Archive of Our Own ^beta

Prologue

Until Terence Chauveau is twelve, his path is clear. He will grow taller, attend classes, learn to tend his family's farms and vines, and one day become Lord Chauveau and oversee his family's estate in Norvent Valley. He will marry, raise little lords and ladies, and eventually pass his mantle to one of them. It is a simple, well-trod path, and he need only follow it.

But one spring day, some men from Oriflamme arrive. Terence recognizes their armor, sees the open wyvern tail of the royal guard embroidered on their sleeves, and wonders what the Emperor wants with his father.

He learns all too quick that the request was him. Terence's father escorts him to the capitol, bringing crates of House Chauveau's finest wine as if the gift of his only son is not enough. Terence is told he will become the young prince's companion and protector, and they will enter training for combat together to become knights—something Terence doesn’t think will suit him well.

"What of our estate, father?" Terence asks as he leaves home behind for the first time.

"It will be waiting for you when you are too old to fight," Lord Chauveau assures him. Terence doesn't want to disappoint him. He'd found himself on the wrong side of his father's temper too many times. "You can always appoint someone to manage it in your stead for a time. Our House is not as powerful and wealthy as some others, Terence. Your Knighthood will bring great honor to our family and give you more power when you take my place. That is, of course, if Prince Dion approves of you. It may be his choice to send you away if he finds you lacking."

Terence isn't sure he cares much for power and secretly hopes the prince will send him home. As he enters the great halls of the palace in Oriflamme, he yearns for the solitude among the vineyard grape vines and the farmers' soft, idle chatter during harvest season. He wonders if he can sabotage this new life before it takes root without earning his father's ire.

And he is frightened. His whole life, Terence has heard tales of Eikons and Bahamut—of the dragon's fury, power and rage. The young prince, he's heard, was chosen by the King of Dragons, so when Terence imagines his new companion, he pictures cold eyes, sharp fingers and, perhaps, a forked tongue.

Instead, when he is introduced to the young prince, he finds only… a boy. Nearly his age and almost Terence's height, Dion greets him with a bow and then an outstretched hand, full of all the propriety and formality Terence had grown up without. Terence shakes the boy's hand, pleased to find it without a dragon's talons, but vows to maintain vigilance. This is Bahamut, after all.

**

Prince Dion does not send him away.

At first, Terence is disappointed, though he would never admit it. He maintains decorum, speaks only when spoken to and keeps to himself as much as possible. He takes his job seriously, learns the young prince's likes and dislikes and throws himself into training, lest he need to protect his companion—though why Bahamut would need him, Terence does not know.

He writes letters to his mother daily and sends them in batches of three, so no one will see how homesick he is. He attends combat lessons with the prince and finds him fierce, if not yet strong. Dion is easily frustrated by his failures, and one evening, well into his first winter at the capitol, Terence is sent to look for Prince Dion and finds him in the training courtyard, alone, practicing his sword work with a dummy. He slips as he moves, and the sword falls from his hand, and Dion yells at the sky in fury.

Terence, ever cautious around the young prince, approaches slowly.

"Perhaps the sword is not the weapon for you, My Prince." His words are careful, but he keeps his tone firm, reluctant to let Bahamut see weakness.

Dion grumbles at him, as he does almost three times a day. "Dion," he corrects.

Terence says nothing and simply stands back to let the prince continue his practice—to be there should he need a sparring partner or assistance—but Dion does not pick the sword back up. Instead, he thanks Terence and invites him to his private quarters, where they share hot chocolate, and the prince shows Terence his favorite books and trinkets from his travels. 

For the first time, Terence doesn't see a prince or a dragon. He just sees Dion.

**

The next years pass in a blur of bruises and steel. Dion puts down his sword and picks up a spear instead; the difference is night and day. He discovers grace and power in his movements. Terence is soon confident Dion could beat him in combat, even without Bahamut's power.

Terence's early dedication pays off, and he quickly rises as the finest young swordsman in the Sanbrequois Military. Most of his time is spent in training. He sees less of Dion but still attends military strategy lessons with him at the prince's behest. The others tease him for leaving their sessions early and refusing to join their evening card games.

Terence doesn't mind. He enjoys the long walks through Oriflamme back to the palace, is grateful he still has a room there instead of sleeping in the barracks and often finds himself embroiled in conversation with Dion well after lessons have ended.

After one such lesson, deep in the heat of the Sanbreqois summer, Terence sits across from Dion on his private balcony as the sun sets, listening to Dion discuss art.

They're sixteen now, and everyone keeps telling Terence he's a man, but he doesn't quite feel like it yet. He doesn't feel he's grown into his armor, voice or hands yet, but he's trying very hard.

In contrast, Dion has become elegant. Terence wonders if being an Eikon means you can pass by the awkwardness of growing up because Dion has grown… well, he's grown to be quite handsome. Terence isn't sure if he's supposed to notice.

"Without question, Stéphane Girardot is my favorite," Dion says. He shows Terence a sketch he completed in the Oriflamme Museum. Terence has seen the painting—a brilliantly lit rendition of Northreach from a nearby overlook—but feels Dion's drawing adds something to it, even without color. The careful shading, the shape of the clouds… he likes the sketch better.

"You've talent, My Prince," Terence says, handing him back the sketchbook. It's the first time he notices Dion blush. He's spared commenting on it when a servant brings a tray of cheese, grapes and a bottle of chilled white wine. He recognizes the slope of the neck before noticing the label.

"My Prince," Terence begins, excited. Dion once again rolls his eyes at the title, popping a grape into his mouth and staring over the balcony's edge to the city below. "This is a bottle of Zillio from my family's vineyard."

Terence stands to uncork the wine. Dion leans back into his chair and smiles up at him, relaxed and, for the moment, only himself — just a young man, enjoying a still moment. Terence tries to ignore the sudden skip in his heartbeat but fails.

"I know," Dion admits. "I sent for it. I thought perhaps you might like a reminder of home."

It's the first time Terence has tasted his family's wine in years, and Terence finds it all the sweeter when he shares it with Dion.

One

When Terence goes home for his first visit in four years, he expects his mother to cry and his father to pat him on the back and say he is proud. He expects his cousins from around the valley to show up and give him a hard time about being in the capital while they work the vineyard and farm.

He doesn’t expect to bring the Crown Prince home with him.

The night before Terence was due to leave, Dion sought him out and asked if he could come. He didn’t have any upcoming royal events for his father and had made a business of avoiding the palace since Anabella Rosfield had burrowed her way into his father’s heart. It had strained their relationship, and Dion seemed a little lost as he prepared to enter the Dragoons. Perhaps, Terence thought, the break would do the prince some good.

So he arrives home with a contingent of royal guards instead of just himself. His mother indeed cries and cannot look Prince Dion in the eye for even a moment after being surprised by his arrival. Lord Chauveau, at least, maintains the boisterous, good-natured personality he uses with the other nobles while speaking to Dion and only lets it falter when he gets Terence alone.

“We would have prepared the grounds!” He exclaims after Dion excuses himself to go to bed. “Would have prepared some soiree!”

“I don’t think he wants a soiree, father,” Terence tells him. “I believe Prince Dion only wants a break before he begins training with the Dragoons.”

Lord Chauveau disagrees and makes a great effort to impress the prince, bringing out their finest vintages over the week and preparing for a feast the night before Terence and Dion are set to depart. Meanwhile, all Dion wants to do is explore.

He and Terence dress in ordinary clothes, slip past the guards and take to the trails. The mountains that surround the estate are full of old roads—mountain passes that Terence knows like the back of his hand. Dion is all too happy to follow him through the forest, stopping only to eat, drink and for Dion to sketch interesting trees.

Before the feast, Terence takes Dion down his favorite path back to the Chauveau Estate, which overlooks the estate and valley beyond. It takes him past the disused cottage reserved for the eldest Chauveau and future Lord. Terence doubts he will ever occupy it.

It’s worth the detour when he sees Dion’s face light up. Spring sunsets in the Norvent Valley are a sight to behold, and it is a cloudless evening. Dion scans the landscape, eyes wide and lips parted, for a long time before perching on a boulder with his sketchbook.

