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Chapter Text

“Don’t cry.” 

Queen Calanthe’s hands seemed uncharacteristically gentle as they brushed away the tears streaking down the bride’s cheeks.

“Your groom is so drunk, he shan’t bother you tonight. He’ll collapse on the bed and the only thing you’ll have to endure will be his snoring.”

Princess - no - Queen Meve made a noise that was half a snort, half a sob, and gave Queen Calanthe a smile that didn't reach her piercing blue eyes.

“It won’t be so bad. I…” Queen Calanthe interrupted herself and looked toward Reynard, frozen into place at the corner of the corridor. Queen Meve followed her cousin’s gaze, then quickly turned her head away.

Reynard had merely meant to go to bed. He'd had enough the festivities of the royal wedding. He had recently learned that being surrounded by drunk men was only amusing if you were drunk yourself, and unfortunately for him, he was very unwilling to risk getting drunk again. But somehow he had managed to blunder into this situation instead, offending not one, but two Queens without even opening his mouth. At least he wouldn’t be put on trial for this... Probably.

“Well?” The Lioness said sharply, and Reynard could tell her nickname was not undeserved. “What’s that? One of Reginald’s lackeys? Turn around, little knight, and mind your own damn business.”

He should have pretended to be drunk and stumbling, should have kept moving when he came upon them, he realized. It was much too late for that now, so he simply obeyed: he turned on his heels without a word and walked away to take another, much longer path toward his room.

Reynard was careful not to look toward Queen Meve, and he prayed that she might not realize he'd seen her cry or heard any of that conversation, or at least, that she wouldn’t complain about him to the King. He had already gotten into enough trouble for a lifetime.

Chapter Text

After that embarrassing misstep on the day of her wedding, Reynard did not see his Queen cry for over a decade.

She may have cried during those years; she certainly had good reasons to. She lost a babe in the cradle, was left grief-stricken and burdened with guilt after the famine of 1258 and after the grizzly execution of the entire Brossard family, and the following year saw her husband die a pointless death after what should have been a minor skirmish. But if cry she did, it was privately, in her chambers, nowhere near Count Odo, her late husband’s aide and now her own. 

Until the day a messenger brought word of the fall of Cintra and of Calanthe’s death.

As the Queen’s closest advisor, Reynard couldn’t exactly flee to his room as he had as a young man, though in that moment he wished he could. He merely kept his gaze fixed on the messenger and asked him follow-up questions, pretending not to notice Meve’s ragged breathing and the way her hand was trembling as it gripped the throne’s armrest. 

Chapter Text

Reynard woke up in the dark to a pounding headache. Lifting wavering fingers, he could feel bandages around his head, but could not recall when or why they had been wrapped there. 

Trying to assess his surroundings, he first knew that he was not in his tent, nor in the field hospital; then with a jolt, he realized it had to be Meve's bed that he was lying in. They hadn't exactly had time to do much laundering as they rushed through Aedirn to find Demavend and the linen smelled of her, strongly so, which only added to his dizziness.

“Reynard, are you awake?”

He hadn't seen her in the gloom, and Meve's voice made him jump slightly. His stomach cramped and protested when he moved, and he couldn’t answer her right away, instead focusing on breathing slowly and deeply to fight the nausea.

“Did the… Did the golem hit me?” he asked, once he felt able to do so without vomiting. 

“Excuse me?”

“The Nilgaardian mage, with his golem… Did we kill him?”

“Reynard! That was weeks ago!” Meve’s voice was sharp, alarmed. “Do you even know where we are?”

He tried to clear his thoughts, to focus through the pain and the light-headedness. Still, he could only come up with the same answer as before, though apparently it was not the correct one.

“In Aedirn?” He asked tentatively. “Marching toward Aldersberg?”

She gasped and walked to him, sat on the bed and put a hand on his head. Despite his sorry state, it made him shiver to be lying in her bedsheets, surrounded by her scent, with her sitting so close to him. Mortified, he willed his body into obedience, grateful for the darkness around them. 

“No fever.” She sounded very relieved, although he wasn't sure why that was so important. “You must be more concussed than Isbel thought.”

