Chapter Text
It has been so many years since anyone at Araluen Castle drank wine for joy. Even more years have passed since the last time the King drank with anyone. It’s not that Duncan shied away from people. Taking the throne during the pre-war unrest, marrying during his father’s illness and announcing the expectation of a child shortly after his father’s death, he simply had no occasion for official celebration. As far back as one could remember, the days of King Duncan’s reign were overshadowed by something that, even on the most joyous day, remained nearby. The first years after the war, the King devoted himself to rebuilding the country and looking after his daughter. Plans for feasts, when they arose, he quashed without much conviction by saying that if they wanted to celebrate, let them celebrate, but he would still be busy with his daughter during that time. The crowd gathered in the feasting halls only on the occasion of the princess’ birthday and later when anniversaries of the end of the first civil war were celebrated.
After the second war, a year had to pass before anyone could say that they had actually won. The people’s joy and relief accumulated over that year of waiting, erupted in so much more waves when the return of the princess was combined with the official confirmation of the conclusion of the treaty, which heralded peace to all in Araluen. This was the first, more official reason for the great feasts at Araluen Castle. The second was much more down-to-earth, namely that the Skandians knew how to both brawl and party, and that time there were more of them arriving in Araluen than ever.
Greeted with apprehension and initial distrust, the new allies gained in the eyes of the Araluenians with every talk of the great battle, in which great deeds and heroic people were mentioned. They praised Princess Cassandra’s courage and wisdom, the cunning of the Rangers and the young knight who had won many hearts with his bravery. The new oberjarl talked loudly and interestingly, with his personality daring more and more warriors to join the feasts. What started out as a courtesy meeting turned into a regular feast quite quickly.
Perhaps even too quickly for some.
There may have been rather a lack of reasons to celebrate so far, but that did not mean that the lords and knights of Araluen Castle shunned their own private celebrations. However, they soon found out that even the most seasoned knight at the table or the aristocrat accustomed to pouring liquor into himself did not stand the slightest chance against the Skandians, who were served the best meat and the oldest mead and wine that was in the granaries.
Having previously been warned of this threat, King Duncan kept his guard up from the start, which was made all the heavier by the fact that he was joined by none other than Oberjarl Erak. Conversations went on, wine poured in a stream, and the residual tension between the hitherto hostile people diminished as more dishes disappeared from the table.
Although he would have much preferred to spend this time talking to his daughter, Duncan was well aware that the eyes of all those gathered were focused on him and Erak, whenever they broke away from the lavishly set tables. So he talked, asked and answered, and when he was poured, he drank. He only drank of politeness, when there was no way out, and he tried to keep the atmosphere relaxed by talking more.
Nonetheless, with no small amount of trepidation, he felt that his hands were holding the cup a little softer when, with a quite direct movement, Erak banged him on the back with his hand, finishing off a joke. The knights watching over the King’s safety twitched at the move, but fortunately the clack of their armour was lost in the general uproar. Immediately, too, the jocular tone of the conversation was taken up with all animation by Cassandra.
Duncan glanced surreptitiously at his daughter, noting exactly the same impression that had been recurring to him ever since he had retrieved her. She had grown up over the year, and a lot, from being used to care and splendour of the palace to being a commander, skilled both in diplomacy and, as he was told, in the art of war. Feeling both sadness and pride at this, at the moment he only appreciated that she had saved him from a moment of silence when he was late in replying.
Immediately near his left hand, a gust of air blew over the stuffiness of the chamber. Someone appeared.
“Your majesty,” a familiar voice whispered above his head. “Don’t try to match them.”
Duncan almost laughed, hearing this. He shook his head weakly. He didn’t look away, not wanting to draw attention to him. He was sure Crowley would hear him anyway.
“I’m just trying to survive,” he replied quietly.
“They won’t be offended…” The amusement in Crowley’s voice was very badly concealed by feigned concern. Nevertheless, the hand that rested on his shoulder for a split second was quite supportive.
In front of him, instead of wine, a mug of coffee was placed with a swift movement. A gust of air brushed against his shoulder and there was no longer a trace of the Ranger. Only when he lifted his gaze again did he meet Cassandra’s slightly amused gaze. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Crowley had surreptitiously made the sign over his head with which the dead were bid farewell, unequivocally signalling to whom enough was enough here.