Their time is short since they’re due back before the guests arrive, but Terence doesn’t have the heart to interrupt Dion when he’s drawing. More and more, Dion has used his free moments to draw and paint, and Terence suspects it’s the only thing Dion can do for himself now that he’s taking on more responsibility. 

He counts himself lucky to watch Dion’s hands dance across the page, capturing shadows, light and everything in between. If he wasn’t so in awe, he’d be jealous of Dion’s powers, talent and prowess, but instead, he stands back while Dion studies the landscape and studies him instead.

Dion holds out his sketch of the valley and vineyards below and frowns. “The angles of the mountains are wrong,” he says, and Terence sits beside him to see for himself.

Dion holds out the drawing, and Terence studies it, though he doesn’t have an eye for composition—or whatever Dion calls it. All he knows is Dion has captured his home with such a loving eye that it makes something in him ache.

“It’s beautiful, My Prince,” Terence says softly.

“Please, Terence,” Dion pleads, only half joking. “It’s been years. Call me by my name.”

“I do, Prince Dion.”

Dion grumbles and stands, leaving Terence to hold the sketchbook. He paces over to the edge of the ridge, hands on his hips and shakes his head.

“No one uses my name,” Dion laments. “Every day I hear My Lord, My Prince and Your Highness. But never just my name.”

Terence sets the book aside, blindsided by how much Dion cares about something so trivial, and approaches him. “Does it truly matter so much?”

Dion stares out over the treetops. His brow is furrowed, and his gaze seems far away. “Everything I have is from my father. All chosen by him. My titles. Bahamut. Even you,” Dion says. “My name is the only thing my mother gave me. The only thing that’s mine.”

Terence knows Dion misses his mother and takes Anabella’s comments about her too hard. His mother, who had conceived Dion while working in the nobility’s preferred brothel, had been paid handsomely to keep Lord Lesage’s bastard in good health and out of sight. She had used every coin to provide the best for her son. After spending his first years tucked away in Twinside, loved and unburdened, Sylvestre Lesage had come to claim his child shortly after Dion’s awakening as Bahamut.

The tears pooling in Dion’s eyes surprise Terence. For that matter, he’s never seen Dion cry—or show any form of weakness. He doesn’t know what to do, so he just listens.

“I miss her so much,” Dion admits. “Even after my father claimed me, she would visit often. But after she died and father became Emperor… There are so many people I have to become, Terence. I wonder if I will ever be Dion again.”

Terence places a hand on Dion’s shoulder—a bolder move than he would typically make, but he’s never seen Dion this sad. Angry, frustrated and melancholy, yes. But never truly sad.

“You can always be Dion with me,” Terence assures him. Dion blinks, looks at him, then quickly looks away to wipe away his tears.

“Forgive me, Terence,” he says. “I forget myself.”

“No need to apologize, my p—“ he catches himself. “Dion.”

The sunset plays off Dion’s hair—golden, shaggy and a little dirty—and when he turns to give Terence a sad smile, Terence is sure he sees a ray of the light that drew Bahamut to him.

Two

Almost a year later, another opportunity presents itself to visit Norvent Valley, and Dion insists they spend a few days at the Chauveau Estate before returning to the capitol after training exercises by the sea.

Terence is grateful for the reprieve. After following Dion into the Holy Order of the Knights Dragoon, he has run himself ragged, trying to catch up. He adapted quickly to combat training, especially once he abandoned the spear and lance, but struggled to work with the wyverns some Dragoons partnered with.

Their second visit is not marked with the same panic and excitement as the first. Lady Chauveau does not cry but curtsies deeply before Dion, blushing furiously when he kisses her hand. Terence’s father welcomes the royal guard with wine and plates of smoked pork and potatoes from the farm. They have dinner to receive them—not a feast—and Terence’s youngest cousin, only five, weaves a garland of brilliant early spring wildflowers and presents it to Dion as a gift. He wears it all night long to make her smile, and that night, Terence dreams about violet and blue petals mingling with Dion’s hair.

The next day, Dion insists they hike again despite the cold and will not be deterred. He wakes Terence early, and they set out to traverse the trails.

It’s still and quiet up the mountains. They walk in companionable silence, each relishing the quiet, and Dion doesn’t ask to stop and sketch until the sun hangs low in the sky.

Terence takes him back to the overlook. The scene is different. The light is cold and reflects off the recovering land. Terence sees spots of young flowers and grass popping up, and he says a silent prayer for a bountiful harvest.

Again, Dion stands at the edge and surveys the landscape. His nose and cheeks are painted pink from the chilly wind, and he rubs his hands together. Terence fights the urge to warm them with his own.

“It’s beautiful,” Dion says. “Truly. Norvent is a beautiful country.”

“It is,” Terence agrees. “Would you sketch it again?”

“I would,” Dion says as if the mere thought is an indulgence.

And he sets about to do just that. Terence settles on the weathered boulder beside him and indulges himself, too. Dion’s eyes flicker from the landscape to the page, left blank momentarily before his hand starts moving. He begins with the shapes of the distant mountains, draws the form of the fields and hills below, and then creates magic with the sunlight and shadows. Terence watches, enthralled, for a long time until Dion pauses.

“If only I could paint here,” he says. “So little can be shown with charcoal.”

“Perhaps we can return when the weather is better,” Terence says. “You can bring your paints and canvas. We can even carry your easel up.”

“Wouldn’t that be blissful?” Dion leans back and turns his head back to the sky. Terence’s thoughts become muddled. He looks away.

“It would,” Terence agrees.

“Though you would be quite bored.” Dion smirks at him. “You’d have to bring one of your books.”

“I do not mind,” Terence says.

Dion gestures to his sketchbook and looks Terence in the eye. It’s direct and overwhelming, and Terence is acutely aware that Dion’s honey-colored eyes are the warmest thing he can see. “Thank you for indulging me today.”

The words tumble out before Terence can wrangle them. “I’ll always indulge you.”

The shift in Dion’s expression is subtle—his brow knits together in thought, and his mouth tips into a slight frown. A long moment passes, and Terence is sure he shouldn’t look away, though Dion’s stare is overwhelming and intense. He wants to hide from it.

“Will you?” Dion asks.

Terence doesn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

The cool breeze goes still. Dion’s chest rises with a deep breath before he turns to Terence and kisses him.

Chaste, still and over all too soon. Terence barely registers Dion’s lips on his before they’re gone, and he can only look at the prince in shock.

Dion’s jaw is clenched, his eyes wide and… terrified? Terence isn’t sure. He’d never seen Dion scared before—didn’t know Bahamut could feel fear.

Dion, Terence thinks. Not Bahamut.

A silence settles over them, unlike the one before. This one hangs heavy, affixing Terence to the rock below. He struggles to form a coherent thought.

Dion looks as if he may vomit. “I apologize,” he says, then looks away over the ridge. “I… you don’t have to say anything.”

Terence’s mind stumbles over itself as he sits forward, forcing himself into Dion’s periphery. “I... wouldn't know what to say, anyway,” he admits.

Dion’s eyes flicker in his direction, but he looks down at the ground, ashamed. Terence realizes his shock has been entirely misinterpreted.

There is only one way to rectify it that he can see. With every ounce of impropriety he has, Terence reaches out, places his cold hand against Dion’s impossibly warm cheek and gently guides his gaze back. Terence’s heart pounds in his ears, and he becomes acutely aware that this is a turning point—a moment he won’t forget, no matter where it leads him.

He leans in slowly, allowing Dion to pull away if he so decides. But Dion sits like a stone, eyes wide, each breath creating soft clouds as the temperature drops for the evening. Terence waits for him to move—expects him to pull away as if he’d only been kidding or trying something out—but he doesn’t, and Terence takes that as permission.

Terence has had precious little practice kissing—mainly in the back of taverns with girls he never hoped to see again—but this feels… natural, even without any confidence. Dion’s lips are chapped and taste like the small oranges they’d snacked on while walking. With a soft moan that Terence wants to bottle and keep with him at all times, Dion leans into Terence’s hand, the heat of skin sinking into his palm. Terence feels him grasp the seam of his jacket, clutching at him as if he’ll run away. Terence feels his way up Dion’s arm, takes Dion’s hand in his own, and holds it tight.

