Work Text:
Iuxtare, from Latin: To meet, to approach.
Round 5.
The final.
Eddie had made it this far. Sweat ran down his back in discernible rivulets, dripping out of his hair, down his neck and trailing down his back one after the other, sometimes in quick succession. He wasn't sure his breathing had slowed from the last round though he'd had 15 minutes to breathe without the helmet - not that it achieved much.
He sat atop his horse watching as his opponent soaked up the ceremony bestowed upon him, his family crest gleaming on his breastplate. Eddie had heard the name, but he had no interest. In the same way that no one had taken an interest in him today, until he'd knocked some more well known riders off their horses, now he had a small section of the crowd rooting for him - everybody loves an underdog.
It was nice, but he didn't need it. He wasn't here for fame or fortune, and it certainly wasn't luck that got him her. It was the fight of his life, and so far he was winning. One more fight against the highborn still performing for the lords and ladies and he'd have his audience. They couldn't refuse.
Finally, there was action, the judge calling for some semblance of quiet so they could start. Eddie looked down the tilt toward his opponent one last time, knowing as soon as his helmet went on, his vision would be limited to an inch in front of him. He tried to see flaws in the armour, to see if anything was weak from previous blows, but all he got was glare from the unclouded sunshine.
His lance is placed on its rest on his armour and his helmet shoved roughly onto his head; his teeth clench and grind. He pulls the lance into his body, his shoulder and back starting to protest at the repeated motion with such a weight, the horse beneath him wickers as his thighs flex and there's no time to think as the horn sounds. A press of his feet and the horse thunders forward, keeping what vision he does have fixed just above the tilt in front of him, where he might spot the highborns lance first. A method that has worked from him every time, thus far.
Eddie blinks and the lance is there. He immediately counters, swinging his lance into the approaching one. The highborn isn't expecting to be knocked to the left, he expected a clear shot to Eddies torso. There's a roar beneath the glinting helmet when Eddies lance jams into the tiny gap between breastplate and pauldron, Eddies shoulder locks with the impact, and throbs dully as the riders untangle. The crowd is shouting, the precious lord he defeated is snarling but as Eddie dismounts and throws off his helmet, a grim determination sets his jaw. He rounds the tilt and stands before a stand of spectators, tucked in the centre, the reason for the event, the new king, with his sister - the princess - and a swarm of advisors.
"I wish no riches!" Eddie shouts to be heard, arms spread wide, baring himself, as much as possible in such a suit. The arena quietens, a ripple of shocked chatter weaves through the audience.
"Then what do you wish, Sir...?" The king asks. Eddie can't help but notice that this is the first time in the whole day that the king looks... interested. He has a feeling the princess notices too.
"I am no knight, just a loyal countryman." Eddie bows, awkward as it is in the armour, it's not low enough he knows, but it's a genuflection anyway. "I ask an audience with your highness, in private." He straightens again, catching the kings eye and refuses to let go.
There's another ripple in the audience, especially in the royal box above him, four different people scrambling to whisper in the kings ear. The king shuffles forward, as if away from the voices, holding up his hand, solid seal ring glinting in the light. He looks thoughtful, head tilted.
Eddie maintains his eye contact, even when the princess leans over; the king blinks slowly, seemingly accepting her advice.
"Granted, Champion." The king nods once, a small thing, and then stands to address the crowd, a hand outstretched towards Eddie. "Your champion!"
Eddie bows once more, backing away and turning slowly assessing the arena, and the baying public within it.
--
In moments like these, the cold water is a blessing. The summer continues to blaze, but more than that, Eddies nerves set in, the doubt, the overwhelming nausea of failure. He's never been good at asking for help, mostly because that means admitting that he needs it, because he was always taught that he shouldn’t. It's taken years to work up to this particular request. It means everything. It's his son. His first and most precious responsibility. Asking for help for him is necessary, even when he hoped he could help him himself.
The kings tournament had been his only hope. He’d spoken to apothecarists, some claiming to have links to surgeons and physicians, but none ever actually coming through with any information of use. It didn’t help that he was just another of the masses. He wasn’t rich, he wasn’t noble, whatever his past may say about him; he was just barely getting by, with the help of his aunt.
That little fact had started to show now, upon taking off his armour and washing in the cold water - dressing himself in clothes he had that hoped would not offend the new king - his body started to catch up with what he had just put it through. Tremors running through him until his muscles bunched and threatened to cramp. His stomach clenched and relaxed painfully, growling loudly, making him starkly aware of the last time he had eaten.
He drank more water, that he had been given, and hoped it would appease.
Armed guards appeared at the entrance of the tent long before Eddie was expecting, one of them motioning for Eddie to follow, silent, a long walk around the castle to a small door around the back. Eddie was taken through the servant quarters, through back passages, seeing no one and nothing but bare torchlit concrete walls, no sounds but the steps of the two guards in front of him.
