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Aglovale buries the feeling deep, deep inside himself, as is his habit. A ruler has no time to indulge in old grief, he tells himself. He knows the depravity an excess of grief will lead into.
The shock of seeing and losing Lamorak again offers a great distraction, and Aglovale allows himself to feel that instead. He has talks with Tor about Lamorak when they are not quite so stuffed with work. Tor's offer of becoming his confidant turns out to be genuine—not that Aglovale doubted him in the first place.
But some things are too heavy for his tongue to carry, so they lodge in his chest instead, festering. In the days that follow, he sometimes finds the grief burning in his lungs, a constricting feeling that leaves him breathless if he does not find anything to distract himself with.
He thinks of Lamorak and the exchange between them that day. I had you, Aggy… and Percy had the both of us. But you were all alone… Father had already succumbed to madness. Lamorak's sympathy had been unexpected, but Aglovale doesn't doubt his sincerity in that moment; Lamorak had been near death, and death has a way of inspiring honesty even in the most stubborn people.
Aglovale almost envies that honesty—try as he might, life ill affords him the room to lay out all his cards.
Sometimes he cannot even be honest with himself, but that is an affliction quite a few people suffer from. Lamorak, too, is not normally so honest with anyone.
The days following Lamorak and the cabal's appearance and disappearance bustle with investigations, meetings, and correspondence. Tor ensures Aglovale takes proper breaks, during which he indulges and tells Tor about Lamorak and their childhoods.
Their conversations steer too close to his parents, though, and Aglovale finds himself choking up at times. Tor recognizes this and smiles sadly but offers Aglovale the time to gather himself. He doesn't press or push, and Aglovale is relieved by Tor's thoughtfulness, as always.
Percival, on his end, drops by for a visit now and then to discuss the eastern district, and at times they get derailed when the conversation leads to Lamorak. Percival lacks subtlety, though, and Aglovale catches his baby brother studying him intently, trying to discern how well Aglovale truly is.
Pitiful, Aglovale thinks of himself. To have Percival so deeply concerned over his state of mind.
So perhaps he has already seen it coming when one night, after another full day of work, Aglovale retires to his bedroom and finds Siegfried in there, leaning against one wall, arms crossed and head dipped forward as though the man is napping.
Aglovale can't even feign surprise. Siegfried keeps doing this: breaking into his bedroom in the most absurd of ways, as if he's not a civilized man of his own right. Hell, Aglovale is not even angry, only delighted to see the man that really has no purpose in visiting Wales these days.
Aglovale tries not to stir Siegfried as he changes into his nightwear, though he's not opposed to what might happen if the other wakes; it's only that he tries to be mindful of Siegfried's rest. It is for the best he was not wearing his armor today.
Siegfried lifts his gaze and heaves out a sigh short time after Aglovale has changed into his nightclothes, and he appears groggy when he lands his gaze on the king of Wales.
Aglevale would have him no other way.
"Ah," Siegfried says first, blinking blearily. "You're here."
"Those should be my words," Aglovale chuckles, shaking his head in dismay. "You should announce your visits so I know to wait on you."
It appears that someone else has known to expect Siegfried, however; Aglovale glances at the bottle of Wales's finest wine on the round table in the chamber as well as the two clean crystal glasses beside it.
That Tor…
"I don't know," Siegfried hums, "you seem to enjoy the surprise factor of it, Aglovale."
"Don't be absurd." Still, when Siegried walks over, Aglovale smiles thinly and returns the kiss Siegfried offers. "I was under the impression you were on an important journey this time."
"I was," Siegfried acknowledges. His eyes narrow as he studies Aglovale intently. "But I heard from Percival you might be in need of company."
Percival, huh… Aglovale isn't surprised, but he is ashamed to have worried his little brother so. He clicks his tongue in dismay and shakes his head. "My apologies for Percival having wasted your time… he should know better than make such requests."
"Seeing you is never a waste of time," Siegfried corrects, voice light but eyes firm. He squeezes Aglovale's arm and keeps his hand there—a not so subtle effort at comfort, which Aglovale hardly needs or deserves.
Regardless, Siegfried's words make something thicken in Aglovale's throat, and he has to take a moment to process it.