Sipping the hot coffee, Duncan sent his daughter an unhappy look. She smiled broadly. Erak had just turned his attention to someone else, so Cassandra could lean towards him.
“You should see the feasting after the war was over…” she whispered.
Duncan sighed heavily. He wasn’t sure he wanted to imagine it.
He concentrated on making polite conversation. The day was over, the night was well underway, but none of those gathered seemed in a hurry to return to their chambers. A growing crowd besieged the table at which the Skandians were seated.
The first bang of a hand landing on the table brought half the room to their feet. The King broke off as well, reflexively extending his hand so as to shield Cassandra, who was also standing up.
Laughter carried around before weapons were drawn. The clash of swords disappeared in a roar.
One of the barons, already tipsy, was on shaky legs and moving away from the table, laughing loudly at the power with which he had been knocked down. The next to approach the table was a knight with a coat of arms, which, in the general confusion, was just another spot of colour in a blurry world. And his hand, heavy and strong, struck the table top with a deafening clatter.
“Another! Queue here!”
A weary sigh once again curled the hot air right around him. Crowley took his hand from his bow and nodded first to the princess, then to the King. There was no threat. They stealthily returned to their seats as another daredevil lost an arm-wrestling duel with the captain of the ship the Skandians had arrived on. Duncan was sure he still remembered the name an hour earlier.
He sat down. A heavy hand on his shoulder brought him to an ornate, throne-like chair. This time Crowley did not disappear immediately. In all the confusion, no one was likely to see where he was. And even if he had noticed, as Corps Commander, Crowley had every right and authority to keep his King safe at this moment, so sensitive to the newly formed alliance.
“Eat something,” Crowley muttered so quietly that no one could hear him.
Duncan nodded slightly. He had eaten more that day than on any other occasion. Otherwise he’d probably be lying under the table by now. Or not. He was sure Crowley wouldn’t have let him fall. He was also sure that Crowley was still around even when his hand had disappeared and the last trace of him had faded. He was next to him though, as always, more vigilant than all of them put together.
He was by his side throughout the rest of this farce they had to call a feast. The Skandians themselves had bothered him the least, practically not at all. What bothered Duncan the most was his own council, made up of elderly lords, who now, drunk and full, were becoming more and more insolent. The King had no intention of waiting for the first inappropriate joke to be made or for the first of the servants to scream in fright, caught by the leg by an old man with a look clouded by wine. With a nod, he sent some of the royal guard to the table where the lords sat.
Cassandra looked at him with what he would have called gratitude, if only it hadn’t surprised him so much. She had not, after all, grown accustomed to the cruelty that prevailed in many other courts. Since fate had gifted him with a daughter, King Duncan had made many changes in law and custom to protect other daughters from men who did not see them as human beings worthy of respect. Many men went in chains and to the gallows during his reign. Even drunken council barons were not safe in case they forgot where they should keep their hands. The knights had long since been given their orders in this regard.
Yet Cassandra looked at him as if ordering so would help her as well.
The thought that less than a year ago his daughter had been such a servant in another court, at the mercy of drunken men, came to him delayed by confusion and wine. Full of distaste, full of horror. Duncan looked away as the thought in his daughter’s eyes reassured him that the change in his face was noticeable.
He had not yet done enough. He needed to do more.
An alliance with the Skandians was another change that could improve the lives of the people who relied on him. So he focused his attention again on Erak as he came back, bored in watching the arm-wrestling competition.
“What a splendid first day of feasting!” he exclaimed, tapping Duncan on the shoulder again in a friendly manner.
This time no one reacted with such trepidation. They had all day to get used to what kind of people the Skandians were.
He replied with a smile but didn’t manage to say anything. Erak smiled broadly at him.
“And what activities are planned for the next days?”
“The next days?” Duncan repeated slowly.
“A good feast lasts at least a week, doesn’t it?”