Kissing Dion is… well, it’s everything Terence has come to want when he allows himself to want things. It’s gentle and intense—too much and not nearly enough. And it’s over far too soon.

Dion clutches him close, eyes closed tight and presses his forehead against Terence’s as if he is afraid to sit back and see the damage. With a shaking hand, Terence brushes Dion’s hair back. 

“Dion,” he whispers. Dion sinks a bit against him.

“I’m sorry,” Dion apologizes again. Terence has no choice but to hold the prince back a bit to look him in the eye.

“Don’t be sorry, My Prince.” Dion twitches at the title. Terence smirks with satisfaction. Only then do Dion’s shoulders relax, and his brow unfolds.

“No?” The word quivers on Dion’s lips.

“No,” Terence confirms and kisses him again. And again. And again.

That night, Terence stares up at the ceiling of his childhood room, hands laced behind his head, counting the notches in the wooden beams. His nose is still numb from staying outside too long, up on the overlook, reveling in Dion’s tender kisses and trying to learn all the soft sounds his prince makes. He’s reminiscing upon a particularly satisfying one when there’s an unexpected knock on his door. Terence bids the interloper enter, assuming it’s his mother.

Dion enters, dressed in a crisp set of pajamas bearing the royal seal on the right breast. Terence sits up so quickly that his bed creaks.

Dion’s face breaks into a wicked smile, and then he raises a finger for silence. Terence bites his lip, uncertain of the endeavor. Terence is quite sure he’s interested in whatever Dion wants to do, especially after the evening they shared.

Dion slips into the room, closes the door, and then climbs into Terence’s bed, eliciting an immediate and complete panic until he sees the bottle of Zillio and two glasses in Dion’s hand.

“Sleep eludes me,” Dion admits, his cheeks flushing with color. “I thought… well, I figured you might not be able to sleep either, so maybe we could have a nightcap.”

There’s a peculiar sense of pride Terence feels. He’s the reason Dion is flustered. He’s the reason Dion can’t sleep. And Dion knew he wouldn’t be asleep either. Terence wonders if this is the best day of his life.

“That sounds lovely.”

With a grin, Dion pours. Terence slides over until he’s pressed into Dion’s warmth, and lets Dion loop their arms together. When he and Dion clink their glasses together and laugh, he knows they’re toasting to the start of something extraordinary and theirs.

Three

It’s three years before Dion visits the Chauveau Estate again.

Three years of grueling work. Reconnaissance missions. Weeks spent in muddy tents. Endless training. Terence proves himself time and time again. He rises in the ranks. Stays close to Dion. Steals moments when he can.

Bahamut is ordered to the skies over neighboring nations as a show of strength. Dion is called to train his Dragoons even harder. The Crown Prince is required at royal events. Terence worries Dion will be torn asunder. 

For a month, Dion joins his father and Anabella on a tour of Sanbreque to ‘boost morale’ and ‘unify the people.’ 

Terence steals away and travels half a day to see one of these events: witnesses Dion on a parapet beside the Emperor and his scowling bride, assuring the people that the Empire remains strong—that his father and their new Empress will usher in better days, and that he, Bahamut, will rise to eliminate anyone who would bring war or discord to their borders. He sees Dion raise his hand high as the people cheer their champion, clad in his formal white uniform with his spear gleaming in the sunlight.

Afterward, Terence visits him in the royal encampment for dinner and sneaks back in during the night, on a mission. He reminds Dion that he’s more than the Crown Prince, a Dragoon, and Bahamut—he whispers Dion’s name over and over as he makes love to him in a lavish tent dripping with royal finery, quiet so the perimeter guards don’t hear. He slips out in the early morning while Dion sleeps and is gone before sunrise.

But then the worst happens. In the dead of winter, while they are on opposite ends of the Empire, word arrives that Terence’s father, only 49 years of age, has died suddenly.

He hasn’t seen Dion in weeks and barely had time to send a message to inform him before leaving for home. The letter was curt, official and sanitized as he relayed it to a scribe as he packed. Now, trapped in a house full of grief, Terence is counting the hours until his planned departure in a few days. By the time he returns to the Dragoons’ encampment, Dion will be back from the tour, and if Dion is there, everything will be alright.

But now there is more to be done. It’s the night before the funeral, and the new Lord Chauveau is deep in his cups. It has been three grueling days of preparations, family arrivals and gifts of food and drink sent from sympathetic workers and villagers.

He’s already signed papers with the solicitor to ensure his mother has complete control—she had managed the business for years in his father’s name, and Terence has no intention of leaving the Dragoons or Dion’s side anytime soon. He sits before the fire in his bedroom, a glass of whiskey in his hand, a near-empty decanter within arm’s reach and his father’s signet ring hanging heavy on his finger.

Listening to the wind outside howl, Terence swirls his drink in his glass and taps his finger on the arm of his chair. Grief hangs in the air—heavy and complex. The previous Lord Chauveau had been a great man, but he had not been good. While his legacy would be ample food and commerce throughout the Norvent Valley, it would also be a miserable wife, a son who resented his name, and an extended family who merely tolerated his moods.

A sharp whistle sounds through the sky. Terence leans back and closes his eyes, hoping it will lull him to sleep. But then it shifts into a roar he’s heard only a few times before. He abandons his drink and heads outside in only his sleep clothes.

Bahamut descends on the ridge, wings spread as he lowers to the ground. The trees tip and bow—the telltale snap of pine echoes around the valley.

Terence is already on the path up when a great flash of light brightens the valley, then plunges it back into darkness, signaling Dion’s shift back into himself. The wind gusts against his side, and though Terence has grown strong and sturdy, the whiskey has dulled him. He staggers into the cover of the trees but continues climbing because he knows that at least a moment of relief awaits him up the trail.

He hears Dion before he sees him less than halfway up the trail. At first, it’s fast, agile footsteps, then a shadow moving ahead. When Dion emerges through the trees, he looks every bit the prince he is, and it knocks Terence’s breath from his chest.

They’ve been in uniform for years, and when they weren’t, they often opted for comfort. But tonight, Dion had arrived in all his royal glory, and Terence can’t tear his eyes away as his prince races down the hill, a wyvern leather sack over his shoulder and spear in his hand—beautiful and dangerous all at once.

He’s dressed in all black. Fine gold cords are sewn down his front in elegant scrollwork, and the moonlight reflects off his boots. He is winded, as always after priming, cheeks pink from the cold and his hair wild and windswept. A long, black coat billows around him. Terence’s heart drops. Try as he might to fight it, all his grief rises to the surface now that someone else is there to help him carry it.

Dion throws his bag and spear to the ground, pulling Terence into a rough, crushing embrace. With a strangled sob, Terence falls into him, his knees weak and shaking, and Dion lowers them both to the frozen ground as if he’s making a soft landing. 

The feeling in Terence’s gut threatens to tear him apart. Dion takes his entire weight, lets Terence bury his face in his shoulder, and holds onto him tight. He whispers Terence’s name like a prayer, doesn’t urge him to gather, and rocks him gently. And when Terence’s sobs subside, Dion’s voice feels like a warm blanket—soft and comforting.

“Your message was delayed—lost in a stack of correspondence,” he explains. “I would have been here sooner. I’m so, so sorry, Terence.”

Terence turns his face into Dion’s shoulder, ashamed to admit how much more like himself he feels now that Dion is here, holding onto him.

“I didn’t know you were coming at all,” Terence says, trying desperately to regulate his breath.

“Of course I came.” Dion is indignant. He leans back to look at Terence, who turns his face away, ashamed of his tears and the endless ache in his chest. He knows he’s a mess and smells like whiskey and regret. With a gloved hand on his cheek, Dion turns him back, holding him firmly but carefully. “You needn’t endure this alone.”

With his sleeve, Terence wipes away the moisture from under his eyes, lest it freeze his eyelashes. A strong wind cuts through the trees, knocks snow from the leaves above and cuts through Terence’s shirt like a knife. He shivers hard.

“You should not waste your strength, My Prince,” Terence says.

Dion ignores him. “Greagor,” he swears. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

Though Terence is taller and broader than Dion, he’s lifted to his feet like a child. Once standing, Terence looks down and surveys himself. In only a sweater, warm sleep pants and slippers, he’s scarcely dressed for a midwinter night. Dion sheds his coat and wraps it around Terence’s shoulders. The collar smells like Dion’s special occasion cologne. He turns his face into it.