"How flattering," he ends up saying, a bit more frostily than intended. He brushes Siegfried's hand off and takes a seat at the table, gesturing for Siegfried to take another armchair. "Since you came all this way, you might as well enjoy some of our finest wine, then. I expect you have been drinking naught but rainwater again."
Siegfried chuckles at his behavior, but does take the seat while Aglovale flips the glasses around and pours wine for both of them. Some wine before bed has become somewhat of a routine for Aglovale, even before the situation with the cabal and Lamorak came to be, but usually he only has himself for company.
Aglovale watches the red liquid settle in each glass, the crimson color unsettling something deep within himself. He nearly sighs at himself; a rattled mind is unfit to rule, and he ought to have better control himself than this.
"Thank you," Siegfried says, and Aglovale looks up and finds Siegfried's eyes crinkling with his warm smile. "I don't possess such atrocious habits as you seem to think, but wine is indeed a welcome change."
Aglovale snorts and, despite himself, smiles—a tired thing, but genuine. "Forgive me for not providing any snacks at this time," he says. "Should I call for a servant for some?"
"No need. I have eaten, and I am more interested in how you are than sampling sweets."
Infuriatingly sincere, Aglovale thinks—not without fondness. He takes his glass and thoughtfully swirls it around, eyes once more landing on the dark red (bordering on blood red) liquid. Red like mother's hair; red like the blood Aglovale had stained himself with that day.
"I am how I always am," Aglovale forces out. It is terrifyingly easy to relax around Siegfried these days, so he needs to be vigilant. He takes a sip from his glass to distract himself. The taste is familiar and tingles on his tongue for a previous few seconds. "I am certain whatever my brother has said to you was an overreaction on his part. Percival always was the most sensitive of us…"
"Hmm. I find him to be very insightful." Siegfried, too, takes a sip from his own glass. He goes on, murmuring: "…and I know how you feel about family, Aglovale."
Aglovale truly cannot stand the gentleness in Siegfried's tone right then, but lashing out would be unbecoming, so he only takes a deep, steadying breath through the throbbing feeling in his chest. He does not need to think about that day: does not need the memory of the reanimated corpses' blood on him. Most importantly, he does not need the memory of a familiar embrace from his mother's lookalike.
(Yet, regardless of his needs, these things haunt him much the same way his parents' actual deaths do.)
"I will accept your praise of Percival," Aglovale huffs. "It gladdens me you think so highly of him."
He takes another sip—nearly gulps it down, which is no way to enjoy wine. At least this crime is only witnessed by Siegfried, who frankly doesn't give a damn and only lifts an eyebrow without any further commentary.
"As the eldest brother, I take my duty to my brothers quite seriously," Aglovale continues with a sigh, "so it displeases me that Percival would think me so weak as to—"
"He does not think such." Siegfried's interjection rings through the distance between them, and effectively makes Aglovale screw his mouth shut. The silence that follows is tense, which Siegfried spends in observing Aglovale with a pursed mouth and serious eyes. "He admires you. When he was my vice captain, he talked about you to the point where I felt I already knew you before we even met."
Aglovale's heart twinges at that, despite himself. "…Even so, he should not assume I would appreciate his interference."
"You hardly ever do in the moment," Siegfried points out, and now his lips skew into a playful smile. It's a devastatingly handsome look on him, and Aglovale resents himself for noticing it even now. He takes another mouthful of wine, and his thoughts numb a little more.
He knows Siegfried refers to the time when Djeeta and the others—including Siegfried—foiled his plans with the Otherworld Key. Admittedly, his reactions at the time had been shameful, and Aglovale feels guilt coil in his gut. Redemption from that time still feels out of his reach, but he would like to think he is doing right by his people and country now.
Not that anyone needs to know his feelings on the matter.
"I see your point," Aglovale admits begrudgingly, "but I still find it needless in this case. I only did what any older brother would have done, and I hold no grievances over it. There is much that remains to be done, loose ends to be chased—my focus is utterly on that, as well as Wales's future."
"Liar," Siegfried accuses tenderly. "You're repressing whatever thoughts and feelings you might have—I've known you long enough to tell this much, at least."
