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The Gloucester townhouse, for Lorenz's periodic visits to the capital, is on a busy street. The windows are open and through them drifts the noise of the crowd below. Pipes play and children shout; at the end of the street, someone is setting off fireworks. Stalls line the walks, selling commemorative badges and ribbons and teacups. Years of exhaustive negotiation have finally borne fruit. Today, the Locket Accords take full and formal effect.
Lorenz turns at the knock. He is expecting a note. And when the door opens, old Michaelis the butler, a fixture of the townhouse since Lorenz's grandfather's time, is indeed on the other side—accompanied by another.
"My lord," Michaelis says, sounding put out. "A visitor."
Lorenz should have known better. He does know better. A familiar expression, a very particular mixture of affection and exasperation, is already overtaking his face, well before he is able to make out the visitor in question. "Thank you, Michaelis. I shall receive him."
"Thanks," drawls an even more familiar voice. "Appreciate the time."
The parlor door closes behind Claude. He must have come from the reception; he is dressed in formal regalia, green and gold cape over one arm. The architect of the Accords.
"If it isn't the flower of Gloucester." Claude is smiling; his voice is purely fond. "Now there's a sight for sore eyes."
Lorenz musters a slight smile in return. It has been years since he last heard that moniker, in sincerity or in jest. He is older—they are both older, though to see it would require a second glance at Claude, or a third. There are shadows in his eyes that weren't there seven years ago. He is king now. It did not come without cost.
"You flatter me," Lorenz murmurs, inclining his head. "To what do I owe the honor of a personal call?" With emphasis: "Surely the diplomatic agenda does not leave his majesty's schedule wanting?"
Claude shrugs. "I put in my time at the reception. Then after a while it all got pretty same-y, so." Shrug. "Thought I'd slip out for a while."
Lorenz raises a disbelieving eyebrow. "You. Tired of a celebration."
"You know what they say. It's not the food, it's the company." Claude drapes his cape over the back of one of the townhouse's Ionius VII chairs and strolls over to stand beside Lorenz, surveying the street. The setting sun stripes his face with golden bars. "I think the real question is, why weren't you there?"
Lorenz could cite several reasons, some of them the same. He is on good terms with most of the Imperial circle, these days. He has many acquaintances who would have gladly welcomed him today, not least the Prime Minister. It is merely the difference between an acquaintance, and a friend.
Hilda's trips to the capital are more and more infrequent. He fears they will become more still.
None of which has any bearing on the matter at hand. The simple truth is, Lorenz is will not court adulation for what he has not done. He says, "The day is not mine to celebrate."
"Peace belongs to all of us. Or it's not worth a damn thing."
"We will all share in it. But we did not all build it. And some of us recognize who did." Lorenz says it then, quietly. "Congratulations."
One side of Claude's mouth turns up, ironic. "Thanks. It was a group effort."
"False modesty is unattractive." Lorenz crosses his arms as that curl of the lip turns inward, self-mocking. "You know very well you will be remembered for this for generations."
"Let's hope so." Claude hears himself and shakes his head. "Not that—" he makes a face, "—I'm remembered. That it lasts. For generations."
"We must believe it will."
"Must we?"
"Claude." How easy it is to slip into that familiar register, impatience and chastisement mixed. "It is the height of rudeness to persist in refusing a compliment."
The twist in Claude's mouth curdles further, and then—he laughs. Truly laughs, from the chest, hand braced on hip. It is not an unpleasant sight. When he calms, he lifts a hand to clasp Lorenz's shoulder. "I've missed you, Lorenz."
"And I you." He can afford this much honesty. "Though at present I struggle to remember why."
"Harsh, friend." That unpleasant curve is gone; Claude's eyes are twinkling now. Good. "You really should have tried to make the reception. Would've made the whole thing twice as entertaining."
"I suppose I am meant to take that as praise."