“Let’s go back down, love.”

It’s Dion calling him love and his quiet encouragement that gets Terence down the path back to the house. It’s Dion’s strength that brings him back up the stairs, and it’s Dion’s fast thinking that straightens them both up when they encounter Terence’s mother on the stairs back up to his room.

“Lady Chauveau.” The sudden crispness of his voice and the click of Dion’s heels meeting in an official posture snap Terence from his haze. He looks up to see his mother at the top of the stairs, her bloodshot eyes wide in surprise but composed, wrapped in a heavy winter dressing gown.

“Good evening, Mother.” The whiskey sloshes in his stomach. His vision blurs. His feet are so cold.

“Your Highness,” she says, curtsying low to Dion. He abandons Terence to ascend and kiss her hand. Terence grips the railing as his mother clutches her dressing gown tighter in the cold. “Please accept my apologies. We were not expecting you.”

“No apologies, my lady,” Dion assures her and bows his head respectfully. “My deepest condolences on the loss of your husband. Lord Chauveau will be missed across the Empire.”

Terence’s mother bows her head in gratitude. “Will you be staying with us, Your Highness?” Lady Chauveau asked. “Please let me prepare a room for you—“

“No need tonight, my lady,” Dion assures her. “I can get Sir Terence back to his room and make sure he rests. I have some reports to prepare for my father that will keep me awake. I will keep him out of trouble.”

Try as he might to stand, Terence sags against the railing. His mother’s confusion shifts into something else when Dion’s arm finds his waist and hoists him up again. Her eyes scan the coat hanging on his shoulders.

“And perhaps away from the bottles,” Lady Chauveau says. She looks at Terence, her brow furrowed with concern. “We have a long day tomorrow, Terence. You should rest. And tomorrow night, once the guests have gone, we’ll all toast to your father together.”

Terence decodes her words—just get through one more day, my son. Then, you can fall apart.

With Dion’s help, Terence makes it up the last few stairs and looks sheepishly at his mother. “My apologies, mother,” he says. “I am not myself.”

She gives him a watery smile and pats his shoulder through Dion’s coat. “Grief affects us all in different ways,” she says, and he knows he is forgiven.

Marshaling all of his concentration—and there’s precious little left—Terence stumbles back to his room with Dion’s help. He sinks into his chair by the fireplace—an old, worn thing his mother has wanted to discard for a decade—and sighs as Dion sets his bag down and lays his coat out to dry. Terence reaches for the glass on his side table, but Dion swipes it away before he can negotiate getting his fingers around it.

“Normally, I’m not one to tell a man when to stop,” Dion says, drinking the last sip of whiskey left at the bottom. Terence knows this to be true. “But your father’s funeral is tomorrow at midday, and I do think your poor mother would like you standing.”

Terence groans, places his frozen feet as close to the fire as he can, and listens as Dion pours a glass of water.

“My apologies, Dion,” he says. Dion presses the water into his hand, and Terence drinks it gratefully. “I suppose I have taken my father’s passing harder than I would have expected.”

“It was sudden,” Dion reminds him. “You were blindsided.”

“Still,” Terence says, rubbing his face as the feeling returns. “The Empire’s Crown Prince should find Lord Chauveau more composed.”

Dion sinks to the floor before him, kneeling at Terence’s feet. The impropriety would have scandalized his father to death. Terence likes the thought, then immediately feels guilty. His father’s body lays in the cellar, ready for internment, cold. He should not think ill of the dead so soon, even if their firm hand and firmer disposition had left scars.

“I have missed you, Terence,” Dion admits. His warm eyes and long hair, permissible by the Dragoon standards only because he is the Crown Prince, starkly contrast the sharp angles of his dark uniform. It’s quite a sight for Terence, and if he had all his wits about him, he’d do something about it.

“And I, you,” Terence confesses. 

With his teeth, Dion removes his gloves, sets them aside and carefully draws Terence in, kissing him deeply. It’s the wordless comfort Terence needs, and he sinks into it until Dion insists he rest and tucks him into bed.

The next day, Terence wakes to the sound of turning pages. Dion sits at his desk, still working on the reports for the Emperor. Terence watches him write and read for a long time, only breaking Dion’s reverie when he hears movement downstairs and his mother’s voice. 

Throughout the day, Dion stays close to Terence’s side. He refuses all ceremony, stands behind Terence during the funeral service, and watches with him as his father’s shrouded body is placed in the family crypt next to his grandfather’s. Terence eyes the empty spaces near his father’s final resting place, and as the door is sealed behind them, he swears he will not occupy one.

In the evening, only Terence’s mother, Dion and a smattering of Chauveau relatives remain at the estate. Now more familiar with Dion and exhausted by days of grieving, they lounge in the library with glasses of wine, warm pastries and soft blankets to toast the former Lord Chauveau and welcome the new one. Terence is so uncomfortable with the title that he asks them to set it aside—at least until he retires from his service to the Empire.

But as he watches Dion ask his mother about her childhood, teach two of his youngest cousins to sword fight with broomsticks, and pour more wine for his elderly aunt—who blushes and stammers so hard Terence thinks she may keel over, too—he knows his service isn’t truly to the Empire and hasn’t been for a long time.

They stay up with the family well into the morning, sharing stories and playing idle games. Only when the last retires for the night does Dion show any signs of exhaustion. He sits across from Terence and his mother at the windowsill table and stifles a yawn with his hand. 

“It has been a very long day,” Lady Chauveau says. “Thank you, Your Highness, for all you’ve done. You honor my late husband and our family with your presence.”

Dion tips his head in thanks. “Sir Terence is my dearest friend, Lady Chauveau. I would do more for him and your family if I could.”

“You are very kind, Your Highness.”

Dion retires to the room prepared for him that morning, and Terence knows it’s to give him a few minutes alone with his mother. He’s grateful and hopes Dion will slip into his room later so he can tell him.

His mother relaxes once Dion is gone and sinks into her chair, her eyes drifting closed.

“Are you well, mother?”

“As well as I can be,” she says. “I feel I could sleep for days.”

“As do I,” Terence agrees. “With everyone gone, perhaps we can rest tomorrow.”

“Will Prince Dion remain with us?”

Terence nods. “I believe we will return together in a few days,” he says. 

“It was kind of him to come here,” she says. “He is always so polite and grounded.”

“He is a good friend,” Terence agrees. “A good person.”

“He needn’t sleep in his guest room,” she says. “If he would be more comfortable with you, I mean.”

It’s an odd thing to say, Terence thinks, trying to discern her meaning. “I trust Prince Dion will tell me if he is uncomfortable.”

“Still, I appreciate that he accompanies you home,” she continues. “I do hope he feels comfortable here. You both work so hard and get so few breaks… and days together.”

“He likes it here,” Terence assures her. 

“Good, good,” she says, and Terence hopes this ends their strange conversation. He is quickly disappointed.

“I… Terence, you know that I know, right?”

His eye twitches. “That you know what?”

She gives him a look, and Terence feels as if she’s caught him committing a crime. He can’t look at her but can’t move, so he settles for staring at a knot in the wooden tabletop, then digs the flesh of his fingertip across the sharp edge.

He takes a long moment to process. When he speaks, his voice is thick. “How long have you known?”

“Years. Regardless, last night would have given you away.”

She stills his hand with her own, lacing their fingers together. Terence gathers the courage to look at her. It’s the first time she’s smiled at him since he arrived.

“I did not want to say anything and complicate your time here while your father lived,” she said. “He would not have approved, and if it upset you that I knew… he was perceptive and would have known.”

Terence nods and swallows hard. His father had noticed everything and was willing to use any perceived fault for leverage… or simply for sport. He had been so careful with Dion in his father’s presence, so strategic.

“We’ve tried so hard to keep it hidden, mostly for Dion’s sake,” Terence says. “The Crown takes it very seriously.”

“Oh, love, you did a wonderful job,” she says. “Truly.”

“But you know.”

“I am your mother,” she says with a tearful chuckle. “I notice things, too. And as long as Prince Dion treats my boy well, I am happy. But if he hurts you… I will battle Bahamut if I must.

