Archive of Our Own ^beta

Comfort was not easy to come by in those days. Having left the serenity of my cabin life behind – even monotonous as it may have become – and having been thrust immediately into the intrigue and pretense that surrounded our quest resulted in an exhaustion that was not wholly physical. I was infected by a hunger for the familiar that interfered with my ability to find sleep.

It did not help that the bed provided for Tom Badgerlock by the Bresingas could barely be called one; a pile of straw in the stables or even the grassy side of one of the many roads I have traveled on might have been more restful. 

The thought of those years ignited in me the longing for Nighteyes and the tranquility of his presence in our bond. I stopped myself before I could even begin reaching towards him. I could not risk even the slightest contact – my own comfort not worth endangering my wolf or our mission in a household filled with an unknown number of Old Blood folk.

The forced solitude gnawed, made even more unbearable by the memories of our shared youth that assaulted me in the night – the ill-advised venture into the Rain Wilds, the claustrophobic weeks of sailing on open waters, even the anxious days of our mountain quest – all of it, even at its most painful was colored with fond nostalgia by the uncomplicated company of my wolf.

I tried to use the recollection of the joyful simplicity we attained in our shared existence to ease myself into sleep and found my thoughts turning to marveling once again at the ease with which our Fool joined in that harmony. The Fool who was at this time luxuriating in what must have been the keep’s most lavish featherbed, with space enough to fit four grown men and the opulent sheets that I could only imagine would feel magnificently gentle against my weary bones. 

The sharp envy that momentarily pierced my thoughts was as childish as it was unwelcome. My dear friend had earned every bit of beauty and splendor that he so loved to surround himself with, and he was more than generous with his fortune besides. It was only that at times it became a trial for me to remember that the way Lord Golden addressed Tom Badgerlock did not reflect the Fool’s feelings towards Fitz. Still, I wondered if the loneliness of this masquerade chafed at him as it did me.

Before I could catch up to my own actions, I was creeping out of my servant’s room and knocking on the door of the Fool’s bedchamber. When my attempt elicited no response, I eyed the doorhandle with wariness a wolf would usually reserve for a particularly suspicious cut of carrion, one as like to kill with its rot as to save from a longer hunger death.

There was nothing stopping me from pushing the door open. Nothing other than what remained of my conscience. I had already threatened our friendship once by invading his private dwelling when we were both boys; even a memory of his wonder-filled chambers of old left me in awe of the soul bared in them. Yet the recollection of his coldness at my misstep was even sharper. Could I make the same kind of mistake twice? I placed the hand that carried his fingerprints on the ornate door in front of me and looked back towards my own chamber, painfully empty and cold as it was. A moment of indecision and I pushed the door open with a resolute breath, praying to all the gods I never trusted in that my friend would find it in himself to forgive me once more.

My grand entrance went unnoticed.

The Fool was curled at the center of his bed, knees to chest in a startlingly endearing imitation of a hound trying to warm its nose with its tail. I stopped myself from reaching out, bad enough that I entered this chamber without his explicit invitation, I would not make matters worse by disturbing him with an unwelcome touch as well.

“Fool?” My call, barely above whisper, went unanswered. The second, slightly louder attempt resulted in a frown and an unintelligible murmur, but no sign of actual wakefulness. I hesitated briefly, considering whether any potential mockery was worth the potential for a night of restful sleep and called again, “Beloved?”

This time his eyes lifted if only slightly and when they settled on myself, a beatific smile spread across his sleep-lined face.

“Beloved,” he all but purred in response and with such satisfaction that I almost expected a jest to follow immediately, but he only continued smiling, his eyes – still more closed then open – never leaving my face. He did not appear to me even half-way to wakefulness; it seemed rather that, in this vulnerable state between sleep and the waking world, his immediate reaction to my voice calling him by what he claimed as his true name was to bestow it on myself instead. An instinct of his I might have found curious but resolved not to examine too closely. Instead, I set my mind to the goal of this endeavor.

“Might I share your bed tonight?”

His smile grew impossibly wider even as his eyes slid close again. “Of course, my love, you are always welcome.” With sleep at the corners of his eyes and pillow-marked cheeks, his hair in a frazzled tangle, several curls trying to eclipse his tawny eyes and what looked suspiciously like a trail of saliva on the side of his mouth – he must have been more imperfect than I have ever seen him before and for some reason, that sight set an indescribable tenderness cloying at the back of my throat. 

