half at war, and neither he nor the conversation around the dinner table was perfectly reasonable.
The debate had started innocently enough; discussions of the war-effort and the recent victory their forces had managed. Then a rather thoughtless comment from the Marquess of Stiles on the lives lost at the front set Derek’s teeth on end.
Lord Stiles was frustrating on an ordinary day, but after so long away from home, Derek really wasn’t in the mood for debate. And the problem, as Derek saw it, was that Lord Stiles thought himself entitled to things he had no personal experience.
The Duke of Stiles, Noah Stilinski, had been a great general in his day. Lord Stiles the senior had fought in many battles and won. He knew what it was like out there on the battlefield. The marquess of Stiles had not seen battle. He could hold a sword, but barely use it against anyone more vicious than a ten-year-old, and yet, the marquess was in the war council.
It was no secret, at least according to gossip, that he held that position because of his close friendship with His Majesty the King, whom he had grown up with and practically was considered the brother of, and not, as was expected, because of any practical knowledge of warfare.
Not to say that he wasn’t clever. No, Lord Stiles knew numbers and to him the war was a balance of moves and countermoves, ultimately adding up to an end cost. If the price was favourable the death of soldiers was, according to Lord Stiles, acceptable. The pain and anguish of the battle were academic for Lord Stiles, which came through in the flippant way he addressed the table, and Derek was tired of it.
“Perhaps, Lord Stiles, you wouldn’t be so casual of our men if you knew what it really meant, being out there, seeing what it actually meant to lose so many casualties,” he said cuttingly, giving the marquess a sharp glare over the table. “Those numbers to you are dying men to those of us who are not so fortunate to sit behind secure walls as the war rages on.”
The marquess regarded him thoughtfully for a second before he grinned, a wide, almost manic smile that Derek knew meant mischief. Because Lord Stiles always brought mischief.
“So what are you suggesting, Lord Hale?” the marquess asked, his voice light and almost playful, which only frustrated Derek more. “War is hell, ergo only people on the battlefield are allowed to comment?”
“No,” said Derek and pursed his lips, “but at least those who have experienced blood will understand what it truly means.”
As Derek’s frown darkened, Lord Stiles’ grin widened until his dark eyes glistened in the soft candlelight. Derek focused his eyes on Lord Stiles’ hands and watched as Lord Stiles picked up his glass of wine then brought the goblet to his face and took a careful sip.
“You’re half-right, of course,” he said once the goblet was down on the table again. Derek frowned and met his eyes, and this time he could see the challenge in them, clear as day. “Are you familiar with chess, Lord Hale?”
“Of course,” Derek snorted and gave him an incredulous look. “Although, I certainly have not had time for such frivolous activities lately.”
Instead of cutting Lord Stiles’ grin off with his remark, effectively conveying that he no longer had time for such childish endeavours, unlike Lord Stiles, the marquess tilted his head pleasantly, never once losing his grin.
“Tell me, then,” said Lord Stiles and put his chin in his hand, “which player is the most important in the game - in your opinion?”
Derek raised an eyebrow and shook his head. Lord Stiles had a way of dancing around subjects to the point where they almost lost their meaning. As it was, he couldn’t quite understand why the subject had changed to chess, or why the marquess would ask such a simple question.
“Well, the most important piece would be the king, of course,” Derek said slowly, dreading whenever Lord Stiles would circle back and somehow make this whole conversation relevant again. He couldn’t quite help the feeling that he was being played. “As for the most powerful piece, it would be the Queen.”
“Quite right,” Lord Stiles said with a smile, but he also shook his head. “But you misunderstand my meaning.
“The pieces on the board have certain advantages and disadvantages; at their core, they are all valuable, a simple mathematical equation can easily add who has the advantage in the game,” Lord Stiles explained, dragging a finger absentmindedly along the edge of his wine cup as he spoke. “But the most important player is not a single piece on the board, but the one with the strategy to move them.”
They watched each other for a moment. Derek raised an eyebrow and Stiles smiled and leaned back in his chair.
“Meaning, in your example, that the chessboard is the front lines and the most important player is you, cowering behind a ten-foot wall, unaffected by the death and carnage of battle?” Derek asked.
“I was thinking more along with His Majesty, or your uncle, the Earl of Alpha,” Stiles said with a satisfied smirk. “But I’m flattered that you think so highly of me, Lord Hale.”
Derek scoffed loudly at that.
