Work Text:
Momentarily, the clemar was choking, finally breaking the rehearsal of that letter’s opening address. How it hadn’t become illegible by now was a miracle, given what weather conditions and battles it endured, usually neatly tucked away with the rest of his belongings, dragged through the same hardships. Paper retaining much of its shape, save for deep, even creases, it was only then that it had to face a grip so overwhelming that it created permanent wrinkles, damper parts threatening to tear.
Strohl just stood there. Quivering. Partially illuminated by dying embers miles away.
Admittedly, he skimmed over much of the writing when it was discovered. At least he wasn’t weeping over the damn thing anymore. It was only a will—every noble inevitably would write one. Besides, it was incomplete, chicken scratch-tier penmanship just barely enough of a giveaway as to who the author was. All it detailed in full was the inheritance. Any additional comments were cut off around the pronoun ‘I.’ Strictly business.
Except for the first bit.
Except for ‘my beloved son, L̸̢̛̛̬̭͓̏̈́͒ë̷̦̩̤͚́ǒ̷̢͍̞̫̐̋̒̃ñ̴̪̞̭͊͗.’
Even sounding it out loud didn’t seem natural. Each syllable took an eternity, each repeat adding onto an already absurd length, but it was a potent enough drug to keep him there. Didn’t notice how long it had been until the peculiar combination of blue and gold met him.
All the same, he wanted to repeat the same thing he told the elda last, what he told Hulkenberg last, what he told Rangif last, just about anyone who could have possibly known. Yet he found repetition enough of a daunting task that he might as well take what could be coming.
In Will’s defense, it would’ve been him, Heismay, or both. Chances had lessened if only due to conflicting sleep schedules, the eugief often leaving noise complaints at what was considered his version of dusk only to inevitably cave. Recent days saw him retiring early from his self-assigned nightguard duties. Still, it was all but certain that the slightest creak or bump would be met with an anthropomorphic bat at its heels regardless of how light a sleeper he potentially was. Besides, he wasn’t exactly expecting Strohl to be awake.
Some nights were harder than others. Either the elda would pass out in mere seconds or the proposition of sleeping alone would fill his chest with needles. The latter would usher in the idea of closed eyes resulting in being incapable of waking, lying on the same stone coffin the prince was. Sometimes his fantasy novel would be all he needed to calm his nerves, and sometimes he skipped a night.
Pent up energy initially guided him towards the lounge for additional reading materials, careful not to disturb the fairy beside him (his size accommodated them both greatly, making such a feat simple). Once he noticed a suspiciously empty pod, which explained a lack of uncomfortable grunts and shifts, plans changed.
Strohl had grown pale, as if his half-asleep captain was a spirit. Swallowing back a yawn, Will slightly tilted his head to one side. “Can’t sleep?” came his exhausted question, though he almost stumbled over his own words. A single stray spark illuminated just enough of a distinctive crimson backing that it revealed the obvious.
So he wasn’t mishearing things. If anything, the blanks were filled in. Guilt tied his stomach in knots.
The clemar clenched his mouth shut, the clack audible enough for Will to take notice. Then came a whistle followed by the driest, guttural ‘laugh’ he’d ever heard, though it was more like the dying heaves of the undead, petering out with the quick, strained addition of “I’m such a mess” and a cough. Back pressed against the outer curve of the gauntlet runner’s bridge, Strohl was soon on the floor, grip on the will only tightening further.
“Ah…!” Will scrambled to his side, tugging at one of his friend’s arms. Don’t tell him he was injured or something! But he probably wouldn’t be like this if Will just kept to himself! “Shoot, I’m sorry! I’m sorry—”
“What’re you apologizing for? If anything, I should be the one who’s sorry.”
The elda let go, Strohl’s head hitting the same sleek surface.
“I admit, that was a bit of an overreaction… and I shouldn’t have broken down in front of you.” He lifted the parchment into partially muddled view. “It’s only paper. I know.”
Though he supposed his pathetic display would be discovered anyways. Couldn’t exactly think straight, and the natural wide-eyed look Will had wasn’t helping. Sue him, his captain made him weak. Guess that was what he signed up for, carelessly running his mouth the way he did. Hadn’t been a soul since Halia’s demise that had that impact…
…
He took a swift glimpse over to his side, noticing how attentive Will became—as rigid as soldiers were expected to be—only to pat the deck. Supposed this was his business, too. When it shouldn’t have been. And he shouldn’t have troubled anyone else with refugee-themed burdens. Their entire campaign was based on helping anyone in need, sure, but that mantra shouldn’t have extended to such lengths.
