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(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
—e. e. cummings
*
1.
“This is hardly necessary,” said Aglovale.
Siegfried, who had just gifted him a boxful of spices and sweets, replied, “With respect, I’ve learned it’s the opposite—one must never leave a kindness unanswered. King Josef taught me that.”
“A wise lesson, but not applicable here,” Aglovale said. Prompted by Siegfried’s curious gaze, he explained, “It wasn’t out of kindness that I stopped you. Your rampage was a threat to Wales. My duty as king is to eliminate threats.”
“Naturally. But, with due respect, you’ve overlooked the kindness I was referring to.”
“Oh?”
“You had the opportunity to bring my… rampage to a permanent end, and you would have been justified in doing so. But you chose to give Lancelot and Percival time to find another solution. That, from you, was a kindness,” said Siegfried, steady and earnest. “One that I hardly know how to repay, but I will do my best to, starting with this.”
Aglovale’s mouth twisted at the thought. When he had joined his brother and the captain’s crew in stopping Siegfried, he had done so with the intent to repay the debt he felt he owed him. It was a decision he had made his peace with. It was also a decision he’d had no intention of sharing with the man.
Typical, that Siegfried would push him in a direction he hadn’t wanted to go.
“It wasn’t a kindness,” said Aglovale, trying for dismissive and landing on impatient. “It was—you spared my life once, when it wasn’t in the best interest of the kingdom you swore fealty to.”
Siegfried paused. Slowly, his lips curved into a smile. He said, “So you cleaned the slate, and here I am, inadvertently marking it up again.”
“You certainly have a way of interfering with my plans,” muttered Aglovale.
“Forgive me,” Siegfried chuckled. “This time, it wasn’t intentional.”
“Let’s hope it’s the last time,” Aglovale said, and left it at that.
2.
He was beginning to pass through Wales more frequently, Siegfried.
It was an unexpected development, but not one Aglovale had particularly strong feelings about, either for or against. Siegfried would consistently arrive late in the evening every few months, sometimes every few weeks, and would come bearing an olive branch that even Aglovale could not turn his nose at: reports of threats, or unusual activity in the area. While Aglovale preferred Wales’ own scouts delivering the same news to him, he was coming to learn not to look this gift horse in the mouth.
“I cannot fathom why you’ve made a habit of this,” said Aglovale, on the fourth such time Siegfried handed him a scroll.
“Is it wrong of me to offer help to a friend?” Siegfried replied.
Aglovale wondered is that what we are now? and felt, quite strongly, that were Lamorak here, he would have laughed until tears glazed his eyes at the expression Aglovale felt himself making.
“Wales is hardly in need of help,” Aglovale said.
“I wouldn’t presume otherwise,” Siegfried said. “It’s not my intention to slight.”
Aglovale refrained from sighing exasperatedly. Of course, he knew that Siegfried had no intention of slighting Wales, and of course Siegfried knew that Aglovale was quick to the draw, especially where appearances were concerned. Friends they might be—a baffling development—but they were still a king and knight belonging to two different kingdoms, ones that had been at odds with each other in recent history.
“In that case,” Aglovale said, at length, “I... Wales offers it’s gratitude for your assistance.”
“It’s no trouble,” Siegfried said.
Aglovale’s lips curled into an expression of displeasure, but there was no ice behind it. He stood from his throne and motioned for Siegfried to follow him. The royal guards parted to let them pass through the great hall; Aglovale dismissed his personal guards once they arrived at his study. Siegfried waited by the door while Aglovale sorted through a few letters on his desk. When he found what he was looking for, Aglovale turned to Siegfried and handed him an envelope, waxed shut with the royal seal of Wales.
“A thought,” he said. “On your condition. From someone I trust.”
Siegfried stared at the letter for a long moment.
“You… didn’t have to do this,” he said eventually.
Aglovale raised a brow. “Was it not you who said to never leave a kindness unanswered?”
That startled a quiet laugh out of Siegfried. His grip on the letter tightened. Aglovale wondered if perhaps Siegfried’s search for a cure had come to a standstill. He had no intention of asking.
“Thank you,” said Siegfried.
The sincerity in his voice was disarming. Aglovale looked away, turning his attention to his desk and the pile of letters decorating it, and only breathed again when Siegfried bid him goodnight.
3.
“Rare for anyone to join me,” Aglovale said, selecting a training sword from the weapons rack. “Especially at this time of night.”
Siegfried said, bemused, “I heard a rumor that there is a knight who is so strong, he tends to train against two soldiers at once, sometimes more. I felt compelled to investigate. The trail led me here.”
