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There was a Count speaking to him about border treaties and some ‘Crimson freaks’ in the outskirts.
Dainsleif was a knight (Twilight Sword, he had to remind himself), not an undergrad in national relations, but he knew the man was a fluke either way — had met many of his kind not to recognize it in his flimsy, overtly prolix speech, how he stood in his tiptoes to fill in the loose fabric of his overcopious robes. Still, he listened with all the feigned attention he had learned from accompanying Ved in his many, many business gatherings. Perhaps this ability was a must-have for the King’s direct servants. A proper Twilight Sword, for instance, will be flaunted as the Homeland’s sharpest weapon, and thus should behave as such: proud, resplendent and loyal.
Like a lapdog, Surtalogi would say, and Dainsleif would punch him in the arm, flustered because it was no way to put it, even if it was slightly how it felt.
“…but we are glad, yes, very glad that you thrived in spite of it,” the old man interrupted his thoughts. He was rose-cheeked from the exertion of babbling for a long period of time, his soggy cheeks and bald head humid with sweat. “You had always been the most apt of the bunch, of course. Runs in the family, huh?” He placed a heavy, ringed hand on his shoulder. Dainsleif nearly winced, but quickly put up a tight smile. “Well, I oughta go now. Sidled up to you for long enough—should grant our Twilight Sword a moment of reprieve before the other ‘grown-ups’ catch up. Although you are one of us now, I s’ppose? Hah!”
“Thank you, sir,” Dainsleif said quietly. The man proudly waddled away, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
The whole night had been a myriad of this: politics, compliments, embarassing stories from his previous lectors; people tossing him around like the shiny new toy that he was, although this wasn’t to say he entirely disliked the praise. With most of his friends either on patrol or up to their own devices, and Ved, of course, dutifully following the King around, he had been forced to deal with the blunt of his promotion all on his own. The only reason it wasn’t tougher than the worst of Haden’s training was that he hadn’t been allowed to drink as a squire.
Now though. After consuming a certain level of wine, even the most socially inept man was made a charmer.
“I’m surprised they let you off at all.” Halfdan appeared from somewhere behind him. He had a flute of Mondstadtian wine snug between his fingers, which he handed to Dainsleif with a reserved smile. “Say, may these be the woes of becoming captain?”
Captain. Dainsleif had to stop himself before correcting him. He was Captain now, wasn’t he? He could not preen under the notion as much as he wished to hide from it.
“Heavy word, that one.” He downed the flute in one go. Halfdan laughed, surprised.
“It is nonetheless fitting, sir.”
“I haven’t owned the title for a day, and you’re already currying favor with me? I can’t tell if you’re dauntless or ambitious.”
“I would much rather call myself determined.”
Surtalogi would say, what is chivalry if not the art of mastering both? And Dainsleif would beg to differ, of course, because Surtalogi had indeed little fear and monstrous ambition, yet not a single chivalrous bone in his body.
(He thought of Skofnungr. Perhaps one chivalrous bone.)
(Then of Haden, and really, what was the Academy’s standard for chivalry anyway?)
They shared a moment of silence Dainsleif was immensely grateful for. The orchestra switched to a bright tune, and people huddled in the dance hall with laughter at the tip of their tongue.
“Dain…” Halfdan prompted suddenly, hesitant. “You know I do not mean to pry.”
They’d been friends long enough for Dainsleif to tell when he did. “But?”
“It just seems to me that…” He looked around briefly, as if gauging his words. “…It looks like something’s missing. Someone's, missing. Don’t you think?”
Dainsleif blinked rapidly. There was a sort of understanding, knowing air to Halfdan’s expression; one that brought Dainsleif a lot of discomfit.
“Missing?” Halfdan kept looking at him expectantly. “I’m… not sure what you mean.”
Halfdan paused. Whatever the inner discussion he seemed to hold was, he sighed, then leaned towards Dainsleif in a conspiratorial manner:
“Surtalogi was headed to the balcony last time I saw him.”
Oh. Right.
The moment Dain’s accolade had ended, Surtalogi disappeared. He was there for most of it—the crowning and the loaded speeches and the unteyvatily amounts of bureaucracy—, but fizzled out of the room just as Dainsleif had finished navigating through a sea of pats on the back to get to him. It frustrated him to no end, but there was no time to mull over his friend’s (?) lack of decorum once the ball officially began, so he’d resorted to wine and practiced small talk to forget about both Surtalogi, and his own unwillingness to be there.