"Don't take it from me. Everyone agrees: better you than your old man." Claude quirks one eyebrow, kidding-but-not-actually. "Speaking of which. How's things in Gloucester?"
Facial poise, Lorenz, his father would say, were he lucid enough. Four, even two years ago, the Count would have been the center of the reception, capturing every ray of reflected glory and bottling it to brighten Gloucester.
His father is still Count in name. He is too frail for the capital, these days.
Claude knows this. Claude knows all there is to know about Gloucester, between Lorenz's regular letters and his own—friendly eyes, as he persists in calling them. Lorenz is fairly sure the new stableboy is one of them. Recklessly audacious even for Claude, to try and slip an untutored groom past Lorenz—but perhaps that is why. Perhaps it is Claude's peculiar mode of greeting. A knowing wink.
"You know very well how Gloucester fares," Lorenz says. "I hardly know why I bother to write."
Claude grins. "Come on, I like your letters a lot. You know, I always thought they wouldn't be much of a substitute for the real thing, because they'd get all bogged down in formalities—"
"Excuse me," says Lorenz, who follows perfect epistolary convention.
"—but every time it's like I can hear your voice reading them." Claude smiles. "It's nice. Nostalgic."
Although over the years Lorenz has gained a certain amount of—not immunity, precisely, but natural tolerance, he is still on occasion caught out. A moment before he can say, passing tolerably for disgruntled, "Thank you, I suppose."
Claude grins. "Don't hurt yourself."
"A noble—"
"—never spurns a compliment."
Lorenz inclines his head. "Precisely."
"Well, having said that. Turns out they're not quite up to the standard of the genuine article." Claude really must stop saying things like this. "You should at least come for a visit one of these days."
"Perhaps."
They both know what that means. The same thing it does when Lorenz urges Claude to extend his latest diplomatic tour by a few days, to travel up to Edmund or down to the Throat. A few days of precious time, a commodity already in short supply. Far too much to do, and no one else to do it.
Lorenz keeps his records, pays his taxes, enriches his lands, listens to counsel, upholds the law, accepts judgement, fosters respect. He is a model citizen in every respect.
"Guess it'll be a while before I'm back here," Claude says, echoing Lorenz's train of thought. He is looking out at the streets of Enbarr, out at the ranks of fine houses, the edifices of classical Imperial architecture. "Now that we've got this peace business sewn up. Time for some housecleaning."
Claude keeps his secrets close. But with time Lorenz has learned his dictionary: learned the words to pick up, the ones to discard, the casual lines, carelessly tossed off, that speak volumes. In the sunset afterglow, crimson rays illuminate the fine lines that bracket his mouth and eyes.
Claude turns away from the window. "I can see it already. Ten years from now, me, wizened but wiser, hopefully with all four limbs intact. You, decoratively distinguished." Indoor shadows flicker over a whimsical smile. "Future generations of little Gloucesters in tow."
Lorenz says, "I do not imagine I will marry."
That, if Lorenz is not mistaken, is a flash of real surprise. Either Claude is getting careless, or Lorenz is getting better. "Oh?"
Others, judging on appearance, would be less surprised, with little cause. Not because of his preferences—as if they matter. There has always been one reason above all else to marry.
Lorenz says, "I expect that within a matter of years my duty to further the line will be irrelevant."
Claude's brows go up. "You really think so. That quickly."
Lorenz nods, once. He cannot say precisely when. Maybe in a decade. Maybe in a generation. But the nobility will be obsolete within his lifetime.
Claude whistles. "Well. If anyone could manage it, it's Edelgard. I guess I should have given her more credit."
"She receives plenty," Lorenz says, and if his tone verges on snippish, well.
Claude grins, a quick flash, but lets it pass. Instead he says, "Then here's to generations of Pinellis and Kirstens instead. The salt of the earth, long may they walk it."
"I shall happily toast to that," Lorenz murmurs.