Terence’s laugh is loud, unrestrained. It echoes around the room—the relief pools in his eyes.

“But if it’s any consolation,” she continues. “It wasn’t you who gave your love away.”

“What do you mean?”

“Darling, it was him.” She brushes his hair back and pinches his cheek. He squirms away from her, laughing. “You don’t see how he looks at you when you don’t see him watching.”

The following day, Terence wakes Dion and brings his things back into his bedroom. Dion never sleeps in the guest room again.

Four

Two years later, Terence realizes with absolute certainty that Dion will die before him.

Skirmishes with Waloed begin. Dion has been given his own company of Dragoons to lead, while Terence has become the right hand to the right hand of the Holy Order, and he hopes it will lead to more time together in the future, as it affords them very little now. Their moments together become rushed, or they’re so exhausted they simply sleep, hands clasped between them, legs intertwined.

Terence visits home more regularly to check on the estate and visit his mother. When alone, he speaks freely about Dion, and she asks him about the Dragoons and their relationship. 

During one of these short visits, a messenger arrives for Lord Chauveau. Prince Dion has been injured only a day’s ride from the estate and will be brought there to recover at his request.

It’s a bold move, demanding he be delivered to Terence. It’s a risk, and Terence immediately knows there is something more. And if Dion has been injured badly enough that he’s being taken anywhere to recover…

Terence sends word back to his company that he will be delayed at Prince Dion’s command and, unable to focus on anything else, perches himself on the front steps to wait. His mother brings the blanket she is knitting outside and sits beside him. They chat about the farm and this year’s wine—they’ve expanded the vineyard to include new types of grapes, and she is elated—and she assures him over and over that everything will be fine. He is Bahamut, after all.

Twilight falls. Terence sees the outline of a carriage flanked by guards on the ridge. His heart sinks to know Dion isn’t well enough to ride. Lady Chauveau instructs the guards to take Prince Dion to the library, where a bed and their family healer await. With every ounce of patience he has, Terence waits for them to draw Dion from the carriage instead of simply climbing in himself. 

It takes two guards to get Dion out of the carriage. They lift him slowly, and Terence sees a splint wrapped around Dion’s leg and a bandage around his hand and arm. The cloth wrapped around his head is stained with dried blood, and his eyes are only half open as the guards set him down on his good leg. Dion winces, and Terence dismisses one of the guards far too aggressively before taking his place next to Dion, holding him up by the waist and taking all his weight. It’s all he can do not to scoop his prince up and carry him inside, but Terence expects such a display could worsen an already bad situation.

“Terence?”

Dion’s voice is barely more than a whisper—harsh and rough. Terence studies his chapped lips and scraped cheek and wonders what could have possibly felled the dreaded Bahamut in such a way.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Terence says, his voice firm and official. Satisfied that it’s him, Dion’s head lolls onto his shoulder.

After they have Dion settled in the library, Terence learns the truth: that during a skirmish on the coast, Dion was forced to prime when King Barnabas Tharmr sent Garuda, an unexpected Eikon, onto the battlefield. While Dion had triumphed, pushing Garuda back from their shores, it had come at a cost. Injured, Dion’s landing had been less than graceful and controlled, and he’d hit the ground hard in his human body.

He helps the guards find their stations and seals the house off to all but the essential workers. He watches as his family’s healer checks over Dion and ensures he was appropriately treated before transport the Norvent Valley. The healer assures Terence and Lady Chauveau that Prince Dion is healing nicely and that his Eikonic powers will likely accelerate the process tenfold. He will be up and about in a matter of days.

Once Dion is tended to and resting comfortably, Terence bids the healer return in the morning to be safe. He sees the guards fed and tended to and stations them where they can protect Dion without being underfoot. Terence only allows himself to sit and rest long after night has fallen.

Lady Chauveau is perched near the library window when Terence finally drags an armchair to the side of Dion’s bed and falls into it.

“You should rest, Terence,” she says softly, as though she already knows he will refuse.

“I am resting.”

She shakes her head, fingers moving swiftly with her needles and yarn. “You’re no good to him if you’re exhausted when he wakes. He is safe here and even safer with the guards here. One can sit with him in case he wakes.

Terence says nothing and takes Dion’s hand in his own but remembers it is bruised and scraped from the fall. He sighs, defeated and lays his hands on Dion’s bandaged arm, wishing desperately that his prince would open his eyes for a moment, if only to confirm he is okay.

But something is amiss. Terence knows every part of Dion’s body—he has made a worshipful study of it every chance he can. Beneath his fingertips, Terence can feel a cool rigidness below Dion’s shirt and the cloth wrap, and without anyone to stop him, he quietly unravels the top to see what has happened.

The prince moans and shifts in his sleep, disturbed, but Terence can hardly bring himself to care about a bit of Dion’s discomfort when his entire world is crumbling. He’s seen petrified flesh on Bearers and heard tales of the crystal’s curse. But he never considered it could affect an Eikon…

He breathes Dion’s name, eyes moving up and down his greyed skin, and runs his thumb over the hardened flesh. Dion’s face contorts with discomfort, and he stops and pulls down the sleeve, lest his mother notice.

Terence sits as still as Dion rests, staring at the steady rise and fall of his lover’s chest. After hours, his mother retires to bed. She doesn’t urge Terence to sleep or leave, only kissing the top of his head and telling him she loves him very much before departing, promising to see him first thing in the morning.

He sits still at Dion’s bedside, the image of Dion’s flesh made stone seared into his mind’s eye. Terence has seen some horrible things in recent years—men dying, guts strewn about as they beg for their long-dead mothers; wyverns shot down from the sky with a grotesque, guttural cry; children starving in homeless encampments; the empty eyes of beaten Bearer slaves —but the truth of this discovery is more painful than all of them combined. The curse has come for Dion, and there is nothing in this world or the next that Terence can do about it.

Finally, in the early morning hours, Terence sits with his head on the mattress next to Dion’s hip. The feeling of Dion’s fingers carding through his hair rouses him. His head pounds with exhaustion, but he raises it anyway. Through the window, he can just see the sky starting to lighten.

“Morning,” Dion rasps.

“My Prince,” Terence says. He sits up a bit, and his back aches. His neck cracks with the movement. 

Dion looks down at his body, wiggles his toes beneath the blanket and winces. Terence watched him take stock of his body, bit by bit. Then he sees Terence’s hand on his bandaged arm.

“I see you have learned my secret.”

“You knew? This isn’t from the accident?”

Dion shakes his head and tries to sit up but quickly has to pause and catch his breath. Terence sits on the edge of the bed and helps him sit up against the wall and pillows.

“It started a few months ago,” Dion says. He looks up at the high bookshelves. “Why am I in the library?”

“We were unsure of what state you would be in. The stairs… I did not want to see you jostled.” 

“The early morning light is beautiful here,” Dion says, looking up at the windows. “It’s a lovely library.”

“Please, My Prince,” Terence urges, “Tell me, when did this begin?”

Dion sighs. “About four months ago. I was semi-primed. It started very small but grew when I was ordered over the Waloed coast to ward off Titan’s men.”

“You mustn’t call upon Bahamut, then,” Terence says. “You cannot. It is not worth your arm and eventually your life.”

“Bahamut is the Empire’s champion,” Dion reminds him. “My father desired a show of strength.”

“His marriage and new baby were meant to strengthen the Empire.” Terence feels hot with anger. “He needn’t ask this of you. Does he know the cost?”

Dion averts his eyes. “The astrologers predict my health will not worsen if I continue to summon Bahamut.”

Terence’s face burns. “Since when does your father trust the guesses of astrologers with his son’s life.”

“My Emperor orders me to the skies, and I fly,” Dion says. A twitch in his jaw gives him away.

“Dion, please. This will kill—“

“Enough, Terence.” His voice is sharp and low. Dion never cuts him off or makes demands, especially when alone. Terence looks down at his feet as Dion sighs and rubs his face.

A hand appears on Terence’s shoulder. He takes it and holds it tight.

“My apologies, love,” Dion says. Terence doesn’t need to see the regret in his eyes to know he means it—to know he is shaken by the path he is now on. It’s one Terence can’t follow.