Though he hadn’t really forgotten, no. Of course he turned around every once in a while, hoping to catch a glimpse of mussed purple hair by the corner of his eye. Of course he retorted to self-serving politicians with Surtalogi’s voice in his mind, and sometimes made to jab his empty side playfully when one of them said something particularly ridiculous.
The knowledge that Halfdan had noticed made him antsy and embarrassed. He fumbled with his words for a long second, all of which Halfdan spent staring at him with great amusement.
“…Was it obvious?” was what Dainsleif settled with. Halfdan looked like he dearly wanted to laugh, yet wouldn’t allow himself the grace.
“To me, yes. But only because I know you both so well.”
“Right.” Dainsleif cleared his throat. It was certainly a convenient time, what with most guests convening at one spot. He wondered if Halfdan had approached him knowing this. “Well. I cannot promise it won’t prompt a fight.”
Halfdan laughed, “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t expect you to. And judging from how Surtalogi looked, I don’t think he’s in the mood for a fight."
“He’s always in the mood for a fight,” Dainsleif argued. Halfdan smiled knowingly. Further away, the nobles’ dancing was clean and sharp; no clapping or excessive twirling, like the townspeople tend to do. Even their laughter sounded measured. “Alright. Through the balcony, you said?”
Halfdan nodded. “Though I’m not sure if he’s still there.”
“That’s fine. I’ll find him.” Dainsleif glanced at him sheepishly before leaving. “Thank you, Halfdan.”
“It’s my pleasure, Captain!”
The balcony encircled the ballroom, and was accessible through twelve tall, windowed doors—six on each side—that opened onto oriel projections in the stone railings. Dainsleif walked past them briskly, moving farther from the crowded sections that paralleled the dance hall (which meant dodging excited guests and beckonings for another hour of drivel) and toward the southern end of the ballroom.
It was on the sixth projection that he spotted a silhouette leaning over the rounded railing, backlit by the windows’ warm, orange glow.
In the newfound quiet, Dainsleif’s steps echoed. Surtalogi did not bother with pretensions, or any attempt at seeming even meagerly surprised that Dainsleif had found him.
He was looking at the stars. Oddly romantic, for the likes of him.
“I’m surprised you’re here, rather than spiting the vice president into a drinking contest,” Dainsleif said in lieu of a greeting.
Surtalogi scoffed, “What amusement is there to draw from a fight you cannot lose?”
“I was under the impression that easy victories tended to fuel you.”
“You would know,” Surtalogi drawled out. Always in the mood.
He still had his back to Dainsleif, who found himself staring at the space between his shoulders. They looked even broader in the ceremonial uniform—which was, of course, a perfectly commonplace and friendly musing to make. Why was the air so warm?
“I suppose we all have things we’ve grown into and out of,” said Surtalogi. Dainsleif cleared his throat.
“Hard to see how you’d grow out of being obnoxious.”
“Well, you grew into a captain, didn’t you?” Surtalogi retorted lightly. “Very inspirational. Shows we can all achieve the impossible.”
Surtalogi didn’t mean all that. Neither did he. The snark was grounding, anchoring his tipsy—antsy mind back into the warm lines of banter they so frequently threaded. For a moment, the balcony became a realm beyond the Court’s grip; a reality where they could speak unmarred by the leashes of Time. Kids again.
“Why did you leave so suddenly?” Dainsleif asked before fondness forfeited his courage. “I looked for you after the accolade. You didn’t even say goodbye.”
It still took Surtalogi a moment to look back. When he did, it was first over his shoulder, crimson eyes intent and seeking; then, the rest of his body.
He looked as handsome—as polished as ever in his ceremonial clothes, fresh and pristine, although Dain was the one to have received a title that night. That was the thing about Surtalogi, really: despite his less than agreeable personality, he was everything the Code of Chivalry dreamed of; the very face of knighthood, the personified urge to cut through a better future. Haden had never believed it, or better, he refused to, but neither had he achieved what Surtalogi had in his young age.
Surtalogi examined him, his eyes lingering on the crest newly adorning Dainsleif’s chest. Although he tended towards impassiveness, it wasn’t often that Dainsleif found him unreadable. He took the Twilight Sword uniform in with no specific emotion, no noticeable opinion to the curl of his mouth. It made Dain shuffle on his feet, uncharacteristically shy.
He wanted to grab Surtalogi's chin firmly and force him to hold his gaze; to turn him honest for once, just for that night. Wine could make any lesser man a hero, after all.