Isbel he remembered. She was the sorceress they had recently - to him - recruited, and the one who had advised them to kill the mage to stop the golem... Which had apparently nothing to do with the current situation. Reynard's confusion was quickly draining what little energy he had left.

“Why am I not in th’ field's hospital?”

“I couldn't risk it.” 

Seeing his confused eyes, she had to clarify what to her was obvious. 

“We are in Angren. We've had several cases of typhus already, and many other infectious diseases besides. I didn't want you to be laid down in the field hospital next to the sick, and risk getting infected as well as wounded. You… You were struck by a gigantic monster we fought in some elven ruins.” 

She looked scared and repulsed. Maybe it was a boon to have forgotten that moment. 

“I'm not sure you'd be alive if it wasn't for Isbel,” she continued in a whisper, looking pained. “The blow was tremendous. Your helmet was... It might not be salvageable. But it seemed like Isbel was healing you before you even hit the ground.” She let out a short breath and shook her head as if to chase the memories away. “I’ll go get her. She needs to take another look at you.”

As Meve started to rise, he stopped her.

“Your Grace… Do you have water? Please?”

“Of course. I should have offered.” 

Flustered, she filled a glass of water. He expected her to simply hand it to him, but instead she helped him keep it steady while he drank, and the tender gesture made his heart flutter.

After she left, Reynard slowly turned to his side, and buried his face in Meve’s pillow, breathing her, knowing her skin and her warmth had graced those sheets. Of course, he had not chosen to be laid here, and he was too weak to leave, so he was not responsible for the situation: even so, he felt shame in his enjoyment of it. In her kindness, Meve had wanted him to recover safely and comfortably, and this was how he was repaying her, by lusting after her in her own bed. 

Neither lust nor shame could prevent him from falling asleep almost instantly. 

He was buried in whiteness, face pressed down into the snow, breathing in small breaths as if through a heavy cloth. His limbs were trapped, and there was nothing for him to do but struggle to stay conscious.

It felt like forever before voices got closer and hands started touching him, pulling him out. He heard Gascon crack a joke about how lucky he was that his yellow cape poked out of the snow like a puddle of piss, but his voice sounded raw and shaky. 

Reynard looked around groggily. Meve had been right in front of him. He couldn't see her. He couldn't see her anywhere. 

He woke up, his heart pounding, his panicked brain still telling him to search for Meve in the snow, even though he could hear her voice nearby. She was having a hushed, hurried conversation with someone in the opposite corner of the tent. 

“You don’t understand, Isbel.” Meve said urgently. “I can’t do this without him. We can’t win this war without him.”

“I already told you, my lady, General Odo will live, I am quite certain.”

“But he lost his memories of Aldersberg, of Mahakam! This man remembers everything for me, Isbel! Do you realize how much crucial information is gone? And what if he kept forgetting more?”

Even though it was not meant for his own ears, Reynard was moved to hear her speak so highly of him. Yet he wanted to console her, to reassure her that she, of course, could win the war without him. There was nothing she couldn’t do without him.

Isbel’s tone was gentle when she replied:

“Don’t cry, ma'am. Time may heal what magic cannot. It is still very early after the blow.”

The thought that Meve might be crying because of him rent his heart. He didn't want to intrude on her private conversation with Isbel, but he almost called out to her to promise it would be alright, that he would work to learn anew everything he had forgotten. His memory may betray him, but he’d never betray her.

Unbidden, a memory of Red Lobinden came to him, and he flinched and yelped.

“Reynard?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I… I just had a dream.” It was not quite a lie. “I think some memories are coming back.”

Chapter Text

It had been an absolutely rotten, miserable mess of a day. Most days of their march in Angren had been quite miserable, of course. But it was not every day that they had to fight such large numbers of monsters, and further chaos had erupted after the battle, when Isbel had healed the unconscious Sir Eyck only for him to jump away from her touch and call her a devious witch as soon as he had woken up.