“Disappointed, are you?” asked Aglovale.
“Hardly,” Siegfried replied.
“Care to join me, then?”
“If you don’t mind.”
Aglovale motioned to the rack before, for the first time that evening, turning to look at his newly arrived companion. He halted in his movements as Siegfried brushed by him, free of his armor, in only a tunic and breeches. Percival had told him once that Siegfried had been a farm boy prior to being persuaded to knighthood by Feendrache’s late king, and Aglovale could see it now in a way that he hadn’t before. There was something awfully rugged about the man, beyond the expected scarring that extended out from behind its coverings. Aglovale cared not for talk of auras, but here in the dim firelight of the training grounds, he thought perhaps he could see one around Siegfried. Something dark, dirt-like in color with hints of red, reminding him of the moment flint struck a spark. At another time it might have been intimidating; now, all it instilled in Aglovale was a curiosity that he could not rationalize and refused to entertain further.
“This is lighter than what I’m used to,” Siegfried said, testing the weight of the blade he’d chosen.
Aglovale replied, “Shall I send for a heavier blade?”
“No need,” Siegfried said.
That was all that needed to be said. They took their places at opposite ends of the grounds, exchanged nods, and in an instant their blades were clashing. It became quickly apparent that Siegfried was stronger. Where Aglovale struck, Siegfried cleaved. Where Aglovale parried, Siegfried overwhelmed. He was far from being a warrior who relied on only brute force, as Aglovale was well aware, and as his past achievements were testament of, but Aglovale had not crossed swords with Siegfried since his dragonblood was set alight and had not considered how different the experience sparring with him now would be.
Still, Aglovale had his speed and his cunning, and was far from unwilling to use them. He maintained his defensive position while still swiping at his opponent when the opportunity presented itself and, by what would come to be mid-fight, had torn Siegfried’s left sleeve and left a purpling bruise on his shoulder. Siegfried, for his part, had nearly knocked Aglovale off his feet twice, had made a crack in Aglovale’s sword with an unrelenting swing, and had the indecency to do it all without appearing even slightly out of breath. In fact, when they paused to reassess each other, Siegfried was grinning.
“I can see where the rumors come from,” he said.
“Surely you haven’t forgotten that this isn’t the first time we’ve crossed blades,” Aglovale said.
“No,” said Siegfried. He pushed back his hair. “But it is the first time I’ve enjoyed it.”
“Far be it for a host to not entertain a guest,” Aglovale replied dryly.
Siegfried chuckled and, with that, the truce was broken. He lunged forward; Aglovale twisted to the side and struck his back with his sword’s hilt. Siegfried grunted, retaliated, and the brutal dance continued. They took turns bruising each other from there—Aglovale’s rib cage, Siegfried’s forearm, Aglovale’s bicep, Siegfried’s thigh. The longer they sparred, the more it unraveled into something akin to a true fight, to something with fire and fury alighting their movements. They struck and they rebuffed and they struck again—
Until they stopped.
Siegfried’s blade hovered across Aglovale’s neck. He was almost uncomfortably close, nearly nose-to-nose with Aglovale, and not for the first time in their knowing each other did Aglovale feel irritation at having lost. But beyond that feeling came calling stray thoughts; I am taller than him, and how easy would it be to lean in, and what would happen if I did? Reason supplied the answer to that: if he leaned in, Siegfried’s blade would press into his throat, a blunt reminder of decorum.
“Do you yield?” Siegfried asked.
For a flash of a moment, Aglovale wanted to say no, wanted to lean in and bite into being a new kind of counterattack.
“I concede,” Aglovale said instead.
He lowered his sword and Siegfried smiled, a little amused, a little secretive, like he’d just decided on the answer to a question Aglovale didn’t yet know to ask.
4.
The art of courting was one of the few, more delicate skills that Aglovale had yet to master. Now, as he perused the selection of flora displayed before him, he wished, privately, and perhaps a little desperately, that his mother were here to guide him.
Although, he imagined that her answer to him would be something along the lines of, “My darling, trust your heart. It will never lead you astray,” and would be delivered with the soft smile she reserved for her sons.
The trouble was, Aglovale had recently come into the knowledge that his heart did lead him astray; or if not his heart, then certainly his head took his heart’s desires and turned them into actionable plans with no account for collateral damage. Certainly, attempting to court someone was less likely to start a war than attempting to expand Wales’ borders—although when it came to Feendrache, Aglovale couldn’t rely on the rules of normalcy—but. Aglovale knew how to wage war. He knew how to negotiate treaties, how to enact state and foreign policy, how to ease the fears of his people, how to rally the spirits of his soldiers; he knew how to rule with a firm hand, not how to offer a gentle one.