"All eyes were on you tonight, I am sure,” Surtalogi said eventually. “Another set of them wouldn’t pose any difference.”
Dainsleif wanted to tell him not all, and it would. Of course it would. It mattered more than anyone else that Surtalogi be watching, because Dainsleif only knew a reality where he always had his attention; ever since they were children more apt than they could manage, making a competition out of scrubbing the training grounds clean. Ever since they were teens filling into their lanky, knobby bodies, learning to talk through emotional conflict when they had grown being taught how to hurt.
Dainsleif did not know a world where he wouldn’t look over his shoulder and find Surtalogi catching up, or look forward and run as fast as he could to reach him. They had been here before, at odds time and time again, but this had never ceased to be true. One could only finish where the other had started.
Perhaps it was the wine surging up his head, the dizziness from the flute and a couple of glasses snooped from under Ved’s nose. Or perhaps he had simply waited for far too long. Whatever it was, this sensation, it injected something molten in his veins, and he walked up to Surt’s side with fiery determination.
“You’re wrong,” he said—it stumbled out more pathetic than intended. He flushed violently, worsening when Surtalogi merely regarded him with amusement. “And clueless.”
“Am I now?” Surtalogi asked calmly. Dainsleif scoffed, which was another terrible course of action. Nothing set you as Surtr’s target quite like letting yourself be affected by him.
“Yes. For all your quick wit, not once have you made a correct assumption about me." Us was the word Dainsleif wanted to use, but he feared the wine would not bridle his thoughts once he got to it. Surtalogi deadpanned him. Flustered, he continued, "Regardless. You are terrible at figuring out what I actually think, or—or want.”
Surtalogi snorted, “Knowing you doesn’t make me a mind reader. That is Vedrfolnir’s job, not mine.”
“So why are you saying your presence wouldn’t make any difference?” Dainsleif said heatedly.
There was a pause. Surtalogi seemed equal parts amused and bewildered by the sudden outburst. Well, it was unlike Dainsleif to act so childish. It was also unlike Dainsleif to let alcohol get the best of him, so perhaps this interaction had been crooked from the start.
“Would it?” Surtalogi asked instead of replying directly (of course he would).
“Would it to you?”
“That’s an awful hypothetical,” he argued, “since I would never subject myself to the King’s flimsy opulence in the first place.”
“You do have something against this, then,” Dainsleif gathered. Surtalogi grinned—it had no clear emotion in it, once again, and his passiveness was starting to get on Dainsleif’s nerves.
“Again, we all have grown in and out of things. Perhaps brilliance simply does not suit me.”
“How so?” Dainsleif insisted. Surtalogi shrugged.
“I assume—”
“Then don’t,” Dainsleif cut him off, and crossed his arms petulantly. “Ask instead. Because I would’ve very much liked to have you there—more than any of the old croons in Irmin’s circle, in fact. Oppulence or brilliance or not.”
A pause. Surtalogi blinked at him slowly.
The air was cold today, Dainsleif thought, not warm. It licked at his cheeks like the thorns of a flower. (He was the warm one, mortifyingly.)
The only time he had seen Surtalogi surprised was during a spar. They were still getting to know each other—all they’d heard was of the other’s fighting prowess, and so they naturally fell into the easy pace of rivalry, as talented children were wont to. Whatever you do, I can do better, and whatnot. When they sparred for the first time, Haden had to physically separate them before it went on for over half an hour.
They got back to it later that same day, secretly. Dainsleif won after two hours and a half: foot to Surtalogi’s throat, the boy’s sword flung all the way across the training field. He still remembers the look on his face, the spark in his crimson eyes.
“Very well.” Current Surtalogi leaned back against the railing. His eyes glinted. “I’ll let you have it.”
It was the same thing he said back then. Surtalogi was older now, of course, broader, worn out by both training and time, but his eyes looked at Dainsleif just the same: ready to dissect him. Entertained, almost. It made his whole body sting.
In the ballroom, an ovation erupted over the lively music. There was a sort of courtship dance going on now, one they had begrudgingly learned in the etiquette lessons the Code demanded of all squires. Terrible dancers, they were, but it was the most fun they had in between excruciatingly cruel drills. Rather have his foot stomped than broken, Dainsleif figured.
Surtalogi tended to say the opposite. Though whether to spite him or out of genuine appraisal, Dainsleif would not know.