It could have stopped there, the largely unflappable Isbel looking cooly at her ungrateful patient, if it hadn’t been for the soldiers witnessing the scene. Of the men who had been close enough to hear, many had angrily protested the insult made to one who had saved so many of them. But some others, more prejudiced against magic, and on edge after they had witnessed the foul rituals of the swamp gods worshippers, had grumbled that maybe Sir Eyck was onto something. Which had led their comrades, who weren’t quite ready to assault the bulky Sir Eyck to avenge Isbel’s honor, to turn their fists onto them instead. 

It hadn’t been easy for Reynard to get everyone to stop, especially considering his own exhaustion and pent-up anger, which had only grown worse when he had seen the despairing, overwhelmed expression on the Queen’s face.

By the time the fighting had fully calmed down, the Queen hadn’t been in sight any longer. Reynard had left it to his officers to sanction the offenders under their command, and had gone searching for her. She wasn’t in the Command tent, nor in her own tent, nor was she in the field hospital with the silently irate Isbel. That had slowed Reynard, for he had felt duty-bound to talk to Isbel and to reassure her that her talents and her person were valued immensely. He would never forgive himself if such a powerful ally left them because of a few men’s bitter insults.

Having walked all the way across camp, he finally heard Meve before he could see her, sitting on a stump among the sinuous trees.

“This is hardly appropriate.” Her voice attempted to be stern, but he could hear a waver in it. “I have great respect for everyone in our company.”

“So do I!” Gascon protested. “I’m only askin’ questions. Respectfully. Questions of great import.”

“Oh? Is it of great import to know if…”

“If th’ good Sir Eyck begs Lebioda’s forgiveness every time he takes a dump? Certainly, it is! Considerin’ the manner in which his prophet’s remains were recovered, why, I’d imagine he must do so…”

Of course. Of course the mongrel would be bothering the Queen with obscenities just when she most needed some peace and quiet. Reynard was about to swiftly walk to Gascon and teach him some manners when he heard Meve’s stifled laughter and froze in place.

“Here’s my next question,” Gascon said, seemingly emboldened by his success. “Why does Isbel need to visit herbalists so often, when there must be so much vegetation growin’ under her feet already?”

“Urg! Walking barefooted in those swamps!” Meve groaned.

The humor was obvious in her voice, and hearing it made Reynard feel warmer. A small smile started tugging at the corner of his lips.

“And have you considered Reynard’s grooming habits?”

The smile was wiped out. Whatever was about to follow, he certainly wasn’t going to like it.

“No.” Meve was clearly attempting to control herself. “And don’t tell me if it’s going to be vulgar.”

“I wouldn’t dare. All I’m sayin’ is that the good general makes sure to give himself a close shave every morn, but he hasn’t removed his armor in so long, I bet he doesn’t even remember if he’s got hair anywhere else.”

Meve erupted in laughter and Reynard felt his face grow hot. That was not true, of course, he regularly removed his armor and washed… And surely she knew it…

“Stop it,” Meve choked out. “You lied. That was vulgar.”

“Meve! You’re cryin’! I made you laugh so hard you cried!” Gascon sounded delighted, and Reynard’s humiliation mingled with begrudging gratitude. Maybe being bothered with vulgarities had been exactly what Meve needed, for some reason.

“Yes, yes. I’ll make sure you get a medal after the war, for carrying out the most selfless acts of buffoonery. Now, that’s enough. I must talk with Isbel.”

Reynard retreated as quickly and as silently as he could, not wishing to spoil Meve’s mood by making her worry about having offended him.

However, if he found some way to get revenge on Gascon later, well, turnabout was fairplay.

Chapter Text

“They truly believe I would do all those things,” Meve said, sounding almost desperate. “Raise the taxes threefold. Kill all non-humans. I’ve been told I was a good Queen, but if I was, how could my people so readily believe such lies?”

“You are a good Queen,” Reynard insisted firmly. “But th’ common folk have never met you. They have little notion of what you would or wouldn’t do. Nor do they all understand that your name can be found at the bottom of a piece of parchment without it actually coming from you.”

Meve did not look as if that had cheered her up at all. She still looked downcast, and Reynard briefly noticed the way her eyes started brimming with tears, just before she turned away and announced she had to talk with Gascon about the printing press they had captured.