Terence presses his lips to the back of his hand, knowing all he can do now is offer protection and comfort. Dion leans forward, rests his head on Terence’s shoulder, and they sit silently for several minutes.

“I will request a transfer to your company,” Terence decides. “You may have to use your influence, but you will need help to stay well and composed if your father intends to deploy you this way.”

Dion nods in resignation against his back. His quick acceptance worries Terence even more. It signals that Dion has deemed this development dire enough to keep Terence closer, even if it will slow his career.

“Forgive me, Terence.”

Terence draws Dion in, careful of his injuries until he can press their foreheads together and look Dion in the eye. There is no sense in pretending Dion will not need help and Terence will not make sacrifices. He may not be able to follow Dion’s path, but he can run alongside it.

“I forgive you.”

Five

Their world stands on the edge of a knife. More and more, Dion tells Terence of his father’s mounting madness and Anabella’s fixation with Olivier, only now their conversations happen in the command tent.

Dion becomes the leader of the Holly Order of the Knights Dragoon. Terence ensures his service is so exemplary that no one can challenge Dion’s decision-making when he becomes his second-in-command. Terence is confident most of the Dragoons suspect their relationship—the leadership certainly must—but their respect for Dion and his officers keeps commentary at bay. Terence doesn’t think Dion could handle additional scrutiny and is immensely grateful.

In the spring, during a short reprieve, Terence insists that Dion needs rest, and Dion insists Terence needs to visit his mother, so they head to The Chauveau Estate once more.

For the first time in ages, they set work aside. They must if they are to stay sane. 

Terence walks the vines and newly planted crops and admires the extraordinary measures their workers have taken to grow so well in the fading earth. He takes Dion into the reserve cellar. They drink an old bottle of wine worth more than Dion’s spear up on the ridge. Dion spends evenings on the back deck of Terence’s cottage—his mother insisted on setting it up for him as if it would allow him more time to visit—painting the valley below at sunset. Though he must set his brush down frequently to shake his wrist and stretch his hand, as the curse has spread down his arm, he is serene. Each night, Dion takes Terence apart with his hands, mouth and body, leaving him breathless and all but begging for more.

Away from prying eyes, Terence can tend to him. Dion sleeps more than he has in years and spends hours sitting outside, just listening to the sounds of the surrounding forest. Terence watches over him and holds his hand in comfortable silence, letting his mind go quiet. When Dion falls asleep pressed into his side at night, he prays this reprieve will heal them both and prepare them for what is to come.

But nothing good lasts, Terence thinks as he helps Dion pack in a hurry. Word arrived that his father demands his presence at a function with the Five Cardinals immediately. Dion has no choice but to fly.

“He looks to intimidate them?” Terence helps Dion into his uniform.

“Having Bahamut at your side intimidates everyone, even if he’s not presently a dragon,” Dion says. Terence steps forward and buttons the outer part of his uniform into place. “I fear conditions will worsen, Terence. I find my father more changed each time we meet. This path we tread is dangerous.”

Terence checks the wrap on his arm and ensures his sleeve hides it. “It is, indeed.”

They visit the main house briefly at Dion’s insistence. Terence watched as Dion hugs Lady Chauveau tight and insists she call him by his name again. She does, only once, just to please him and pats his cheek before they take off, just as she does with Terence. The familiarity and comfort they have built in these tiny pockets of time are precious, and it makes Terence ache something terrible to see them end once again.

They climb the ridge, holding onto one another once the trees shield them from prying eyes. Dion’s good hand is as coarse as Terence’s. He holds onto it tightly, and Dion’s grip makes his fingers ache. He says nothing.

At the top, Terence stands back and watches Dion look over the edge to the valley below, straight-backed and hands on his hips. He tries to memorize the slope of Dion’s shoulders and hips and the soft smile on his lips as he closes his eyes and turns his face to the sun. For a moment, he looks serene, and Terence doesn’t know when he’ll see it again. He wishes he had Dion’s gift to capture scenes in charcoal, ink and paint—wishes he could keep this one with him always.

“Each time I come here, it gets harder to leave.”

Terence moves to stand behind him and winds his arms around Dion’s middle. Dion leans back into him, and Terence turns his face into the warmth of his neck, finds the spot behind Dion’s ear that drives him mad, and brushes his lips against it. Dion shivers in his arms.

He whispers Terence’s name like a prayer. “Do not start something you cannot finish,” he smirks.

“Do not leave and I will finish it.”

Dion smiles and closes his eyes, face turned still to the sky.

“I will see you back at camp at the end of the week?”

“Yes, My Prince.”

Dion turns around, presses his body against Terence’s and draws him in for a searing kiss. Terence wishes he could take Bahamut’s wings so Dion cannot fly away.

Terence kisses him for hours or seconds—he cannot tell. He loses himself in it, remembering their first tentative touches right in this spot and how Dion’s hungry hands had roamed across his chest.

Breaking away, Dion sighs as he holds Terence tight and presses their foreheads together.

“We will continue this when I see you next,” Dion assures him. Terence nods and kisses his cheek before mustering every ounce of duty and propriety he has to release him.

“Make sure you tend to your arm, My Prince,” he says. “And take your recovery potion as soon as you land.”

Dion assures him he will and takes one last look over the landscape, then grabs his things and steps away from Terence into the open space. He shakes out his limbs, stretches his neck, and transforms into Bahamut in a blinding flash of light.

Long ago, Terence was frightened of the boy with a dragon inside—scared the flare and fangs would come out and consume him. Now, Terence stands a man grown before Bahamut and looks him in the eye as the King of Dragons lowers his head to Terence’s level, and he reaches out and runs his hand over the rough hide of Bahamut’s muzzle.

“May Greagor’s breadth fill your wings,” he prays and stands back, giving Dion room to take off.

He watches Bahamut disappear into the sky and stares long after he is gone. Slowly, he walks down to the cottage, and when he decides to change to take his mother into the village for dinner, just the two of them, he finds Dion’s painting atop his bed.

The view of the valley below is lovingly rendered in a wash of golden light, with less than a quarter of the painting left unfinished. Tiny, detailed plants sprout from the earth below, and the sun hangs low in the painted sky. Even incomplete, it is astoundingly realistic but somehow stylized, as if he is seeing the landscape through Dion’s eyes. It brings tears to his own.

A note lies atop the canvas, and Terence unfolds it. 

Keep this safe so I may complete it when we next return.   

-Your Prince

It’s the last time Prince Dion Lesage visits the Norvent Valley.

Epilogue

Origin bursts in brilliant light. All of Valisthea is plunged into chaos. The earth gasps back to life. Terence leaves what remains of the Dragoons, turns his back on the Empire and returns home to carry out Dion’s final order.

He arrives home on Chocobo back with Kihel seated in front of him, half asleep from the long ride. Terence remembers when he first left home—the unease and uncertainty. The girl shows none of that and knows she has nothing to lose. Once Terence explains who sent him, she goes with him willingly.

Lady Chauveau greets them in the early evening when they arrive and grasps Terence so tightly to her that he has to crouch down. That night, after Kihel is tucked into a room Lady Chauveau says is hers as long as she wants it, Terence tells his mother everything and sobs with his head in her lap until he passes out.

For days, he stays in his childhood room, unable to face the memories scattered across the estate. He sleeps, stares at the ceiling, and prays for the bed to consume him. Memories and voices haunt him as if the last months are happening to him again, all at once. His body aches. He is jittery, full of anger and sadness, but he held prone by grief. It is slow torture.

The dreams are the worst. Terence returns to the command tent, receiving the report that Bahamut has fallen, Dion’s spear has been found on the shore, and his body is lost. He signs his resignation paperwork with Kihel at his side, prepared to leave as soon as possible. He sits with Dion on a tent floor, listening to his tale of destruction. He says a rushed goodbye to Dion in a strange hallway. His sleeping imagination creates a thousand images of Dion’s death, each more gruesome than the last. It all happens out of order; he always wakes in a cold sweat, panting.