“You look… princely,” Surtalogi commented suddenly.
It proved his previous point so perfectly, Dainsleif would laugh if he hadn’t turned red. He had been awfully easy to please the whole night, drunk on both wine and the overflow of compliments he had received. “Don’t jest,” he croaked out.
Surtalogi raised a brow. “Because clearly I have been known for my sense of humor.”
“Well, I do enjoy laughing at your expense.” (Hroptatyr would call this a smooth save.)
Surtalogi chortled, and it was odd in his timbre, a hoarse sound that felt almost defiant. “You’re the only person who can say that and walk out unscathed. Do you realize that?”
“Thank you for your kindness then, o’mighty Surtalogi.” Dainsleif held out a hand before he could help himself. Muscle memory, that was all. Like getting into stance for a fight. “Dance with me?”
That was—not muscle memory, no. But Dainsleif was drunk, and the night was beautiful. He could afford acting a little bit stupid.
Surtalogi’s expression did not shift in the slightest, but Dainsleif could tell he was taken aback. A subtle twitch to the eyes, to his fingers. The idea that he was also the only person in the world capable of noticing such things was self-serving, and made him want to giggle to himself in delight.
“Don’t jest, Twilight Sword,” Surtalogi parroted. (Dainsleif was compelled to bite back, you’ll jinx it, until he remembered where they were, and when, and why, and. Oh. He was Twilight Sword now. The one and only in the entire Kingdom.)
“I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean,” Dainsleif said.
“Would be foolish of you, having a prophet for a brother.”
“And there it is, your lovely sense of humor.” Dainsleif stepped closer. Surtalogi promptly looked away. He raised his brows. “Are you deflecting?”
“You take me for a coward?” Surtalogi asked, now defiant, and ah, this was comfortable, and familiar. Dainsleif dived into the waters of Surtalogi’s antagonism like the well trained swimmer he was.
“I do now,” Dainsleif chirped, exceedingly pleased by this turn of events. “With all the battles that hardened you, I never imagined a dance would be one you cowered from.”
“Never occurred to you that it might simply be a waste of my time?”
“If you have time to cast the stars your wistful attention, you have some to spare indulging your rival with one last dance.”
There were many aspects of his statement that Surtalogi could nitpick. The use of rival, or of last; both things they couldn’t be sure of, but threw to the sky in hopes that it either consumed them or echoed back a definitive answer.
It felt like Time held her delicate breath, waiting for Surtalogi’s next move. The winds, the drifting clouds—everything standing measuredly, anxiously still.
Surtalogi took a couple of steps forward, just enough that Dainsleif’s stretched out hand hit his chest. The stars sketched out a halo around his head; or maybe Dainsleif’s gaze was simply too unfocused. Who’s to say. Everything felt rose-tinted and wonderful.
“You reek of wine,” Surtalogi muttered. Softly, as if his voice could shatter the very firmament (or Dainsleif himself, which was much more humiliating to think about) if used too brashly. “And you look it, too. What are the sages going to think?”
The whole world was spinning. Dainsleif felt too loose and too honest, pried open by a pair of calloused hands. He harrumphed, “If they can, is what you mean. They look worse by a long shot.”
“A court of drunkards leading our nation.” Surtalogi tutted derisively. “What a future we have looking forward.”
“Come on,” Dainsleif insisted. He spread out his hand on Surtalogi’s sternum, his fingers gracing the inner side of his pecs. “I know you remember the steps.”
Surtalogi’s eyes lingered on the motion for just a second too long. When he looked up at Dainsleif, his gaze was hooded. “My. Who would’ve thought the Twilight Sword had a sultry side?”
Oh. He hadn’t realized—hadn’t, well. Dainsleif huffed and removed his hand. “I’m not being sultry.”
“Then you act this way towards anyone?” Surtalogi tilted his head. “How scandalous.”
“Perhaps I should,” Dainsleif bit back, and that was such a terrible thing to say—he decided to stop hearing his own voice, just for the sake of his future aware self, who would hate him for this very moment. “Who knows? It would be an interesting shift of character.”
Surtalogi narrowed his eyes at him. “If I give you your dance, will you stop being insufferable?”
Dainsleif took a page from Surtalogi’s book. His sole answer was a grin.
Surtalogi took his hand.
Waltzing and sparring shared the same fundamentals. You and your partner shall move as one—you shall know their pace as you do yours, because knowing them is knowing yourself. One will end where the other begins. What changed was that waltzing demanded another level of care, a pliancy their precision did not often allow.