Aglovale resists the initial urge to slam the glass down and usher Siegfried out of his chambers. This is the downside of relationships: people will make their own opinions about him, and those opinions are not crafted from the image Aglovale tries to uphold. They, if Aglovale lets them close enough, will discover the cracks and gauge the man behind the facade.
Infuriating. Terrifying. It makes Aglovale's heart clench and race, this proximity to being known. Perhaps the wine has already gotten to his head.
"Do you never tire of saying everything and anything that comes to your mind?" Aglovale asks with a deep sigh.
"I happen to know you rather enjoy it sometimes." Despite the tension that lingers in the air, Siegfried chuckles. His eyes crinkle. Aglovale resents himself for noticing such a thing—he really ought to mind Siegfried's disheveled appearance instead of the handsomeness of his face. Even the messy, tangled hair adds to that—
Aglovale all but harrumphs. "Don't get ahead of yourself."
"So prickly," Siegfried says, now outright laughing, but his eyes never leave Aglovale, concern laid out in the light brown irises. Siegfried gives a little sigh himself then before reaching out a hand and curling his fingers over Aglovale's. He's had the decency of taking off his gloves and armor, at the very least, and the skin contact makes Aglovale's shoulders relax just the slightest.
"Then cease your nonsense," Aglovale retorts, but allows their fingers to entwine, for Siegfried's to slip between his. The ache in his chest doesn't quite ease, but the calloused, warm fingers offer a decent distraction. It's not often he gets to experience the joy of such simple touch, and he ends up squeezing them with his own.
"Alright, alright," Siegfried hums and brings Aglovale's hand to him, leaning down to press his mouth on Aglovale's palm. Aglovale watches on, tethered to the moment despite himself. "You don't have to talk about it," Siegfried continues, "but I'm here to lend an ear if you would like to."
Aglovale sighs and closes his eyes, and the moment hangs, suspended. Silence has ceased to be uncomfortable between them, though silence is still a novelty for Aglovale most times. Even in his chamber and study, he can hardly avoid the social duties of a king.
Sometimes, though, he too is a person. Dreadfully often when he is around Siegfried. The press of Siegfried's mouth on his palm ripples through him, and something loosens.
When he opens his eyes again, Siegfried is still looking at him, mouth still pressed against Aglovale's palm.
Aglovale cannot explain why the sight of him makes his throat close up and emotions swell. He only knows it has been a long time since he has felt—alright at letting his guard down, at allowing fiercer winds of feeling brush over him.
Must be the wine, he thinks. It doesn't stop the deep sigh wrenching out from him. "Did Percival tell you what happened that made him so concerned?"
"Yes," Siegfried says, his smile fading into a more somber look. "He's much more honest with his concern for you than nearly anything else."
That makes Aglovale halt, his fingers stiffening between Siegfried's. "Percival is?"
"Mmhm." Siegfried's hum has an air of amusement to it, but his eyes are sharp. "He's a devoted younger brother, I'll give him that."
Aglovale should be grateful, truly, but he cannot mistake the choking feeling in his chest for anything remotely close to that. Percival's face from that time flashes in his mind—brows furrowed, eyes blazing, his hand already on the sheath of his sword, ready to draw it on the risen corpses with the likeness of their parents—and, if anything, Aglovale is more certain that his hesitation had caused unneeded pain for Percival as well.
"He ought to focus on the governing of the eastern district instead," Aglovale says instead of vocalizing that inner turmoil. His mouth feels dry and tastes of iron. When he blinks, his eyes ache with the threat of emotion. Or it's another effect of the wine.
He reaches for the bottle and uses his free hand to pour himself some more, the liquid bleeding into the glass unsteadily. Perhaps he should ask Tor for white wine onwards, he muses.
"Don't be too hard on him," Siegfried says then, pulling Aglovale back out of his head, "or on yourself."
His fingers hold Aglovale's tightly, the heat of his skin pressing into Aglovale's chill. The warmth of it remains as contagious as Aglovale remembers it. But, as Siegfried has pulled his mouth away, it is incomplete—a summer's day without sun.
And Aglovale feels equally hollow and much too full at the same time. The wine has offered no solace, no pleasant haze to bury everything under.
He lifts the glass to his lips once more, and now he takes his time appreciating the scent and the flavor as he tips the glass and sips. He doesn't respond to Siegfried's comment, uncertain how he even might respond to it.