But they were too far gone. As soon as he showed him his hometown, that fate was sealed.
And it was all Strohl’s fault.
His thumb caressed the name upon the will, even pattern refusing to be disrupted when Will’s shoulder inevitably met his own. “It’s been bugging me. His last address, I mean.” Breaths soon became unsteady upon a simple reference to the point where he might as well be rehearsing things again. In contrast to the haste, the uneven line work, the curvature within ‘Leon’s’ lettering seemed pristine. Again, this was amongst the business of a dead man, promises of a what-if should their estate survive beyond a single room.
There was a point in his youth where he laughed at the idea of keeping what he considered meaningless, replaceable trinkets. Questioned the integrity—let alone the purpose of a fireproof place. Not all villages are lucky, he remembered his father telling him. In times like the ones he was once living in, you couldn’t be too careful. Maybe he’d understand when he was older.
So how long did the lord decide to sit on this? Did he only have the address written?
That was just one of several thoughts left stirring in his head, incapable of being vocalized. Perhaps that was where he could begin with explaining his outburst, or perhaps the circumstances in which it was discovered.
“Is it about your name? ‘Leon?’”
His name. Strohl’s name. Will was referring to Leon Strohl.
He stared, right at the same elda that he truly first met at the boarder fort. The one that took up arms to protect him when he was supposed to die. The same somewhat innocent flair, the same warmth that trickled down to his chest, of which even revealed itself in the heat of battle.
“Ỹ̸̢̝̯̇͝ͅo̵̺̅u̵̙̻̿̚ ̴̝̘͕̌̏n̵̺̺̳̪̉̈ȩ̶̟̩̤̊̆̐͋e̷͔͙͌͛͠d̶̡̪͊͊̇̂ ̵͕͂̀̓͝ṯ̸̺̥̥̚ǫ̷͈͌̀ ̷̞̅́̑͝r̴̞̈́͆͜u̴͎͙͖͍̾͊̾n̶͈͕̘͚͋̔,̷̢͗͋ ̵̥̝̙̪̿̓͐̕Y̴̺̼͆̒̚͝o̷̺͔̎̈́̈́ṳ̷̀̊͊n̶̝͐͠g̶̟̋̊̍ ̵̖̿̂̌̕ͅM̶͈̫̹̪̈́̇̿̊ą̸̠̪̯́͐̂s̷̛͍͓̄̿̚ț̵̍e̸̬̮̋̄̓r̴̤̈̌͗!̵͎̖̩̗̇̈͋͝ ̸̬̠͗̽̓̚P̶̟̳͕̺̋̐̕l̸͎͉̮̏͠͝ḛ̵̚͝à̵͕̿͠s̶̙̿͌͗͑ȩ̴̛͙̘̔͆͆!̴͇̹͎̈̄”
Strohl tore a chunk out of his inner lip.
It really wasn’t until Will that he heard L̸̢̛̛̬̭͓̏̈́͒ë̷̦̩̤͚́ǒ̷̢͍̞̫̐̋̒̃ñ̴̪̞̭͊͗ again, or when he last said it. Or wrote it. Or screamed it into a strange, metallic, heart-shaped object. Even when it was with his own voice, that name was almost a damn curse.
What was at some point accompanied by writing worksheets, ruffled hair, laughter, and goodnight wishes became farewells. His mother’s scarred hands pressed down on him as the blurred shadow of his father headed towards a sea of flames, her once gorgeous dirndl found charred. Begs fell on deaf ears as he was commanded to stay while she assisted her husband. Her voice was so calming then, even as their world fell apart at the seams.
Then that thing, that absolute abomination approached their doorstep.
And like the coward he was, he ran, just as Rangif instructed. Circling the outskirts of his hometown, smoke chaining his lungs to the blackened remnants of houses and pastures. He passed out, woke up, and it was all gone.
Everything was gone.
“L̸̢̛̛̬̭͓̏̈́͒ë̷̦̩̤͚́ǒ̷̢͍̞̫̐̋̒̃ñ̴̪̞̭͊͗ was supposed to be dead, captain,” Strohl whisper-croaked. “That’s what I don’t understand.”
Will struggled to comprehend his friend’s wording, initial pronunciation a garbled mess. Then the realization dawned, and his heart sank to his feet, prompting him to scooch a couple hair lengths away.