Dainsleif knew the pattern of Surtalogi’s movements by heart. He knew what a twitch to his throat mean, how his pupils moved when he was deciding his next move. The softness was what made them trip, here; what made a turn too sharp or a dip a near tackle. They had never touched each other just because, except when Dain was ten and dragging Surtalogi by the hand to have dinner at his home.
Dainsleif laughed, and laughed, and it did not sound like him at all, and Surtalogi’s expression was softer than Dainsleif had ever seen it. Surtalogi’s hand was on his shoulder, much lighter than the old croon’s had been, endlessly more pleasant. Then on his waist, trying to guide him into a twirl. Then on the small of his back, shuddering and staying there, and Dainsleif sighed and, oh.
Surtalogi’s eyes were narrowed and hesitant.
It had been a measured accident. He wanted his hand there.
“Your movements are too brash,” Surtalogi said instead of that.
Yes. They were brash because he felt happy.
“Yours are too contained,” Dainsleif said instead of that.
Terrible dancers, they were. But otherworldly swordsmen.
Despite his complexion, Surtalogi’s hand did not leave its place. Slowly, as if taming a wild beast, Dainsleif resumed their back and forth; not a full fledged waltz, but his hands loose on Surtalogi’s back, his chin nestled on the dip of his right shoulder.
Surtalogi went very, very still. For a moment, Dainsleif readied himself to be violently pushed away. For a fight, verbal or physical or both. (Kids again.)
“I suppose I was worried,” came Surtalogi’s voice instead.
Dainsleif raised his head to deadpan him. “You?”
“Is it that surprising?” Surtalogi asked with amusement.
“What could possibly make you worried?”
Surtalogi looked at him pensively. They were swaying side to side, slowly, the lights dancing on his foolish, boyish face.
“The things we have grown into and out of,” he said simply.
“Really?” Dainsleif mused. “The great Surtalogi is afraid of growing up?”
“Not exactly.”
“Would it kill you to answer me extensively for once?”
Surtalogi smiled at him. “I enjoy hearing you insist.”
Dainsleif tried to stomp on his foot. Unfortunately, they knew each other too well for this to happen.
“What I mean is that many things are coming to an end. We graduated. There is no Haden to catch up to any longer. You became Twilight Sword.” He stared off at a point in the horizon as he said this. “We can always become stronger, yes, but I fear that once we reach that limit, that point of no return… I’ll have the universe as my front lawn. All be well known, perfectly understandable to the both of us. There will be nothing left.”
He was quiet after that. Dainsleif, however, had become well-versed in filling the in-betweens of Surtalogi’s vagueness.
“And you’ll be bored,” he completed. “What then?”
Surtalogi hummed. “What then indeed.”
The couples in the balcony were dwindling little by little, some of them scouted by members of the guard. Such a fickle, noble thing to do, getting drunk out of their minds at every chance they got. Then again, Dainsleif supposed he had just become one of them. Suited up in the Dynasty’s prettiest armor, royal-blue and golden.
Surtalogi used to call him golden boy at the height of their animosity. It was never hatred, not quite, much less envy. Surtalogi was perfectly satisfied with his life. His only wish was to become stronger and stronger—Dainsleif was the one who found that prospect both fascinating and terrifying, and couldn’t help wanting to understand him, chasing after him.
Wherever one went, the other would follow. One would only end where the other began.
Perhaps that was why Dainsleif knew perfectly well what being bored meant to him.
“If you ever go…” When you go, really, but he couldn’t say it as it was. “Tell me first.”
Surtalogi considered him. His eyes were the color of wine.
“So you have time to chase after me?”
Yes, Dainsleif thought immediately. Ved once read Hroptatyr’s discarded drafts for him to sleep, and one of them echoed what his heart now beat to, desperately: I will never reach my youth without you. There would always be things they grew in and out of, but Dainsleif hoped that this sureness was never one of them. Time may pass, and their ambitions may grow, but they would always stand within the same Starry Sea, looking at the same moon, their hearts measuring the size of the universe, the universe a hairsbreadth between their bodies; and if Surtalogi one day responded to Fate’s relentless calling, that he may at least leave a drag path for Dainsleif to follow, etched in the surface of the stars.
For some truths, not even liquid courage was fuel enough. Yes, Dainsleif thought. So I can follow you wherever.
What he said was, “So I have time to consider it.”