Aglovale is not hard on himself; he only sets the most logical expectations that are natural for the head of the House of Wales.
Just as it was natural of him, when younger, to pass on all the knowledge and experiences to his little brothers. He remembers Herzeloyde's smile when she asks him to keep the piano lesson just between the two of them—and he thinks now, she knew me better than I knew myself.
His thoughts are all out of order, and he scoffs at himself as he drinks some more and finally withdraws his hand from Siegfried's hold.
Whatever Siegfried sees on his face, it must not be what Aglovale tries to emulate because Siegfried gives a soft sigh, brows furrowing further.
"I shouldn't be the one to talk," he says, mouth twitching into a sheepish smile, "but it's not good to hold things that hurt you only to yourself."
It's something Mother would also say, were she there right then. Father might scoff instead—prideful creature, and Aglovale is of the same nature.
"I did what was necessary," Aglovale says, staring into the glass of wine. Siegfried's warm gaze only works to tie his insides into complicated knots. "Hard as it was, I made my choice—why should I lose heart over it? Siegfried, I am not that weak of a man."
The wine turns sour in his mouth as he takes another gulp of it. Herzeloyde's smile had bled the same color when Aglovale slayed her corpse—no, not Mother's, but her lookalike's. Reminding himself of that hardly does anything, though; she looked exactly like Mother, and that is ghastly enough.
And despite how long it had been since he last heard it, her voice was unmistakably his mother's.
The look on her face horrified. Her hands twitching and grasping for him. Everything in her screaming why, Aglovale.
Something salty trickles down to his lips, which he aggressively licks off, manners be damned. His vision grows blurry, the world fading as tears prick at his eyes.
A scraping sound against the carpet, and then Siegfried is by Aglovale's side, kneeling and cupping Aglovale's face between his palms, turning it so Aglovale sees Siegfried's blurred face.
"It was necessary, with no other way around it," Aglovale says, and hates the weakness in his voice. "Yet I find myself pained remembering it. There you have it—are you glad now?"
"Hey now," Siegfried says, a touch of chastisement laced in the words. "I would never be happy about you suffering, love."
His fingers, calloused from years of sword-handling, cradle and brush Aglovale's cheeks, thumbs gently rolling over the falling tears.
Aglovale snorts, but it comes out as a strangled death noise of a mouse. How embarrassing, and yet shame is not enough to dry his eyes.
"Just as you came to my aid back then—" Aglovale tries to protest, but Siegfried carries on firmly: "Whatever you might pretend, your aid saved me then from my dragon blood. And even more preciously, you have offered me your affection. Is it so unthinkable I might wish to ease your mind, as much as it is possible?"
Aglovale finds he has no words to argue that with. Not even anything to disprove Siegfried's claim of him having helped him back when Siegfried had gone on a rampage—caused by that rascal Gunther or whichever his name may have been.
Still, his speechlessness does not last long.
"As the lord and king of Wales, it's unbecoming of me to be so… foolish." A shuddering sigh explodes deep from his throat, as he leans into Siegfried's hands despite himself. "To be so bothered of slaying obstructions. It's foolish for any warrior, even more foolish for a king."
"You give yourself too much grief over your humanity," Siegfried observes, his warm voice gentle and careful, "but I find that part of you the most precious thing of all."
"Hah." The half-hearted laugh turns into another trembling sigh, and Aglovale feels more tears escape—to be caught by Siegfried. "You absolute sap. I shouldn't—shouldn't expect anything different."
"I love you," Siegfried simply says, looking up at him earnestly. A curl of brown hair has fallen over one of his eyes, a strand brushing at the side of Siegfried's nose. "I have been in love with you for a while now, as you know. I am not always certain if you have truly realized it yet."
"You—" Aglovale finds himself strangled for words as he blinks, eyelashes damp and sticky while his tongue feels like sand.
Siegfried seems to understand. "Don't take offense," he says with a little laugh. "Loving you as you are is not without its challenges, but I am a stubborn man. So, Aglovale, even if you don't easily accept help or support, I will still offer it freely. Whatever you may require of me."
A small warmth flickers within Aglovale at that. He makes no attempt to smother it.
