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It’s rare for Prince Lorian to stay within castle walls for longer than a few scant hours at a time now, so busy is he with his knightly duties. Even rarer still are times that Prince Lorian is caught without his armor, lounging about in a simple tunic and loose linen pants.
He’d brought Lothric up with him on top of the High Wall an hour ago to soak up the afternoon sun, the rays languid and warm in a way that they haven’t been for a while. The fading of the First Flame casts most days in a watery grey, the light of the sun puttering out above them with each feeble journey across the sky.
But today was not such a day. Lothric’s mood is as light as the sky and remains so even as the horizon begins to blush. The weather was fair, and he’d felt well enough that sitting on Lorian’s coat did not hurt too terribly. He’d spent the time chatting with Lorian, exchanging bits of scholarly trivia and court intrigue for recounts of adventure and gallantry. A book lies at his side, forgotten after a few idle page flips.
Lorian, however, is still completely engrossed in his own work. Calloused fingers, usually gripping a greatsword, lightly hold a pencil as it dances across the paper.
“Dearest brother, most would never take you for an artist,” Lothric remarks. He reaches out, one clawed fingertip following an arc of charcoal. “When did you take up this habit?”
Lorian hums in contemplation, but his hand never stops sketching. “I reckon the first time Father sent me in search of something or other, right after my fourteenth birthday. The quiet beyond the city took time to acclimate to.”
Lothric, of course, knew of Lorian’s artistic inclinations. Occasionally, he’d receive missives from his brother while the young knight was off in faraway lands. With each letter came a drawing of something Lorian had seen on his journeys. Lothric kept each page of craggy ravines, sentient mushrooms, and sparkling crystal lizards safe in a silver box that nobody, not even Father nor Mother, could access.
Sometimes, too, Lorian sketched him. The renderings were impressively accurate, even when duty kept Lorian away for long months, sometimes years. Those pages were kept in the box as well, but they were kept nearer to Lothric’s heart.
Lothric continues tracing his clawed fingertip along the lines, his warped hand dutifully following each of Lorian’s movements. Blocking Lorian off like this must be annoying, but the elder prince only smiles at the gesture.
“What do you think? Does mine hand render your likeness well?”
Lothric snorts, amusement coloring his words. “Surely, brother, I do not look so contented nor hale. Your rendering is an ideal I cannot hope to achieve.” Still, clouded grey eyes can’t help but regard the artist fondly.
The scritches of pencil on paper stop, and Lorian peers up at Lothric. The intensity of his stare has Lothric pulling his hood up in a hurry, embarrassment bringing the faintest color to his cheeks. “That does not mean scrutinize me!” he hisses, but his voice contains no vitriol. The twin princes look each other dead in the eye, snort, and finally give in to the snickers they tried to hold back.
Lorian adds a few new lines around the eyes of the drawing before nodding in satisfaction. “This will have to do. Forgive me, brother, for not portraying you in the light you see yourself,” he begins, but his tone holds no apology at all. Warm hands, much larger than Lothric’s, envelop those spindly fingers and squeeze gently.
“But this is how I see you on this day, here with me, and this image I shall burn into my mind’s eye. I rather like seeing you smile, Lothric, especially if it is for me.”
Lothric blinks, surprised, and finds that his cheeks are indeed sore from the unfamiliar expression. But before he can reply, a coughing fit steals his words and his breath from within him, doubling him over.
Lorian quickly puts his things down and rubs Lothric’s back as they waited for his breath to return to him. Lothric’s ribs ache from the force of his coughing, but Lorian’s hand, so warm and reassuring, is distracting enough that he does not mind.
“We should go back. You’ve spent long enough up here, and it is getting cooler,” Lorian declares as he gathers his supplies. They’re thrown haphazardly into a small sack along with Lothric’s book. Before Lothric can protest, he’s hoisted onto Lorian’s back. Down the walls they go, back to the castle proper.
Later, after Lothric settled in his own chambers, Lorian returns with a goblet of questionable-smelling tisane. It’s offered with an apologetic smile, and that’s all Lothric needs to down it without (too much) complaint. Lorian, unyielding sword of Lothric’s prince, shows naught but cold austerity to the rest of the world. But Lothric is not the rest of the world – rather, he is Lorian’s whole world, and they both know it for a fact.
The thought warms Lothric’s heart and wards off the chill of his illness.
Lorian sits beside Lothric on the mattress as he empties the bag from earlier. The book is placed back by Lothric’s side, and the sketch is similarly pressed into Lothric’s hands.
“For you, my prince. A token of my devotion until I return by your side.”
Right. Lorian leaves in a day for yet another mission born of their father’s folly.
Lothric pushes his hood down at long last, and Lorian absently tangles his fingers in the long, pale hair. When their eyes next meet, Lothric’s gaze holds steady determination.
“No, I refuse it.”
Lorian blinks, mouth opening, but Lothric cuts him off. “Keep the drawing and let him keep you company where I cannot. But you must swear that you will not replace me with this pale imitation, and you will return to me alive.”
Lorian's response is but a whisper, but that is enough for Lothric. The air fills with soft laughter, meant for each other’s ears alone.