I swallowed it back and began to climb in next to him, gingerly as I could, which is to say not very. As I jostled the bedding, there was a flurry of movement from the Fool, “Fitz?” – his tone was a whisper tinged with alarm – “What are you doing in my bed?”

With no need for further attempts at caution I threw myself to my back and turned my face up, meeting his finally completely open eyes. He was balancing somewhat precariously on the edge of his bed, using one of his graceful hands to hold an elaborately embroidered blanket to his chest like a scandalized maiden, even though he wore a bizarrely high-necked nightshirt, much too modest for Lord Golden’s lavish tastes. I was bewildered to find myself feeling slighted at his obvious need to keep himself hidden from me this way, as if I was not deserving of this simple trust. Mystified and somewhat petulant I decided I should defend myself. “I thought you said I was always welcome.” 

Even by the scarce light of the moon I could discern the colorful flush rising to his golden cheeks. “That- I thought I was asleep, Fitz.” 

Still somewhat sullen at his evasiveness, I continued. “And do you often invite strangers to your bed in your sleep?”

His expression softened immeasurably, his voice an invitation to something, peace maybe, or at least an acknowledgement of a notion previously unspoken. “Only you, my friend, only you.” 

I chose to hear a challenge in his words instead, and one I was unwilling to face. Answering his first question seemed a safer road.

“I was struggling to sleep.” I faltered, trying and failing to find a way of admitting that I missed having a wolf sleep at my back that would look anything other than pathetic.

The Fool made a sympathetic noise and impossibly his face softened even more, “Oh, it must be so difficult for you without Nighteyes.” As always, a shiver ran through me at his awareness of both my inner thoughts and my bond with Nighteyes. Then again, perhaps I should not have been so surprised, after all even after over a decade of separation, the Fool was unmistakably a part of us. “I regret that I neglected to come up with a story that would allow you two to remain close together.” 

The apology in his gaze was intolerable. I sat up and clasped the hand that was not clutching the shield of his blanket between both of mine, “It’s hardly your fault, Fool. Besides, it’s not like he would enjoy staying inside the keep even with a believable story.”

He tried for a smile, pained as it was, and shaking his head, continued in a whisper. “Even still. I regret that you must be the one to set the world to rights even now. Would that I could ease your burdens some way.”

As ever, his talk of destiny as well as the insidious guilt such talk seemed to dredge up from the depths of him almost had me squirming under his scrutiny. Ill at ease, I tried for a joke. “Well, a night in this grand bed of yours would go a long way to ease my suffering, my gracious Prophet.” 

His features lost all contrition at my words and adopted instead a heated look that could not be described as anything other than devious. He reclined back on his elbow, still making sure to cover his chest, his other hand sliding from mine to land on the covers between us and responded in a deep, amorous timbre. “Why, you only ever need to ask, Beloved.” 

Something turned over in my chest and I froze at the image he painted, golden skin fading intermittently into the sugar white of our youth by the pale moonlight, heavily lidded eyes framed by those long lashes, hair spilling on the pillows behind him as he bent his neck in an artful way that revealed every vulnerable inch of it and his lissome limbs stretched into a sinuous display of lust even covered from my eyes as they were. Unbidden, Starling’s voice echoed through my mind. The Fool is a woman, and she is in love with you!

Then, with all his tumbler’s nimbleness, he shifted again before I could find wits enough to resume breathing. All ardor was gone from his expression, and he was sitting next to me, feet folded under himself as he broke into delighted and delightful giggles. “You should have seen your face, never have I seen a man so horrified to find himself in my bed!” 

I blinked my confusion away and returned his teasing smile, his cheer too sunny to ignore, and the jape was out of my mouth before I could consider its implication. “Oh, so you’ve had enough men in your bed to make a comparison?” 

His eyes widened the same moment as I caught up to my own words but instead of being offended, the Fool arranged his face in a way I’ve never witnessed before and demurred. “A lady never tells.” 

His voice was one unfamiliar to me, low and husky and somehow distinctly feminine. I froze once more as another memory sliced through the unintelligible jumble of my thoughts, Mere plumbing, when all is said and done. Why is it important? 