“Oh, Young Master Leon. My goodness, look how you’ve grown…”
Strohl flinched around the ‘Leon’ part, roughly swallowing and his hands balling into fists before he corrected himself, instead directing those very hands to his hips. One of his legs began to bounce a little, foot taps kept silent. “…It’s just Strohl, Rangif.”
The elda wasn’t supposed to say it, either. Actually, especially not an elda. Bet having a noble’s name on his tongue was already execution worthy, yet especially when...
Steadying himself upon crossed legs, he motioned to stand only to feel pressure on top of the hand closest to the clemar, granted a gentle look of awareness and a silent nod. That pressure soon eased, returning beside Strohl’s thigh. One leg arched up and an adjacent arm resting atop his knee, paper went limp.
“I know I’ve rambled on about my father one too many times, but humor me for a moment.” Strohl cracked a momentary wry smile. “It’s just… For the longest time, I thought I had already heard his last words to me. Of course, back then I thought nothing of it. I hadn’t ever seen a human before, so I thought he’d be fine. He’s cut down stray monsters, told stories of valor, the works. The only thing was I didn’t see the use for the old, rinky-dink sword he gave me. Swords were forged for battle, not for use as shields.
“Against my better judgement, I did attempt to join him. That’s when he truly had to hammer it home. L.. Leon… needed to protect his mother at all costs… Not just anyone… Leon did...”
Fire breathed its last, embers receding into the remains of quality wood. However, not even the starless sky above could hide the obvious, hoarse sobs that periodically broke through surrounding ambiance. Pointed edges slammed into Will’s side, the possibility of it drifting thwarted as it was promptly pinned beneath him.
“Strohl—”
“What part of that is beloved…? Or noble or… o-or deserving of an inheritance of any sort…?” Again, he was repeatedly swallowing, breaking on-going hyperventilation, voice wearing thin to the point where it could give out at any moment. “What Leon he trusted is supposed to be dead…!”
In retrospect, he should have said something. Anything. More than just the two names of a former noble. He didn’t move. He didn’t reach out, though his hand ached, longed to brush against silk.
What would have been all the more selfish was to turn the whole display into that of his own conclusions.
How would he have worded it, anyways? How was he supposed to tell Strohl that perhaps the Leon his father knew was alive? That he was willing to use his sword, his entire body, as a shield against a human? Two? Three? Potentially hundreds more in the future? That he swore to continue suffering if it was for someone else’s sake? Nay, a stranger’s? An elda’s?
Or that he doubted whatever power they were granted would have awakened had he not committed such a selfless act? The Leon he claimed to have died beat the man who helped cause the downfall of his village, had the opportunity to finally rid the world of the perpetrator?
Then again, Will wouldn’t know half of the burden he shouldered. Didn’t know a thing about the existence of his own parents, nor had any attachment he could pinpoint. He didn’t have a name outside of Will or anything truly uniquely notable. Thus, he couldn’t understand. He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t.
Arms wrapped around Strohl’s midsection. Not too tightly, yet firm enough that squirming out of their hold would be a struggle. Frankly, it was inappropriate. Frankly, it did make him feel dirty. Will did it anyway.
Tears stained his casual wear and his neck, size difference becoming particularly (yet still incredibly) obvious, fitting perfectly within the curvature of the clemar’s body when he readjusted, no longer against the bridge, rather hung over Will’s head. There was no resistance given, let alone a beg to stop or let go.
His heart was caught in his throat, pressed against another as it threatened to break Strohl’s ribcage, yet otherwise kept a consistent rhythm in sync with the other’s. Fingers found rest within the knobs of a spine, night’s chill replaced with swapped body heat. Hitched breaths left a tingling impression upon the nape of a neck, more so upon an ear. In a strange way, it was its own form of magic, and the realization that they were as close as they could possibly be, that it was each other, that they weren’t going anywhere seemed natural. Right.
If Leon was truly dead, this wouldn’t be the case. That, or perhaps the ghost of an alleged dead man found a host.
“He doesn’t have to be gone, Strohl.”
A deep, pleased rumble arose from the clemar’s chest, bringing with it dryness, ignoring the faint whiff of salt. “…Unfortunately, I’m well aware.”
“I know I overstepped—”
“I want you to call me that again.”
Will would’ve looked up in preparation for some form of indication, but the darkness brought on by such closeness had already completely swallowed him. Pulling back didn’t seem right, either. Rather, he mumbled, “Pardon?”
“If he is to live, I want you to ensure he can’t die.”