The last streaks of crimson are fading to rose in the sky; twilight has settled on the streets. Across the way, points of light flicker into being, candles in the windows and lanterns on the wall. Lorenz should do the same.
Claude says, light, and for all that careful, "You're taking this pretty well."
Is he? He has had an abundance of time to think on it. This will not be the moment the world changes. The world changed when the Emperor ascended the throne. Earlier. When she was victorious at Tailtean. In Derdriu. When their professor joined her side. All that has passed since is merely the natural sequence of events. Regret it? How could he: the choices were not Lorenz's to make.
What Lorenz says is, "It is a new world, is it not? I have found my place in it."
"And? Where is that?"
Claude's eyes are piercing. There is only one possible answer. Lorenz says simply, "In Gloucester, of course."
"Well. If you ever need a change of scenery."
In the silence, the words hang in the air, taking on weight. Claude has never offered; he knows what Lorenz would say, and there is therefore no need to discuss it further. In this, at least, they understand each other perfectly. So Lorenz thought.
Twilight is a meager veil. He does not know the answer his face gives. Only that the half-smile on Claude's face, touched with irony, touched with ruefulness, falls away.
Lorenz says, "The people deserve a good steward. It is not insignificant."
"Of course it isn't." Claude's brows are drawn. "They couldn't ask for better. Everyone knows that."
"Yes. Of course." Rote words.
The frown lingers at Claude's mouth. "Lorenz."
Lorenz says abruptly, "I did think once that—"
And then of course he must continue, because this is Claude. Perhaps he knew that. Perhaps that is why he spoke. Claude knows this as well as he does. He waits, patient but unyielding. Gaze steady.
"You'll laugh."
"I won't."
He never had, Lorenz supposes. Not at that. For all Lorenz had deserved it.
Lorenz says, "I once thought that I was—" Meant? No. Childhood arrogance. "That I had. More. In me. That—I had something to give."
It shouldn't hurt so much, like reopening an old, old wound. Scales torn from tender skin. The truth scrapes Lorenz's throat raw, leaving soreness in its wake. The deepest cut of all.
Claude's face—Lorenz doesn't know this expression. Of all he's seen, been privy to in the nine years since the war ended, the seven since the Locket, this territory is unknown.
How mortifying, after all, this ordeal of exposing yourself to another. Of being true. The silence has gone on too long. Lorenz must do something to break it. He parts his lips to speak.
Claude says, "Do you remember the night Derdriu fell? The last time I saw you before I left Fódlan."
As if he could forget. The night he knew the full magnitude of his feelings—maybe the night they came into being. The night he made the one choice left to him. The night the world changed.
"I don't think you realize what you did, when you told me Hilda was alive. That Teach and Edelgard reached out to save her. If you hadn't, I would have returned home thinking she was dead, and that they'd done it. I would have blamed myself. But I wouldn't have forgiven them. I would have remembered. I would have remembered and been that much more determined to make sure peace didn't come cheap. If it came at all. Even when—if—I found out the truth.
"And whatever treaty came out of that, it might have gotten us by as long as the three of us were alive, but the roots wouldn't have been there. One generation, maybe two? It'd all have fallen apart."
Claude smiles at him, a small thing—rare and genuine and warmer than the midsummer sun. Lorenz could not have moved were the sky itself to fall on him.
"So, Lorenz, you really laid the foundation for lasting peace between Fódlan and Almyra. How's that for a legacy?"
Lorenz—cannot think, cannot speak. It's too much: far too much. He musters his voice. "You speak as if I—I—" He swallows past lips gone dry. "It is nothing noteworthy to—I made no special—"
"No," Claude says. "You just cared."
Absurd. That such a natural thing should be seen as a matter of consequence. That such words should—should flay him so, helpless before the unflinching brilliance of Claude's gaze. He should save them both the embarrassment; should look away; should—
He will never know who is the one to move. Only that it is the work of an instant—the blink of an eye, the beat of a bird's wing, hushed. One impermanent moment, that their lips brush.