“Philosophers can sit and debate the comings and goings of the world to eternity,” he said drily. “In the end, all their musing leads to nothing if there aren’t any people to carry out their decree.”
“No, indeed, when the king is mated the game is over,” Lord Stiles said sweetly, completely ignoring Derek’s point. Derek rolled his eyes and was just about to snap something back at him, but before he had the chance, the marchioness of Stiles, Lydia Stilinski, seated to Derek’s right, made a bored sound in the back of her throat and looked between her husband and Derek.
“As fascinating chess is,” said Lady Stiles with a tone that clearly meant the opposite, “I do believe we were promised some merriment at this occasion, and I feel like dancing.”
Lord Stiles tore his dark amber eyes away from Derek and looked at his wife fondly.
“Of course, dear,” he said, his eyes sparkling alluringly in the low light. “And once I have thoroughly trampled all over your delicate feet and Lord Hale has had the chance to spin you around the dancefloor in perfect rhythm and once and for all prove himself the superior dancer, perhaps Lord Hale will agree to some chess?”
Lord Stiles looked back at Derek and grinned. “I’ll even go easy on him; since it’s been long since he played.”
Lady Stiles and Derek practically snorted in unison at Lord Stiles, but Derek nodded his acquiescence at the question and the table rose to dance.
Derek danced with his own wife, the viscountess Lady Paige, and from the corner of his eye saw Lord Stiles hold his end of the bargain, spinning Lady Stiles around the dancefloor and trampling her feet at least a couple of times, although it hardly was as painful to watch as Stiles’ words had suggested.
The dance brightened his spirits, but Paige quickly lost her stamina and he was content with staying by her side, only dancing occasionally, first with Lady Stiles, then with Her Majesty Malia, whom he still couldn’t quite call Her Majesty without flushing, all while Lord Stiles, and later even His Majesty, the king, entertained the viscountess for him.
In the end, despite the fact that he felt bone-tired from the prolonged battlements, he found some peace in the feast, and after he had walked Paige home safely he found himself wandering the path to Lord Stiles’ chambers.
Chess. He still couldn’t decide if he was offended or not at the comparison, but he was of course never one to stand down from a challenge. And unlike Lord Stiles, he had actually seen combat.
Lord Stiles himself opened the door when he knocked and invited him in with a sharp grin. Derek stepped into the familiar room and looked around. He hadn’t been here for a year and a half, but it still seemed mostly like how he remembered it.
A warm fire was burning in the hearth and a few candles were lit to brighten up the room. Stiles had the habit of making a mess of things, even though servants were sure to make the rooms spotless whenever they tended to them. Right now there were just a few books scattered around by the desk, and a huge map that looked like it had been jabbed to the wall with knives embedded in the wood.
Derek walked over to the map and realised it was the battle movements, spreading out from the capitol to where each important battle was being held, and how their soldiers had moved. He stared at it for a long time.
Stiles appeared next to him and handed him a glass of wine, which he graciously accepted and drowned. They were both silent for a moment, then Derek saw Stiles in the corner of his eye turn to face him.
“Do you want to play?” he asked quietly. The marquess of Stiles was rarely quiet, which somehow made those moments when it happened more impactful.
Derek closed his eyes and took a deep breath. In these chambers, standing next to him, he could smell Stiles in a way he had been unable to do in a long time. The scent was somewhat overpowering and familiar, and at the same time strange, like something he used to know, but now couldn’t quite understand.
He shook his head without opening his eyes. He heard Stiles move around, then felt the cup being taken from him carefully. There was a sound as Stiles placed down the glass on his desk, then a rustle of clothes as Stiles returned to his side.
“Derek,” Stiles said gently. Derek remained still until he felt Stiles pull him into a hug. Then he buried his head in the other’s neck and hugged back.
Stiles held him for a long time, even allowing the silence to stretch. Derek could feel his fingers gently comb through Derek’s hair with one hand, while the other rubbed soothing patterns over his back.
“I’ve missed you,” Derek said eventually. Stiles chuckled softly.
“I could tell,” he said, his voice deceptively light and teasing. “You’re always so argumentative when you’ve longed for me.”
Derek snorted but did not pull away from Stiles’ grasp. Instead, he sagged into it even further, allowing Stiles to take almost all of his weight. Stiles was rather skinny, but deceptively strong when he wanted to.
“When are you going to win this war?” Derek asked quietly against the crock of Stiles’ neck. Stiles tightened his grip on him reassuringly.
“Soon, Derek,” he whispered. “Very soon.”