"Whatever I require of you," Aglovale says, and a bitter smile touches his mouth. He dips his head, ignores the slight wobbliness that ripples through him, and presses his forehead against Siegfried's before whispering, "Don't make such promises to a lord of another land so easily."
"I am not. I am making that promise to Aglovale, not the Lord of Frost of House Wales." Siegfried's hands dip lower, one cupping the back of Aglovale's neck under the mane of blond hair. "That does not compromise my fealty to my king and my land."
Aglovale blinks rapidly, shedding a new streak of salt down his face. "How confident." He dislikes how uneven his words come out, but Siegfried remains unaffected in the face of his weakness—no mirth, no glee, only patient understanding that makes Aglovale think of his mother again.
The blood that seeped under his armor. The blood on his blade, a mix of the two that were his parents but carried neither of their souls. But before that, Herzeloyde's bright, kind smile as she embraced Aglovale and cooed at him as if he were a child.
"I think," Aglovale breathes the words to the space between him and Siegfried, "I would not have been able to do it if I had been the same man as before."
And that is harrowing to admit—but the words go out easier than expected.
"I would have been satisfied with a mere likeness of her," Aglovale continues, eyelids sliding lower. "How pathetic I was. And still—even this time, I balked at the sight of her. Both of them. Even knowing that necromancy is as unnatural and unforgivable as what I attempted back then."
"It was a great shock," Siegfried says, stroking at Aglovale's neck with the tips of his fingers. "It's unreasonable to expect you not to be shaken."
"It put Percival and everyone else in danger," Aglovale retorts. Closes his eyes. Inhales. "I have no regrets for doing what had to be done, but… I feel as soiled as I did after the Otherworld Key incident."
"It is never easy," Siegfried tells him softly. "Only a fool would expect you to not have any feelings on what happened. But you did the right thing, in the end. The only thing you could have done, to my understanding."
Siegfried leans in to press their mouths together in a fleeting kiss.
"Thank you for telling me how you feel," he says before pressing another light kiss, but on Aglovale's wet cheek instead. "You give yourself a hard time, but it is not criminal to feel conflict or pain, even if they were mere imitations of your parents."
Aglovale shakes his head, but leans in to kiss Siegfried himself on that warm, insolent mouth. His hands abandon his lap and reach for Siegfried's hair, fingers diving in the earthly brown curls.
"Mother did try to allow me to have things for myself," Aglovale murmurs. "It was natural of me to share everything with my brothers—but I suppose I was doing the same thing you accuse me of doing. Refusing myself the luxury of personhood."
"She sounds like she saw you for who you were—what a wonderful mother."
"She was," Aglovale says, trying not to sniffle but the sound escapes nevertheless. "I had forgotten much of her—that was part of the shock. But in the end it was a memory of her that showed me she was not truly the mother that guided me so well and kindly."
"Time can be a cruel thing," Siegfried agrees.
"Too cruel," Aglovale sighs, letting go of Siegfried and simply stares down at him. "…Get up. There's no need for you to kneel at my side so."
"Would you rather me climb into your lap, then?" Siegfried chuckles, but his voice is not entirely joking, and Aglovale ends up smacking at his arm.
"Get your mind out of the gutter," Aglovale scolds, but his mouth is curving into a weak smile as he wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his robe. "You may stay, however. I feel it's time for me to retire for the night."
Siegfried rises to his full height then—are those creaks from his spine?—and offers Aglovale a hand, a rakish grin taking over his previously somber expression. "Shall we have a good night's sleep together, then? I'll see if I still remember how you like to be held."
Heat rises to Aglovale's face, but he takes the offered hand. "Don't get ahead of yourself. I do not like to—"
The knowing look on Siegfried's face has Aglovale surrendering as soon as he is about to deny, and so Aglovale cuts himself off with a harrumph.
In the end, he does end up being held in Siegfried's arms (strong, scarred, enviably attractive) once Siegfried has stripped out of his outer layers and climbed into the bed with him. For a while longer, they continue their earlier conversation—and Aglovale, perhaps, feels better at the end of it.
Better, but not completely healed, which would have been a tall task for a single conversation and wine.
Still, as Aglovale is slipping into sleep while Siegfried's fingers run through his hair, he thinks he ought to thank Percival and Tor for watching out for him.