Nor did he know anything about flower arrangements, and the frustration had begun to show on his face.
“Your majesty,” said the florist. “If I may, any fair lady would enjoy a bouquet of gardenias. Or perhaps a classic approach—Wales boasts the finest roses in all of Phantagarde.”
He pointed out each of the flowers he spoke of. Aglovale’s brows furrowed minutely; both options seemed heavy-handed. He wasn’t planning on declaring love, he merely wanted to test the waters, to discreetly announce his intentions at most, if they were wanted. And he didn’t desire to be misconstrued: it was challenging enough that he and the person who had somehow managed to become something even more treasured than a friend, had a contentious history, one mostly of his own making. The last thing he needed was to complicate matters further.
“They,” Aglovale said, weighing his words carefully, “would not appreciate something so... pronounced.”
The florist rallied quickly. “Perhaps a smaller arrangement. A mixed one? It could be based on a color.”
Aglovale considered this. What color could possibly encapsulate how he felt? Something cold, turned warm. The color of whitest snow, melting into the spring green of grass. The gray color of overcast sky, clouds parting to reveal a golden sun. Something in him twisted at the thought—he couldn’t tell if it was because he thought neither option felt enough, or that both felt too soon.
“Your Majesty?” prompted the florist.
“Earthen tones,” said Aglovale, defaulting. “The color of earth. The color of the sea. Can you base an arrangement on that?”
The florist could, and did. The flowers, a carefully coordinated mix of hydrangeas, baby’s breath, blueberries and preserved, browning foliage, were delivered to Aglovale’s chambers the next morning. Even he, a man who had few feelings for flowers, if any, couldn’t help but admire the craftsmanship of the arrangement in the early light. It was all that he’d asked for.
And yet.
The flowers stayed in his room until the last night before the Dragon Knights were to part ways with Wales, until the berries had begun to shrivel and the petals, wilt. In another world, in another time, Aglovale might have let them stay until well after, until he had no choice but to ask the maids to dispose of the remains.
In this world, in this time, he knocked on Siegfried’s door and relished in the warm smile his gift elicited.
5.
Siegfried preferred to arrive to little fanfare. This suited Aglovale just fine; Wales was a flourishing nation, bountiful in a way it hadn’t been for years, but even they didn’t have the resources to throw a feast every time Siegfried slipped through its borders. The lack of formal announcement—or informal announcement, Skygod forbid that Siegfried write him of his intentions in advance—instead led to moments like these, wherein Aglovale, having retired for the evening, entered the royal chambers and found Siegfried half-seated on the windowsill.
“I don’t suppose you subdued my guards to break in here,” Aglovale said dryly.
With a small smile, Siegfried turned his head and said, “They quite kindly let me in.”
“I should have them drawn and quartered,” Aglovale muttered.
Siegfried made an attempt to mask his chuckle with a cough, but abandoned the attempt the instant Aglovale raised an imperious brow at him. He reached out with a hand, a silent invitation, and let his smile widen when Aglovale stripped himself of Gottfried and stepped into the cradle of his arm. Siegfried pressed his forehead to Aglovale’s temple. Aglovale leaned into him in return.
“Let them live,” said Siegfried.
“I’m not known for being merciful,” said Aglovale.
“Before, yes, you weren’t,” said Siegfried. “But time has softened you on that front.”
Aglovale made a contemplative sound. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a rare moment to bask in the quiet peace that Siegfried’s presence offered him. Siegfried lifted his free hand to brush aside stray strands of Aglovale’s hair, a tender motion.
“What brings you to Wales?” asked Aglovale eventually, opening his eyes.
“The captain and crew decided to escape the spring frost by holidaying in Auguste. Normally I would accompany them, but this time… I thought it might be nice to rest here, instead.”
“Choosing this cold over a sunny beach? Do you find Wales’ hospitality so irresistible, Siegfried?”
“While I do find Wales’ hospitality to be second-to-none—it’s the company that draws me here, time and time again,” Siegfried replied.
Aglovale swiveled his gaze away from Siegfried and onto the windowsill, a frail attempt to hide his pleased smile. He felt, more than heard, the rumble of Siegfried’s laugh. He wanted to savor it, wanted to close his eyes again and sink into the feeling, when he noticed a new addition to his windowsill—a neatly potted, ripening strawberry plant.
“…What’s this?” he asked.
“Ah,” said Siegfried. “I’d forgotten. A gift, for you.”
Aglovale reached forward and wonderingly stroked the leaves of the plant with a hand. He said, “Strawberries aren’t in season.”