They come out into a well-lit, small but highly decorated room. The walls lined with paintings, separated, and framed with floral, gold gildings. A large glass candle chandelier, somehow, proving a focal point hanging in the centre. There’s a corner with a small bookshelf, two plush ornate sofas sat in front of it, on their neatly spindled legs, a similarly designed table between them.
The king however, sat at a table in the middle of the room, the chairs there starkly different from the pink sofas, with deep, dark green cushions. His sister sits next to him, seemingly trying to school her face into something that could be labelled as stern but failing somewhat and landing around friendly. The table in front of them had been laid with two gold candelabras, and three large platters of food that the king seemed to be picking at idly. His sister, not so much.
Eddie bows, as he should without armour, deep, nose as far down as he could manage when his bones seemed to be protesting. The king shoos the guards with a politer mumble than Eddie was expecting, motioning for Eddie to take a seat. He willed his legs to remain strong for the few steps in front of him, prayed to any deity that may listen that he didn’t do something weak or ridiculous like faint in front of the king.
One of the options worked. Even under two watchful gazes. Curious and critical scrutiny. He made it to a chair, looking up from where he’d fixed on the tabletop to find himself staring into blue eyes that only made him tremble more. A feeling he hadn’t explored in a while, a feeling he shouldn’t be wanting to explore right at that moment.
“You can eat.” The king pointed to the food, and empty plate sat in front of Eddie.
As if on cue, Eddies mouth flooded, his stomach growling loud enough that the princess’s mouth twitched upward.
Eddies hesitance, despite his body’s vehement disagreement, must be written across his face as the king speaks again.
“You did just win a tournament in my namesake.” His green-blue robed shoulder lifting quickly in a shrug.
Eddie nodded slowly, reaching out for a piece of bread, doing his utmost to exercise restraint and not tear into it like a wild animal, he bites, a human bite and if there are tears in his eyes because of how good it is, it’s purely coincidental.
Eddie is given the opportunity to finish the bread and skewer some meat onto his plate before the king speaks again.
“Champion...” he starts.
“Eddie,” Eddie cuts him off, his mouth full. He winces, finishes chewing and swallows before carrying on. “My name is Edmundo Diaz. Eddie, your highness.”
The king and the princess never look more like siblings that when their faces make the exact same curious expression at the same time.
“Eddie,” the kings starts again. “I assume there is a reason you asked for this meeting?”
Eddie heart is suddenly beating at the rate of a galloping horse. All moisture disappeared from his mouth. Swallowing becomes a battle with a spike mounted club. He nods again, eyes drifting back to the table while he tries to compose himself.
“There’s rumour, in the city, of your kindness, your highness.” Eddie finally meets his gaze again. “They say that you are – I don’t wish to speak ill – they say that you are not your fathers son. I hoped they were right and that by winning your tournament...” Eddies voice cracked.
“You hoped I would help you.” The king finishes. It’s not a question, but Eddie nods anyway.
“My son, Christopher, he was ailed with a condition from birth, most don’t survive but he did. He needs help.” Eddie shakes all over, his hands gripping the chair under the cushion, knuckles white.
“What ails him?” It’s the princess that asks.
“There is no name for it, many still think it witchcraft or a curse, but he is sound of mind and heart, that is not to be believed. Walking is difficult for him. He does, he can, but is in extreme pain for long hours after. Apothecarists say it can be helped, eased, by the right physicians and a -” finally, Eddie pauses, takes an unsteady breath, as though the next words physically pain him to utter. “-a lifelong course of treatment.”
He cannot bring himself to look up.
“You wish us to take your child as a ward of the castle so that he is cared for?” The king asks, slowly. Gently.
Eddies head snaps up, his mouth almost snapping with it, he wants to scream and throw himself through a window or a door, all in a split second, he wants to run, hold his child close to his chest and keep running. He bites down instead, jaw clacking shut.
“If that is what is necessary.” He grits out. The princess seems to understand a little faster than the king. She studies Eddies face, looking shaken by the intensity there.
“I don’t believe Edmundo wishes to relinquish his son entirely, if at all.” She clarifies softly, speaking to her brother directly.
Eddie sags and nods, just once. The princess nods back, in a way that gives Eddie more hope than he dare dream of.
The king is silent, his face a mask that doesn’t hide the conflict that rages within him. Eddie would believe that the young king had been in pain most of his life, yet despite all of it, he remains compassionate, torn between being the king he was raised by, or being his own version of the leader.
The princess twists in her seat, places a hand on his shoulder and speaks low and close enough that it’s only for him. Like it had outside in the arena, it seems to sway him, life roaring back into those blue eyes.