Lorenz opens his eyes. He had not known they were closed. Claude's face is unguarded. His mouth is parted. His mouth—
"Oh, hell," Claude says, "Lorenz—" at the same time Lorenz says, with unadulterated horror, "No, we cannot possibly—"
The words collide, halt.
"Right," Claude says. He sounds—blank. Shorn clean of expression.
This is—of all the turns Lorenz could possibly have imagined, this is the very worst. No, worse, because Lorenz never could have imagined this. Never did.
He wets dry lips. Impossible, in more ways than one.
Claude laughs, without humor. Pushes a hand through his curls. "I really didn't… expect that." The heel of his hand shields his eyes. "I—sorry."
That, at least is easy enough. "There is nothing for which to apologize. We will not speak of it."
Claude drops his hand; looks at him, sharply. Perhaps his voice has betrayed too much, after all. "Lorenz—"
"No," Lorenz says. "Please do not trouble yourself. For my sake."
"For your sake," Claude repeats.
It is enough, for Lorenz, to live with the knowledge of where his heart lies. It would be a thousand times worse to believe it welcome there. The whim of a moment, balanced against the weight of a lifetime.
"Lorenz," Claude begins, and Lorenz says, "I would not lose your friendship for the world."
Claude stills. He says something Lorenz doesn't understand. Lorenz finds himself watching his hands. Capable hands, so different to Lorenz's own, clever and agile.
The height of hubris, to believe he had the mastery of this.
The inside of his mouth is bleeding, where he has bitten it. "Then we agree," he says.
"Lorenz," Claude says again. He sounds very tired.
Lorenz waits. It doesn't take long.
"All right. I'll honor your wishes." Claude sounds formal now. More so than Lorenz has heard in many years.
Lorenz starts to bow. "I am—"
"As long as you remember," Claude says, cutting him off. "You're always welcome. On any terms. At any time."
Lorenz gives a slight nod; it is all the acknowledgement he can afford. He cannot think on it. So he will not. He will ride back to Gloucester, the land where he is bound by all to which he has pledged his life. He is, still, a noble. Until the duty is taken from his shoulders he will see it fulfilled.
Never mind mastery. Such an ambition is impossible by definition. But he does not have to master this. He has merely to bear it. And Lorenz is very good at bearing it.
Lorenz says, "They will miss you at the palace."
"Yeah."
No more. Lorenz tries again. "I shall no doubt see you tomorrow. At court."
"You will." Claude still hasn't recovered his poise. How funny to think that Lorenz's feelings should be the cause. Another thought he must, must put out of his mind.
Claude turns, suddenly, and takes his cape from where it lies on the chair, an incongruent splash of gold glinting in the shadows. He tosses it over his shoulder. Turns to face Lorenz.
"All right. 'Til tomorrow, then." His salute is casual. Nothing, and everything, like a king.
Lorenz folds one arm behind his back and bows, angle precise. He rises, and Claude reaches out and catches his hand.
"Don't stop writing," Claude says. "Please."
Lorenz says, before he can think, "Never." And then, as he recaptures himself, a faint echo, a promise made all those years ago: "You have my word."
Claude releases his hand. A faint smile curves his mouth. "The word of a Gloucester, huh."
Of all the words and deeds that have passed between them today, some will return to Lorenz to be relived over and over in torment, late at night when the candle burns low and he is alone in the counting room, or early in the morning, watching the mist clear before the day's first rays and remembering another night, another dawn. But others—
How's that for a legacy.
Those, he will hold close. Those, he will cast in the bronze of memory, to cherish until his dying day. Proof that for all he has tried to do, tried to be, all he has failed or given up or watched ground into the dust—for all of that, there has been at least one thing.
The word of a Gloucester, Claude said. Like it meant something.
The whole of Lorenz's life has been dedicated to that end. If the fruits are bittersweet—so be it.
"Yes," Lorenz says. "Precisely."