When he finally emerges, he walks to the ridge, looks out over the valley and disappears into the trees for hours at a time. The loneliness is stifling, but being near others is worse. Terence feels volatile as if anything could set him off. At night, he drinks whiskey by the fireplace. His mother sits with him, knitting, her grey hair gathered into a bun. She fills the silence with news from the valley and beyond—the Council of Cardinals has convened and will rule together for a year until they can appoint a new Emperor. Terence stares into the flames, trying to ignore the ache in his chest. The crown that should have been Dion’s would go to some unknown nobleman, and though Terence knows Dion would not have enjoyed ruling, the idea is too much to bear.

Weeks pass. Terence drags himself out into the fields to survey the summer crops. He picks sour, unripe grapes and eats them just to feel something. He starts to work with his mother on the business, talks to their workers and rejoin the world as an empty shell of himself. Kihel makes him tea after dinner each evening and tells him about her days shadowing the apothecary. He is filled a little.

The seasons change, and he tries. He picks up the mantle of Lord Chauveau, but also picks up the shovel and rake. He cannot sit idle and finds tiring himself out is the best antidote to his dreams—that and whiskey.

Finally, he gathers the strength to journey back up to the cottage. 

He sits on the back deck for a long time before entering. It will be there when he opens the door; he knows nothing can prepare him for that hurt. But as dusk falls, he knows he must commit to the deed.

Terence unlocks the door and steps inside. There, lit by the sloping evening light, is the painting. It sits unfinished on the dusty mantle, moved only for occasional cleaning while he was gone. Terence resents that it has been touched at all.

He lights a candle and stares at it as though he is in a gallery. He can almost see Dion’s hand gliding over the canvas, sketching lightly in charcoal or weaving light with paint. He touches the hardened paint, feels the texture of the brush on a cloud, and weeps. His beloved’s legacy would not be beauty, kindness or passion. It would be Bahamut, blood and bravery, and Terence knows it is incomplete. He weeps for the life Dion will not get to live, for all the love he will not feel and all the beautiful things he will never see.

He weeps for himself, too. For all the pain he’s caused and felt. For the grief he will bear all his life. And he weeps with gratitude that he had enjoyed something so real and precious that he would ache his whole life to have lost it.

He helps his mother with the estate and watches the world start to reform at a distance. He has tea with Kihel and takes her foraging for herbs. He moves back into the cottage.

Life continues.

+1

In late Autumn, a storm approaches from the sea during the last days of the harvest. At sunset, long after the workers have gone home to prepare for the wind and rain and the Chauveau Estate has shut down, Dion finds Terence among the vines, working. The sun has disappeared behind the distant mountains, but its glow remains, lighting the clouds from beneath and casting long shadows across the soil.

It has been a season since the Fall of Origin, and Dion has fought his way tooth and nail just to get back to the Norvent Valley, where he knows Terence will have gone.

Dried leaves crunch under his third-hand boots. Ahead, Terence works, his trousers dirty and brow sweaty from a long day. A bucket sits beside him, nearly full of this year’s Zillio grapes, ripe, sweet and ready for pressing.

Dion’s tired heart pounds in his chest as he watches Terence work, appreciates the contours of his biceps and shoulders beneath his worn linen shirt, and drinks in the lines of his face like a man dying of thirst.

Terence catches him in the corner of his eye. He does a double take, and Dion stops short as his eyes narrow, then widen, and his jaw falls open.

“Hello, Terence.”

Terence stares, unblinking. He holds onto the nearest trellis for stability.

“This is a dream,” he says, certain.

“In the future, dream me without the scars and aches,” Dion requests. He approaches cautiously, unsure of Terence’s reaction. He’s thought about the hurt in Terence’s eyes when he sent him away every hour since waking in the fishing village. “My wounds kept me from returning sooner. Travel and messages are disorganized now. Forgive me, Terence.”

Dion is close now—he can smell the sweetness of the grapes and Terence’s sweat. Terence reaches out, his heavy hands find Dion’s shoulders and feel down his arms to check if he’s real. Dion lets him, soaking in the familiar warmth of his hands. He studies the bright freckles on Terence’s nose, the pink sunburn on his cheeks, and the smear of dirt on his brow.

A sigh and chuckle of disbelief and happiness. Then Terence is clutching him close, kissing him desperately. He’s had weeks of traveling in merchant wagons on rough roads to imagine—weeks to think of what he’d say and how it would feel—but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of Terence’s hands pressing into his still-tender flesh, the breathlessness as he nearly staggers backward under the press of Terence’s body.

Terence breathes his name, and Dion is so full of emotion he could burst. He has lost so much—is so much less than the last time he saw Terence. Hand in Terence’s hair, he pulls back and presses their foreheads together, his breathing heavy. He grins.

“I became caught in a strange tide,” Dion says, laughing as Terence feels over his back as if looking for injuries and a way to get closer. “Washed out to sea… a fishing boat found me, took me to a remote village, and I was… unrecognizable, after the fall.”

He swallows hard and feels over the stubble on Terence’s jaw. He’ll fill in the gaps later. For now, they need the essentials, and Dion needs a moment to breathe and rest—to hold on and be held.

“The healers were excellent, but without the stolases, I couldn’t reliably get a message to you,” he explains and kisses Terence quickly because he simply cannot wait any longer. “They gave me some clothes and a few coins for food. I traveled here in the backs of merchant wagons.”

Dion expects Terence hears only half of what he’s said, and that is fine. They have all night and the days ahead to catch up. They have as long as they need.

“The girl?” Dion asks. He hopes Terence has kept her near.

“She’s here,” Terence says and swallows hard.

“I expected so,” Dion said. “Once I heard rumors of how things had settled… I thought you would come here, or your mother would know how to reach you.”

Terence leans back to survey him, touches the fresh scar on his forehead and feels down Dion’s arm. Dion winces, and Terence gently pulls back his sleeve to reveal his entire forearm had become petrified, along with the outside of his hand and little finger.

“It has spread to my thigh as well,” Dion says, knowing Terence will find out soon enough. “But they will not spread.”

“We cannot be sure, My Prince,” Terence says. 

“We can. Bahamut is no more.”

Terence’s hands still, and he meets Dion’s eyes. Dion wants an hour just to look at him.

“So it’s true. The Eikons have gone?”

Dion nods and rests his head down on Terence’s shoulder. Terence rocks them gently, his hand in Dion’s unkempt hair.

“Sanbreque will rejoice that their Emperor is restored.”

Dion shakes his head but does not raise it. “I will not accept the crown. At most, I am Lord Lesage now, though I doubt much remains of my house.”

“Truly?”

“I’ve had many idle days to think, Terence,” Dion says. “I do not wish to rule. For good or ill, Sanbreque must forge a new path.”

Terence nods, seemingly at a loss, and Dion rubs his back gently while he catches up. He had known for months that he was alive, and Terence was most likely alive and safe. He does not want to underestimate the shock of his arrival and all he has shared.

“Much has happened,” Terence finally says into Dion’s shoulder. 

“An understatement.”

“You look exhausted,” Terence says. “Come, let us get you some food and something more comfortable. You can talk with Kihel, and my mother will be delighted to see you alive and whole.”

Terence moves to step back and gather his things, but Dion holds him tight and kisses him once more for good measure.

With great reluctance, he releases Terence, watches him hoist the heavy wooden bucket onto his shoulder, and then nod toward the house.

“After you, My Prince,” he grins.

“Just Dion, now.”

Terence’s free arm is heavy around Dion’s shoulders and Dion holds on to Terence as tight as he can as they walk to the main house.

Terence discards the grapes as soon as possible, then draws Dion back to his side, and they set off to find Lady Chauveau and Kihel in the kitchens. They stand together, hunched over the central table with vegetables, plates and ingredients strewn about. Lady Chauveau explains how she’s prepared the meat, and Kihel listens intently.

Dion is relieved to see the girl well. After all the destruction he’d caused, this child was willing to care for him—to see him well at her detriment. It had touched him deeply, and the thought of leaving her unguarded and alone had kept him up at night for days. He desperately hoped that having someone to care for had helped Terence in the days and weeks after.

“My apologies for arriving unannounced, Lady Chauveau,” Dion says by way of greeting. Terence’s mother pauses over the plate she is preparing and looks at him as slack-jawed as her son. Dion smirks.

“Prince Dion?”

“I’ve told you many times,” he says, breaking from Terence’s side to greet her. “Just Dion.”