“We should meet the boy, then make arrangements thereafter.”
Eddie is scrambling back to his feet, bowing low, thank yous falling off his tongue, like rain from the sky.
The princess has something mischievous written across her face, amusement in her eyes, her chin lifts higher than it needs to be to look at Eddie from her chair and Eddie knows deep down that it isn’t some air of importance or elevated sense of self. Not when she turns the same gaze onto her brother immediately after.
The king seems to remain lost in his own thoughts, staring through Eddie rather than at him.
Before Eddie leaves, there’s a plan made for both him and Christopher to be escorted back to the castle early the next day. Finally, Eddie finds some comfort in his own mind; a regular battlefield. Even in sleep he dreams of war; wakes up with the same hot ache in his shoulder and the deafening ring of a chorus of muskets in his ears. There’s no reprieve before the ringing subsides and is replaced with the incapacitating shouts of his parents voices, his own voice. Failure. Failure. Failure. But there’s peace, for a moment and more, when he pulls Christopher tight into his chest that evening, the boy stirring confusedly but holding on anyway.
--
“OW! What was that for!?” The king rubs at the top of his arm, where he had been punched.
“Are you an idiot, or do you just become one when a pretty boy asks to take up residence with you?” The princess scoffs, flicking him between the eyebrows.
“Ow!” He rubs at the area quickly with the pad of his thumb. “Maddie, stop!”
“Take his child as a ward, Evan?” Her voice lifts in pitch, exasperated. “Would you really have taken his child from him?”
“No, I – He wants to take up residence?” The earlier statement finally dawns on him, the top of his nose scrunching into a confused scowl.
“Evan.” Maddie sighs, shaking her head. “How else is his son supposed to be monitored by royal physicians? For life.”
“That...” He gasps as though his breath had been stolen from him.
He finds himself suddenly in awe of the man, for reasons that entirely dwarfed the tournament, that had barely interested him anyway. He had been raised in a household that wanted for nothing. Berated and chastised for scraping his knee as a child, for so much as looking at a weapon and dreaming of learning to wield it, as a real heir to the throne might, and yet whenever he did injure himself, he was rigorously examined and treated until he was better. Maddie always told him his parents did it because they cared and he tried to believe it, though he never felt it. In one clean swoop, Edmundo Diaz tore down that wall of false belief.
Evan Buckley’s parents never cared. Not about him. They cared about Maddie. They cared about the family status. But never about Evan. Eddie cares about his son. He competed and resolved to win a tournament just to ask for help, for his son. That was what caring looked like in his eyes. To love someone that much. Evan wanted that; to learn from that, to have that. The thought made him dizzy, his stomach swooping.
Maddies hand landed on his forearm where it rested on the table. She had a look in her eye that Evan had seen dozens of times before, all through his childhood, a look that said ‘I know you better than anyone else’ and he could only concede that she was right. He was transparent to her.
She squeezed softly.
“Did you hear what he said?” She asked, her voice low. “About the people? What they say?”
He blinks at her, thinking back, trying to focus.
“He said- he- they say i’m not my fathers son, that I... that i’m kind.” Evan stumbles over the words, blinking back tears and fighting the emotion from his voices.
He hears more than sees the smile in Maddies voice as she stands, her hand moving to squeeze his shoulder instead.
“You’re kind, Evan.”
Maddie leaves, dropping a kiss on the top of his head and he moves to the sofa, hearing his mother’s voice tell him off in his head as he throws himself down on to it, feet, and all. He’s too big for it now and has to bend his knees, plant his feet firmly in the cushion or hang them over the armrest, which isn’t comfortable for very long. He’s made all of his life’s decisions on the very same sofa since he was a child. Whenever he went against his parents wishes, he sat on this sofa. Whenever he needed to sneak past Bobby as a teen, he would form a plan on this sofa. When he was told that he was king, his mother and father had been taken as prisoners and murdered shortly after, he sat on this sofa.
“Your Highness.” Came from the now open doorway of the room. Evan sat up and rolled his eyes.
“Bobby, please.” He implores in his tone, the implication of ‘we’ve discussed this,’ silent, but evident.
“The champion arrived home safely.” Bobby gives his reason for being in the room, but there’s more written across his face. More on the tip of his tongue.
Evan lifts an eyebrow at the man, knowing Bobby well enough to know what was going on in his head. Had he been speaking to his father, he would have already been made to leave the room. The previous king didn’t want any further information that what he’d asked for. Bobby was learning how to straddle the line between the prince who he had watched grow and always favoured – almost treated as a son - and learning how to be the chief advisor to the, now, king. Bobby thought he would be long gone before Evan became king. He knew that Evan would make an entirely different king to his father, but never accounted for having to serve as his advisor. It was an adjustment Bobby needed to make for himself. An adjustment Evan didn’t want him to make.