“Not the kind that are native to this region, you’re right. Those only ripen in summer,” Siegfried replied. “But this kind—these are everbearing. They flower year-round.”
“This is…” Aglovale found himself at a loss and, not for the first time in their relationship, Siegfried smiled like he now had the answer he was looking for, to a question he hadn’t voiced, all without Aglovale having to have said a word.
“I don’t know much about strawberry plants,” Siegfried said. “Tomorrow, I’ll see if I can find a tome on their care in the palace library.”
“Thank you,” Aglovale said softly.
Siegfried leaned in, gently bumping his nose against Aglovale’s, and murmured against his lips, “My pleasure.”
+1.
Siegfried,
First, I must thank you for your letter. Its arrival heralded a day of good spirits—I hope that this one arrives to you with similar effect. I cannot promise that the contents of mine will be more riveting than yours (as always, the anecdotes of your travels have me, in equal parts, fascinated and disbelieving), but I will endeavor to make this letter worth your time.
It is evening now when I write this. I retired to my chambers early to take the time to read your words, and to read the words of another letter I received today, from my brother, Lamorak. Perhaps Percival has mentioned him to you before—he is the second of three princes, although I do not imagine that he would appreciate the title. Lamorak left Wales long ago, years before Percival left to train with the Black Dragons of Feendrache. His dream was to travel the world, to see it with the eyes of a young skyfarer, not those of a prince. Perhaps there was a time when I understood his dream; if I did, it was when we were younger, much younger. I remember fondly times when we were children, indulging in play, when Lamorak would announce his intentions to pursue a dream so unlike my own, and I would gently chide, with all the force of a boy who could barely wield a sword, but not put him down. There was nothing I could say to persuade him about anything, then. I knew that, and he knew that, and so neither of us truly argued with each other. There was love between us.
Mother’s death changed everything. Our world shifted on its axis, but in different ways. Lamorak, more than ever, wished to believe in the goodness of people’s hearts. I turned my back on people, and in doing so, I turned my back on Lamorak, too. My words were no longer soft, they were pointed and aimed. My brother was always stubborn, even at his most easygoing, and he refused to let me win. My harshest words didn’t deter him, they only spurred him. The chasm between us felt too wide to gap and so we grew apart.
—No, we did not grow apart. I pushed him away. Far away, until the opposite of what I wanted came to pass: he spread his wings and left the nest. He went to help the world, as was his heart’s desire. Percival followed his flight path for equally noble reasons. I can admit now that I pushed him away, too. Grief affects us in different ways, I’ve learned. Lamorak and Percival did not let it harden them. I became as cold as the magic I wield, as sharp as the ice I conjure. It is no excuse, nor a justification. What’s done is done. I cannot change the past, I can only forge ahead into the future.
But I digress, lengthily as it were. The letter I received from my brother—Lamorak, he does me a kindness every month by sending me a trinket from his travels. It is his way of letting me know that he is well and still enjoying the life he has chosen for himself. It is a kindness I did not deserve when he first left, which he made clear by way of silence in his first year of wandering. In the first letter he sent me, he wrote, “The bonds of brotherhood are not easily broken.” The letter was accompanied by strawberry candies. I will admit, only to you, that I wept with relief. We have since exchanged lengthier letters, but for the most part, our communication is limited to his monthly delivery of sweets, toys, or sometimes seeds. A reminder of times when we laughed together.
Having both of your letters arrive on the same day was a delight no words can express. Even more profound, really, it was a relief. I know as long as Percival continues his travels with his vassals, he is cared for (regardless if he views it as such). With every missive Lamorak sends me, I find peace in believing that my brother lives for another month. And every letter of yours that makes its way to my chambers eases any tension left within me. In knowing that those I hold dear are safe, I am granted steady footing. The very kind I prefer, if not need, to lead Wales down the path I would have it follow.
Still I wonder, on occasion, if I would travel, had I the opportunity. I am not Lamorak, nor am I Percival—if given the choice, right now, at this very minute, I would not walk either of their paths. Perhaps I would instead ask if I could walk at your side, to go see the sights you enjoy the most. It is an idle fancy at this time. With the pieces of the world that Lamorak sends me, the anecdotes Percival tells me, and the tales of your travels that you share with me, I am gifted a view of the outside from within Wales’ walls. For me, for now, it is enough.
I notice now, as I end this, that I’ve written far too much about myself. I would ask your forgiveness, but I already know what you would say, and the precise expression you would make as you said it. So instead, I will admit that in idle moments, I find myself missing your smile. Stay safe, so I may see it again the next time you pass through my borders.
Yours fondly,
Aglovale