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Snow daisies grew thick and wild around the walls of Oriflamme, so numerous one couldn’t shuffle their feet off the beaten path without crushing two or three. It was like this every year for a week or two in the spring before they’d begin to thin again, the magic dissipating like smoke in the air. In a moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability, Dion’s father once told him his mother—the real one—loved snow daisies. Ever since, he’d made a point of gathering a bouquet for her each year, though when he was finished he never quite knew what to do with it.
Her name was Sophia. She was a courtesan. She liked snow daisies. All Dion knew of his mother could scarcely fill a thimble.
“You do this every year,” Terence commented one day when they were sixteen, as Dion knelt in the grass to gather another of the prettiest blooms. “Why?”
Dion had taken Terence with him on this excursion three years in a row now, but he’d never bothered to explain himself. One of the things he liked most about his squire was the ease with which he simply let him be. If Dion wanted to speak of his intentions behind doing a particular thing, then he would. If he did not, Terence rarely pried. It made for comfortable companionship.
When he was very young, his father told him that he must never reveal the truth of his parentage to anyone, as it was a shameful thing worthy of utmost secrecy. He’d tried to ask questions and learn why that was, but his father rebuffed him at every opportunity and as a result, he’d always kept his lips obediently sealed. Now that he was a little older, he understood that it may have harmed his chances at becoming emperor. It wouldn’t do for the holy embodiment of Greagor herself to have sired a son with a common whore.
Dion had grown very tired of keeping his father’s secrets.
“If I tell you something,” he bartered as he climbed to his feet, tucking the daisy into the neat bundle in his left hand, “will you swear not to tell anyone?”
Terence nodded, forever resolute and loyal. “Of course.”
“They’re for my mother,” he confessed. Brief though it was, the whole truth tumbled from his lips like a collapsing house of cards. A spike of anxiety made his fingers itch.
Terence didn’t seem disturbed in the least—only interested. “Do you take them to her grave?”
Dion grew a little embarrassed. Last year, he’d left them in his favorite part of the palace garden. The year before that, he laid them beside the ocean. Always in different spots, never quite finding a proper home. He shook his head.
“I don’t know where she’s buried,” he explained softly. It bothered him, but only a little. “And I can’t ask around or word will reach Father.”
Terence seemed contemplative for a moment. He bent over and grabbed a daisy of his own, passing it to Dion for inspection. Satisfied, Dion added it to the collection. “He wants you to keep her a secret, then?”
Dion’s brow crumpled a little and he forced a wry smile. “It isn’t a terribly holy story, is it?”
“Then Lady Elise—” Terence began, curious despite himself.
“A convenient lie,” Dion guessed. He knew even less of the woman his father had staged as his mother than he did the real one. She, too, was dead and had been since he was in swaddling clothes. “Or so I assume.”
“I’m sorry,” Terence said, seeming at a loss for any other words. His expression seemed to betray seriousness and sorrow in the same instant. “It must be difficult.”
Dion shrugged. He was used to it by now. “It isn’t particularly. I have no memories to mourn. I only wish I’d had a chance to know her better. She’s my mother.”
A soft breeze rustled the flowers and tall grass around them. Terence nodded in quiet understanding—he’d once confessed he felt much the same: he’d also lost his mother when he was just a babe. It was strange to mourn a parent he’d never even known, but Dion was confident he understood the desire intimately.
Ever eager to help Dion see through anything he pleased, however, Terence brightly asked, “Where shall we leave them, then?”
Dion only smiled in return.
Terence was a bit strange in the days that followed, though not in any particular way Dion could pin down. He acted the same as he always did whenever he was near, but he seemed to be absent a little more often of late and had politely declined their usual adventures out beyond the walls of Oriflamme in favor of other business—a first, to be certain. Dion tried not to dwell on it, but he couldn’t help but be curious. In the nearly ten years he’d known Terence, his squire had never proven particularly secretive.
A sudden deluge of spring rain had forced them to waylay their usual training drills and practice duels. Instead, they’d holed up in the armory to conduct armor and weapons maintenance at their captain’s behest. Dion, Terence, and the other knight recruits busied themselves waxing platemail and mending loose straps while the storm raged outside.
Owen, a prospective knight their own age who was clearly bored and eager to stir conversation, grinned like a coeurl with a chocobo chick in his maw.
“Spotted you round the Veil yesterday, Marchand,” he said to Terence. Terence immediately went pink and Dion could have gawped with his surprise if it weren’t unprincely. Instead, his eyes only widened slightly. “Got any tales to tell?”
“It must have been someone else,” Terence insisted, trying to seem nonchalant. He was a terrible liar. Dion watched him carefully.
“You’re red as a phoenix feather,” Owen insisted. “I know a lie when I hear one. Dunno why you’d bother being ashamed.”
Dion couldn’t help himself as Terence seemed to struggle for an answer. He asked, “You really went to the Veil?”