She has aged much since they first met. Her hair is no longer brown but grey and black. Her face has new lines and is weathered from the sun, but when it breaks into a tearful grin, Dion feels a splash of the love he’d known in his early days—before he was a Lesage. Before he was Bahamut or a Prince. 

A mother’s love is something he hasn’t experienced for a long time, but when Lady Chauveau places her hands on Dion’s cheeks and pulls him down to kiss his forehead, laughing and crying with joy, he recognizes it. The intensity brings tears back to his eyes.

Terence introduces him to the Medicine Girl properly, and Dion kisses Lady Kihel’s hand and thanks her again for seeing him well. She gushes with gratitude, thanks him profusely for sending Terence, and tells him how much she is learning with the local apothecary—how she will use it to help others as he has helped her.

“Thank you, Lady Kihel,” Dion says after Lady Chauveau insists he sits at the kitchen table because he looks like death and a strong breeze could knock him over. Kihel sits at his side as Terence and his mother rush to assemble dinner. Kihel looks up from his side, her eyes wide and bright. “Thank you for taking care of him,” he says.

“Lord Chauveau is a wonderful man,” Kihel gushes.

Dion looks at him as he rushes to pour wine and gathers their plates into his arms.

“He truly is,” Dion agrees.

As they eat, Lady Chauveau asks Dion what happened. He tells her in broad strokes and outlines events as clearly as possible. When she asks what he will do next, she looks at Terence, and he knows she wonders if he will take her son away once again. Dion assures her he has no grand designs and asks her if he can remain here for the time being without it becoming common knowledge. She assures him this is his home too, as if House Chauveau and wherever Terence stays is not the only home he knows. Terence grasps his good hand tight under the table.

Kihel asks him about his injuries and hurts, gives him a balm for his aching joints and muscles, and promises to make him ample poultices and treatments as soon as the storm passes and she can get materials from the apothecary. Dion thanks her profusely, and as happy as he is to be around people he cares for again, their questions grow overwhelming.

As Kihel and Lady Chauveau clear the table, Terence leans towards him.

“Would you sleep here? Or would you rather weather tonight’s storm at the cottage?”

“The cottage,” Dion confirms. “I could sleep for days, and the quiet will do me good.”

“It is a long walk uphill,” Terence reminds him.

“I remember.” Dion gives him a tired smirk. In a low whisper, he tells Terence: “I want you alone.”

“You need to rest.”

“I need you.”

Terence looks down and blushes, and Dion is so, so proud of himself he can hardly stand it.

They talk a bit more with Kihel and Lady Chauveau, who hugs Dion thrice before they go. Terence packs food and wine before they promise to come back down once the storm has passed the next day. 

They walk up the path to the cottage slowly. Dion has to stop to catch his breath more than once, and Terence holds him as he does. While Dion resents feeling so helpless, it is easy to set the feeling aside with Terence’s arms around him so tight Dion can feel his pulse.

By the time they reach Terence’s front door, the wind has picked up, and low, heavy clouds block the night sky.

“The storm will not be bad. It’s too late in the season,” Terence assures him, stopping only to pull a bucket of water from the garden well. Dion spots a fresh young wyvern tail potted by the door, and his heart swells. He does not need to be told it was planted as a reminder, and can see it’s been tended to and pruned with care.

Inside, the cottage is much the same. Terence rushes about to find Dion clean clothes, put away what he’s brought with him and pour them glasses of wine. Dion watches him, amused, while he washes up with a soft linen cloth.

“That’s my job, is it not?” Terence asks when he stops buzzing about. Dion has shed his outer layers, thrown his worn boots aside and rinsed the grime from traveling from his hair. As the wind starts to beat raindrops against the side of the cottage, Terence takes over, gently cleaning Dion’s skin and applying a balm that cools his arches instantly. It’s heavenly to sit atop Terence’s kitchen counter in only his underclothes, to feel Terence’s careful hands on his skin, and to have some of the pain eased. Dion leans back onto the wall as Terence surveys the blighted skin on his thigh.

“I suppose it could be worse,” Terence says.

“Until two hours ago, you thought it was much worse,” Dion reminds him lightly. Terence’s hands become still, and Dion realizes it isn’t the joke he meant it to be. He places his good hand under Terence’s chin and gently draws him to eye level. 

“Your scars look painful,” Terence says. “You’ve been…”

“Very unwell,” Dion supplies. “But I have mended. And I will continue to mend.”

It is an oversimplification, and Terence knows it but has the grace not to challenge him. Dion is grateful. “I will take care of you,” Terence says.

“And I will take care of you,” Dion says, pulling at Terence’s shirt to draw him near. “I have always asked too much of you, Terence. It seems I always will, but if you’ll have me, perhaps now I can better care for you as well.”

Terence places a hand on either side of him, bracing his arms against the countertop. He’s so near Dion can feel the heat from his body, and Dion wonders if he means it to be such delicious torture.

“If I’ll have you?” Terence asks. Dion sits up straighter and ignores the twinge in his back. 

“Well, yes.”

“I will. On one condition.”

Dion quirks his brow. It’s not like Terence to have conditions.

“What’s that?”

Terence’s hand finds his hip and slides his thumb over the bone. Dion’s composure starts to slip. 

“Never send me away again.”

Terence’s gaze is soft, but Dion knows the request is honest—he knows he hurt Terence deeply, and though he is thoroughly forgiven, the image of Terence turning away from him will forever haunt him.

“Never,” says Dion. “I promise, Terence. Never again.”

Terence leans in and kisses him until he’s breathless, grappling blindly at Terence’s clothes. He gives up on finding buttons and fasteners and starts tugging his shirt up, his hands unable to decide if he wants the shirt off or his hands on Terence’s skin more.

Terence’s mouth moves down his neck, hot and wet, and Dion is immensely grateful to be mostly bare when Terence’s strong arms slide around his middle and pull him flush against his chest. And when Terence speaks, his voice so low and raspy it almost disappears into the sounds of the gale outside.

“You should rest,” he says.

“Terence, please,” Dion says, exasperated, and captures his mouth again with such intensity that further protests are silenced.

They stumble into the bedroom where Dion finally—finally—divests Terence of his clothes. He ignores each ache in his joints, focuses solely on drinking in every breath, sigh and I love you that Terence offers up, reclaiming his body bit by bit. Tears escape from Dion’s eyes into his damp hair as Terence finds each of his scars and catalogs them with his lips and tongue. Terence’s weight on him is a blessing, and Dion loses himself in the heat of it, wraps himself around Terence so tightly his joints protest, and, when Terence whispers his name over and over like a prayer, Dion thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s been cleansed and forgiven and can start anew as only himself.

**

The next morning, Dion wakes late and finds Terence wrapped around him, legs intertwined with his own and his head resting just under Dion’s heart. The storm has passed, and Dion watches the sun move across a cloudless sky through the window, with only Terence’s breathing breaking the silence. Dion has attended symphonies and heard Sanbreque’s finest musicians play at the palace, and still, it’s the most idyllic sound he’s ever heard. 

When Terence wakes, it’s slow, and the warm smile he gives Dion is enough to soothe all his aches and pains for a few minutes. They lay together, tangled up with Terence’s fingertips moving over Dion’s skin, touching the petrified and scarred places that now, under Terence’s careful ministrations, feel like a part of him.

Late in the day, after Kihel has treated his aches and pains with a salve Dion swears is earthy-scented magic, they sit on Terence’s back deck, away from prying eyes and the opinions of others. Dion stands at the rail, sips from a glass of wine, and listens as the others talk about trivial things as he stands before an easel, his unfinished landscape propped up before him.

While Kihel and Lady Chauveau tend to some of Terence’s garden—it seems to be something they enjoy, Dion realizes—Terence walks up behind him and kisses him behind the ear. Dion smiles.

“You don’t have to finish it today,” Terence says.

“I want to,” Dion says. “Even if my hand isn’t steady. I said I would complete it when I returned.”

He looks down at his hand—half-ruined but still able to hold a brush—and leans back into Terence’s arms. The path ahead is uncertain, and Dion knows he cannot anticipate what it will hold. But the storm has passed, and he is not alone. 

It’s a beautiful day.