Before I could make sense of my own reaction, his face split into a grin and filled with mischief. My Fool once again, he declared with all the drama of a court jester, “I shall treasure the memory of that expression for the rest of my days.” Then, abruptly as ever, his demeanor changed to a more thoughtful one. “Did you call me by my name?”

Apprehension dried my mouth, and I groped for an excuse, steeling myself for mockery and desperately hoping it wouldn't be in song this time. “Yes, you did not seem to hear when I called you Fool.” His gaze fled downwards as his cheeks pinked once again. The smile that appeared on his face now was heartrendingly tender and his free hand began to toy with a stray thread that escaped the embroidery of his blanket armor. Uncertainty tried to overwhelm my suspicion. “Why? Is that not your true name after all?”

“No, it is,” he continued averting his eyes and worried at his lips as if debating the merit of maintaining this line of conversation. When he did it was in a whisper so low I could barely discern from the noise of my own steady breath, as if he was scared to voice the thought. “I only wished that I were more awake to hear it.”

Something in me rebelled at the idea that he would so dread my reaction to anything he could say and all of me wished to assuage that fear. Not for the first time that night the words ripped their way out of my mouth before I was fully aware of what they were going to be. “You seem plenty awake now, Beloved.”

His head snapped towards me with such force that I had half a mind to be concerned for the integrity of his neck bones. I had little time to consider his physical well-being, however, for when his eyes met mine, I was horrified to find them glistening with unshed tears. I could not help but recoil from that sight.

The Fool seemed to know how troubled his tears made me for he shook his head and gave a somewhat hysterical laugh as he wiped his eyes with the back of his free hand. “Apologies, my friend. It is only that I have not heard another call me by my name in earnest since I left my family behind, and that was a long time ago.”

His words sparked a recollection of him as he was when we were both boys. He has said that he was older than me and Nighteyes both, yet when I was a child so was he. How far away had he come from his homeland? How lonely must he have been to be separated from everything familiar so young? I had to curse my own younger self for not approaching him sooner, for being unwilling to offer friendship only because he looked so strange to me. We held so many woes in common, so many secrets we could have eased one another in sharing. And now I was hurting him once again, reminding him of all he has lost in his efforts to be in the right place at the right time.

“Would you prefer that I not-

“No!” He interrupted with the same unforeseen wildness that flooded me when I stopped him from removing my earring what seemed like forever ago. I noted with satisfaction that he finally let the blanket drop from covering his body as he reached both of his hands out to take mine in turn. “I would love nothing more than for you to call me by my name, Fitz.” He squeezed my hands emphatically and smiled, adding almost ruefully, “Well, almost nothing. I was only unprepared for how it would feel to hear you say it.”

It was an odd feeling, to see the Fool become so shy. He was, after all, the same Lord Golden who flirted shamelessly with any eligible and ineligible courtier that crossed his path; the same performer who serenaded me in front of the entire keep before showing off his bare buttocks to the audience. I was startled by the fleeting notion that it would not be so pale anymore and almost had to physically shake my head to dismiss the image of how his newly golden skin might change such a sight. I could only surmise that it was not entirely King Shrewd's Fool I was looking in the eyes at that moment — it was Beloved, entrusting me with his fragile heart. I was flooded by a sudden feeling that I believe any man would experience when handed such a treasure by his dearest friend: the indomitable determination to keep it safe from any and all harm.

I used his hold on my hands to draw him closer and pulled him flush to my chest. Gently, I tucked his head into the crook of my neck, placing a placating kiss to the top of his head on the way and allowed myself to revel in his familiar lack of scent. “Would you tell me of your family, Beloved?”

And, hidden from this cruel world in the safety of my arms, interspersing his telling with lilting giggles and occasional sobs, he did.

I do not recall which one of us succumbed to sleep first. I like to believe that I missed not a one of the precious memories that passed his lips that night. I do know that I was the one to wake before dawn light could touch us where we were ensconced in a bed, more comfortable than my imagination has concocted. I had enough time to savor my Beloved’s contented smile from the vantage point of the pillow we now shared before Lord Golden and Tom Badgerlock had to resume their performance.