Something thorny and unpleasant prickled in his chest at the thought; it made him uncomfortable, though he couldn’t say why. Soldiers visited the Veil all the time. He supposed he simply hadn’t realized Terence had a taste for such things.
“It isn’t like that,” Terence protested. Had he been acting any less strange of late, Dion probably would have believed him. “I was there, but not for the reason you think.”
“What, you just really like the conversation?” Owen dug in. Terence prickled like he usually only did under his elder brothers’ scrutiny. “Ain’t like it’s bad. I’ve been myself, before.”
That admission surprised Dion far less, as Owen had ever been intent on discussing any pretty girl he spotted, but it left him unsteady all the same. Courtesans must be a far more common pastime among his comrades than he once assumed. Especially if even Terence was paying them visits. He shined his pauldrons to a gleam while he listened, that anxious and thorny knot in his chest growing by the minute.
“Was it Vera?” Owen pressed. “You strike me as a Vera man.”
Terence looked like he was going to die if this continued much longer. He pleaded, “Greagor have mercy, Owen, will you let it go?”
When Owen seemed to be gearing up for still more heat, Dion took pity. He threw Owen a very royal, very commanding glance and the man retreated in an instant, seeming to remember himself and his present company. He wasn’t happy, though.
He sighed, “Fine, fine. You’re lucky you’ve got the crown bloody prince in your pocket.”
They finished up relatively soon thereafter, but a certain awkwardness hung about them as they left the armory and headed to Dion’s bedroom. The echoing of their footsteps against the marble floors sounded louder than usual. Dion could hear his own pulse thundering in his ears. Almost as soon they shut the door behind them and were afforded proper privacy, Terence all but leapt to explain himself.
“I didn’t think I’d be spotted,” he confessed immediately. “No one was supposed to know.”
He seemed so humiliated Dion couldn’t help but wonder if it really was all a misunderstanding. Even so, he didn’t want to seem unsupportive. “It’s alright, you know. Plenty of the imperial soldiers stop by.”
“No,” Terence insisted. “I really wasn’t there to bed anyone, I swear it. I have a surprise for you and intended to show you today, but…” He cast a glance at the rain pouring outside. “It was meant to be a secret. I promise I’ll explain everything tomorrow.”
He seemed to be telling the truth, despite his strange behavior. Dion was willing to believe him, but looming discomfort demanded absolute certainty.
Annoyed with himself, Dion asked one last time, “You really weren’t there for—?”
“Never,” Terence shook his head.
The tightness in Dion’s chest abated. He smiled and Terence seemed to relax, too. He hadn’t given himself an opportunity to examine the strange possessiveness he’d begun to feel over Terence of late, but he had his suspicions regarding their origin. No doubt they came from the same place that made him swoon whenever his squire won a duel or spared him a secret smile. He wasn’t ready to name it yet, but it grew by the day.
Satisfied, he asked, “Is this why you’ve been so busy of late?”
“I apologize for hiding this from you,” Terence said after he nodded.
Dion reached out and took his hand for a moment, sweeping his thumb across his knuckles in apology. The last bit of tension between them dissolved. “I trust it will be worth the wait.”
Nearly an hour into a suspiciously long chocobo ride the next day, Dion’s patience began to ebb. He’d tried to be good, but his own curiosity had driven him halfway to madness.
“Will it be much longer?” he asked.
They’d long since passed Northreach and were well into Claireview. The forest around them had grown thicker and Caer Norvent loomed on the horizon. Terence looked back over his shoulder and gave him a reassuring grin, half-amused by his impatience.
“Just a bit more,” he promised. “The place the Dame described shouldn’t be much further now.”
Were Terence anyone else, Dion might fear he was being led out into the woods for slaughter, so distant were they now from the city. As it stood, he could only trust his best friend knew where he was headed.
“Who’s the Dame?” Dion asked, just to keep the conversation going. The name sounded a bit familiar, though he couldn’t pinpoint why.
“The woman who runs the Veil,” Terence explained. “Among other things in Northreach. People talk about her as though she’s an entity to be feared, but…” he rubbed the back of his neck shyly, “she was very kind to me.”
She probably thought he was cute, Dion thought on reflex, then went pink. She wasn’t wrong.
Far as they were from the beaten path now, there was no risk of being overheard. In a bid to escape his own thoughts Dion pried, “Will you tell me now why you sought her out?”
Terence sighed and cast a look around the narrow path before satisfying himself they were alone. Unless the birds suddenly learned to speak, they were quite safe. Their chocobos’ clawed feet snapped twigs and crunched leaves as they walked.
“The other day, when you picked those snow daisies for your mother,” he began, “you told me you wanted to know more about her but couldn’t risk the emperor finding out.” He seemed to hesitate, a little embarrassed suddenly. “His Radiance rarely notices me and I had an idea, so—”
As he spoke, Dion’s eyes went wide with realization and all the pieces seemed to come together at once. How had he been so ignorant? It made perfect sense now.