In truth, she was right to be concerned. Their triumphant march home to liberate Rivia had been one horror after another, as they had cleaned up mass graves, uncovered racial hatred and old feuds stoked to fury by the invasion, and yet… Yet, it was likely to become even worse after the war. The battered realms were assured to face starvation when winter came, and with the invaders gone, the brutalized and bloodless peasants would soon blame their Queen for their troubles instead.

He wished he had some way to convince her, to get her to see herself as he saw her, but he did not know how. Every day, he hoped that his loyalty to her, his efforts to serve her with excellence, would let her know that she was a good Queen, one who could command such devotion. But then, she had seen him serve King Reginald for ten years with nearly as much dedication, so she probably did not see his service as having anything to do with her in particular.

Showing would not suffice. He would have to tell her that a bad Queen would not cry because her people didn’t trust her, wouldn't let it trouble her.

After a moment’s hesitation, he resolved to do so, even if it meant he had to admit to her that he had noticed her tears.

But that moment had been too long. She had already walked away, soldiers had already approached close enough to hear them. Reynard pushed down the urge to sigh, and swore to himself that he would find some other time to tell her plainly of his admiration for her. As difficult as it might be for him, and even if it had to wait until the war was over.

Chapter Text

The feast and the dancing had lasted late into the night, but finally they’d been able to retreat to the Queen's chambers. Meve and Reynard made their way across the bedroom slowly, sharing lingering kisses, unhurried. The arousal building up within him was familiar, but the quiet joy in his heart, unmarred by any anxiety, by any fear of being discovered, was all new.

That made it all the more jarring to open his eyes and realize there were tears running down Meve’s cheeks. His appetite for more was doused in an instant.

“What is it?” He asked, stricken, pulling her into a hug.

“I just…” She shook her head, obviously frustrated by her own display of emotions. “I wish they could have been with us today.”

He mentally kicked himself. Of course she would think of her son’s absence on such an occasion. Even on the morning of her own wedding, she hadn’t neglected to visit Villem’s tomb in the chapel and to lay down fresh flowers on it.

As for Gascon… Well. At least he wasn’t dead, as far as they knew. 

They couldn’t pretend that they hadn’t noticed how, over the years, he had grown increasingly restless. The last time they had met, he had looked plainly miserable, even though they had been attending one of his famously extravagant parties. Just one step away from an orgy, and hardly fitting for a Queen, Reynard had grumbled, and Gascon had looked at him without a smile, his dark eyes expressing only gloom and dissatisfaction. After a long silence, he had forced out a reply - “I wouldn’t invite you to my orgies, you’d ruin them” - which had felt neither snappy nor sincere.

The clearest warning sign had been a letter from his long-suffering steward, expressing his dismay because the Duke of Scala now deserted his luxurious chambers, preferring instead to slip outside and spend his nights in the woods. Meve had penned down a reply immediately, requesting that Gascon come to the court so they could find a more fitting situation for him, but it was already too late. By the time that letter reached Scala, he was gone. 

If Meve had been someone else, he would have whispered reassuring nothings to her, told her that Villem had witnessed their wedding from the beyond, that Gascon might yet return one day. But he knew those sentiments would not make her feel better, only result in an irritated shrug of her shoulders. She was herself unconvinced that there was a “beyond”, and platitudes would not make her feel better about her perceived failure to help their friend adjust to his new station. 

Gascon would have made her laugh. Reynard could achieve that result, sometimes, though it wasn’t his strongest suit.

“You should have bestowed me Gascon's title,” he said into her hair, “That way the Duke of Scala would have attended the wedding, and it would have made the Margravine Greta shut up about you marrying a Count.”

She let out a short burst of laughter against him.

“Yes. A missed opportunity, clearly. And it would spite the little bastard if he ever learned of it.”

She relaxed into the hug and he ran his hand through her hair slowly. They might not consummate the wedding night as was traditional, but that was of no importance. They had been together in that way before, and would have many more nights to share. Besides, he was quite looking forward to simply sleeping beside her in that impossibly comfortable bed until morning came. That would be a first.