“Speak true, Bobby.” Bobby relaxes, the way Evan has always known him.
“He’s noble born.”
Evans eyebrows lift and then scrunch together, confused.
“Then why does he come here for help?” He asks.
“It seems he left his parents to live with an aunt, who he still resides with, after the death of his childs mother. He renounced his title and was disowned as a result. There are no ties.” Bobby explains.
“Oh.” Evans face doesn’t relax, the knowledge doesn’t make it any easier to make a decision. His own father would never have been approached with a request like this. His own father hadn’t cared for the woes of the poor, more about marrying Maddie off and ensuring that there was enough fealty, forced as it was, to ensure the family stayed noble.
Evan was trying to push past his fathers training. To take fealty not by force, but by earning it, trying for willing support. The king could be seen out in the city now, often purchasing produce and goods from markets, giving bread to the hungry, visiting poor houses, asking the people what they truly desired.
He wondered if this was a step too far. His fathers voice sneered pushover in his ear. Maddie obviously wasn’t against it and Bobby...
“Evan?” Bobby spoke as though he’d spoken before and hadn’t been heard.
“Sorry.”
“Tomorrow will give you answers.” Bobby assures.
Evan nods and stretches back across the sofa.
He doesn’t sleep that evening.
--
He’d done his best to neither confirm nor deny his alleged attraction to Eddie Diaz every time every time his sister had raised the subject. She had jested, somewhat proudly, about Evan turning a lovely shade of pink when the champion took off his helmet, as they had been escorted from the arena back to the castle. Called the man pretty after he’d left their library and made sure to ask Bobby at breakfast, with no conviction other than to make Evan blush again, to oversee any alone time the two may have during the days events.
He couldn’t trust the cues of his own body anymore, he’d learned that the hard way. The courtship his parents arranged for him dissolved two weeks after his parents disappearance. He had been cautious with Abby at first, she was older – wiser, his father had told him - they picked her purposely to settle him, and it had worked. After his initial bristles about the arrangement, he had liked Abby, she allowed him to be himself, allowed him to spout the new facts he’d learned from the physicians quarters or the new book he’d devoured and almost looked interested. They had in depth conversations about how he would eventually inherit the throne and his fears about being just the same as his father. She had helped him rebel and push against his parents in subtler ways than the ones that pushed him closer and closer towards the noose; he had no doubt his father would give the order given the reason.
Then she left. With no promise to return and no contact since. Left Evan with the sharp realisation that he had actually fallen in love with her. He had fallen in love with the person he was when he was around her and guided by her. When he was helping her too.
His reaction to the champion had been purely physical. Maddie was right, in that the man, Eddie, was pretty. Easy to look at, both in and out of armour, and Evan is young and virile and easily stirred. Of course, his sister could tease, of course she can watch as Evan visibly heats when the champion is escorted once again into the castle, this time with his son on his hip. His son, who’s beaming from the moment he lays eyes on him, trying to shake himself out of his fathers hold to stand by himself and greet the king.
The day before, he had watched Eddie go from determined and strong, almost bullish in nature, winning a tournament that required an unimaginable amount of strength and courage, to reverent, deferential, and guarded when talking about his son. When asking for his son to be taken care of. If it hadn’t been made obvious before, it was heart-shatteringly apparent now, just how far the man would go to keep his son happy and healthy.
The child was unsteady on his legs, seeming to take an inordinate amount of effort make his way forward, just beyond his fathers side trying for a shaky bow.
Evan had spent an unholy amount of time that morning trying to dress in something a little more unassuming. Something that would be less intimidating to a child. He quickly found out that a kings wardrobe didn’t really do understated. Even as a boy he’d never dressed down, he was never allowed, never had the opportunity. It didn’t seemed to matter, though. This boy, Christopher, doesn’t seem phased, not even by all the formality and pleasantries. His smile is wider than any he has ever seen, a head full of curls tipped back to look up.
Evan kneels in front of him and watches him giggle.
“You look different than in your portraits.”
“Which is better?” He asks, barely holding back his own laugh, the entire thing, contagious “Me or the portraits?”
“You, silly.” He laughs properly this time, hiding his face in his hands.
There’s a whisper of the boys name in warning from Eddie but Evan ignores it.
“I believe we are to call you Christopher?” He asks and the boy nods.
“And I have to call you Your Highness, so father says.”
“Would you rather call me something else?”
Christopher ponders briefly, the silence in the open hall seeming loud and tense.
“Buck. Like Buckley, but shorter.” The boy grins, proud of himself and Buck feels something shift in his chest. Like a puzzle piece just landed exactly where it needed to.
“Buck.” He repeats, nodding. “Call me Buck.”