“You went to the Veil to ask about her on my behalf,” Dion breathed, amazed and worried at the same time. “You didn’t mention—”
“No,” Terence swore immediately. “Of course not. I made up a story about researching my family tree and said we were cousins.” The admission impressed Dion, even as it made him laugh. With a rueful smile Terence concluded, “I think the Dame was happy to see someone remembered her.”
The thought that no one else had, all this time, made Dion’s chest ache. Still, he was so grateful he could hardly speak. “She worked there, then? At the Veil?”
Terence nodded. “For quite a few years. When she passed, the Dame saw to it that she was properly buried, even though she had no family to speak of.”
Then the place Terence was leading him to was… Dion’s throat went tight and his eyes prickled. He blinked rapidly, embarrassed, and pulled in a deep breath. The first headstones came into view, shaded by the forest canopy.
“Terence,” Dion pleaded softly.
He brought his chocobo to a halt. Terence stopped beside him and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Surprise,” he crooned.
They dismounted their birds and tied their reins to a fence post before venturing into the midst of the tiny collection of graves. Oriflamme’s proper cemetery was within the city walls. Northreach also had one, just a short way from the town. This plot must be for the lost and forgotten, eking out what remembrance they could. There couldn’t be more than thirty headstones. Finding her should be a mere trifle. Even so, Dion suddenly found himself frozen.
“You’re certain it’s her?” he asked. If it wasn’t, he would of course still be grateful for the attempt, but he couldn’t be certain of his ability to hide such a crushing disappointment.
“The name and death date matches,” Terence nodded. “I worried it might be a coincidence too, but then the Dame showed me something.” Dion fidgeted with the end of his belt as Terence reached into his hip pouch and produced a weathered piece of paper folded into quarters. “One of your mother’s patrons drew it. She kept it for years.”
Dion unfolded the piece of thick sketch paper and was surprised to find a well-preserved drawing on the inner side, depicting a beautiful young woman with long, slightly curled hair. She smiled very coyly, as though she knew she was posing for a portrait, and the artist’s skill revealed something unmistakable: she and Dion bore a noticeable resemblance. A small signature and date adorned the lower right corner. The name was a bit smudged and difficult to read, but the year was clear: 848. Two years before Dion was born.
There could be no doubt. Unable to hold his gratitude at bay any longer, Dion launched himself at Terence and threw his arms around his shoulders. They nearly toppled in the process, but Terence managed to hold them steady at the last moment.
“You found her,” Dion whispered, sagging against him. He held the drawing delicately between his fingers, like a sacred relic. “Terence, I—”
Terence held him close and his warmth made Dion’s heart flutter. “You’re happy, then?”
Dion huffed a disbelieving laugh. He pulled back just a little to cradle Terence’s cheek in one hand. His grey eyes were impossibly tender. Dion wanted—
Well, in all honesty, he wanted to kiss him senseless.
But he also wanted to see his mother’s grave and while there would be days aplenty for one, there were too few by far for the other.
He smiled at Terence and pressed their foreheads together for a moment, then brushed a thumb gently across his cheek. He backed away. “You didn’t have to go to such lengths, but thank you. For everything.”
His squire looked pleased beyond measure, his cheeks dusted with a warmth that made his freckles stand out. “I wanted to. Now, shall we?”
Their search didn’t take long. Dion only scanned a handful of headstones before the one he sought appeared, laden with moss and positioned unassumingly at the foot of a large tree. He knelt down in front of it and wiped away some of the dirt. His fingers caught on the dates below her name.
SOPHIA VERCHER
826 - 850
Greagor, but she’d been young—only a few years older than Dion was now. Not for the first time, Dion wondered at the man his father was versus the man he pretended to be. He’d thought it a result of Anabella’s influence, but perhaps it had been there all along, lurking in the shadows.
When he sat back a little, Terence rested his fingertips on the top of his head for an instant. He said, “I’ll be right back.”
Dion unfolded the drawing and stared at it again. Then the name, then the drawing again. Sophia Vercher. A beautiful young woman who looked a little like Dion, who loved snow daisies and had died far too young. It was strange but not at all unwelcome to put a face to the name. His knowledge might fill a teacup now, he thought, and let out a soft laugh.
Terence returned, looking a little sheepish as he held out a small bundle of snow daisies. They were fresh, if a little lopsided from wherever he’d hidden them. Dion took them wordlessly and laid them at the foot of her headstone. The picture was at last complete.
“I fear I don’t deserve you,” Dion confessed even as Terence sat down on the ground beside him.
“I wanted you to have somewhere to lay your flowers each year,” Terence said simply. “And now you do.”
Uncertain of how else to convey just how deeply grateful he felt, Dion leaned over and softly pressed his lips to Terence’s cheek. Someday he’d kiss him properly. For now, it was enough. Terence turned red and stared at his hands.
“This was a kindness,” Dion told him softly. “I won’t forget it.”
Perhaps he’d never know all there was to know about Sophia. He’d certainly never know in earnest so long as his father lived. But a face and a name and place to put daisies each year was enough. Especially with Terence at his side.