The horror on the King’s face must have been clear, for Erak lasted only a moment longer before he burst out laughing. Patting Duncan’s shoulder heartily, he laughed for a moment so sincerely and infectiously that even people who didn’t know what he was laughing at joined in. Duncan laughed too, gradually shaking off his horror, sincerely hoping that Erak was joking after all.
Judging by the pleased look on his face, he was rather joking.
Whereas he had been tired before, Duncan now felt exhausted. He was very glad that they had arrived and that momentarily no one was trying to kill anyone with an axe or a sword. He was very happy and grateful that they had brought his daughter back to him, alive and healthy, after she had helped them win the war. He welcomed their alliance and the provisions of the treaty with great hope for a better life especially for Cassandra’s generation. He was very, wildly even happy. And with all that joy, he still thought the devils should take all those Skandians and their feasts. And on top of that, his council, loud, drunk, unable to behave in any company. He was so tired of them all. With a nervous glance, he followed every louder conversation and movement at the table, in each of which he saw a scene that could escalate into a brawl, which in turn could escalate into another war.
Exhausted, it was soon to this that he gave his full attention. Erak busied himself talking to someone else. Everyone in the area was enjoying themselves, drinking, eating and talking. And he was getting more and more fed up with them all. He smiled when they spoke to him, nodded and answered as much as he could. In the confusion, few people cared whether he actually participated in the conversations. He just had to present himself properly, both he and Cassandra. He only noticed her fatigue after a while, as she also kept up quite well in pretending to be politely engaged in conversations.
While Duncan had to get over own fatigue somehow, he had more than a full right to mention something about his daughter having had enough of the feast. He nodded gently at her as their gazes met. She leaned into him immediately and he could speak in a hushed tone, and still she heard.
“It has been a long day, and the journey has certainly tired you out. You can retire to bed if you wish to rest. No one will hold it against you. The feast will probably last until dawn…”
Cassandra nodded a little. However, he encountered a concern in her eyes that he had not expected. Her soft hand, once so tiny, rested on his arm.
“You look tired too…”
Duncan smiled wryly at her but shrugged his shoulders.
“Such is mine service.”
Cassie shook her head.
“I won’t leave you alone on the battlefield with them.”
A gentle smile flashed across the King’s face as he took his daughter’s hand in his own.
“I ask you to rest. I will not be left alone. And you could use an all-night sleep in your own room.”
Her smile was equally faint and lined with sadness, which Duncan also still felt.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” she whispered, and it wasn’t a question.
Duncan nodded nonetheless, wrapping her hand a little tighter around his own.
“Of course. Now get some rest.”
They did not interrupt the commotion to announce her departure from the table. Safe in the care of the Royal Guard and two servants, Cassandra left the great hall smoothly enough for everyone to realise it only after she had disappeared.
Someone joked, cradling on their feet, that since the women had been sent away, only now would the party begin. Duncan pointed to this lord of the guard with distaste on his face. He was led out without difficulty so that he could breathe some fresh air and take a stroll by the walls for a sobering experience.
“I ordered the wine to stop being poured into the jugs,” Crowley said as he returned. He did not sit down for a moment, again the movement of the air was the only remaining trace of his presence.
Duncan nodded softly.
“How late is it now?”
“It’ll be two hours before the moon sets…”
He had to brake himself to keep his forehead from hitting his palms with anguish. There was less time left until the start of a new day than there had been since the end of the one in which they had begun to feast. He rubbed his tired eyes with his fingers and for a moment looked at the table top instead of at the revellers.
He would so much like to go and rest already, to hole up in his own chamber and be able to think in peace for a while. Since he had got Cassie back, he hadn’t even had a moment to calm down and think about the fact that she was finally home and safe. His war was over. His daughter was safe. His time to rest for a while should also finally come. The first night of peaceful sleep since Cassandra had left the castle, and it had been so long ago.
“Your majesty!” One of the many familiar voices rumbled past him and Duncan lifted his head. “What is it with you? Give us more wine!”
“No need.” With a movement of his hand, Duncan negated the order thrown into space by one of the many lords who should be feasting at another table. He reached the King without hesitation, clearly drunk.
“Tired, your majesty?”
Actually, he should have no reason to deny it, so Duncan nodded briefly. He was only human; he had a right to be tired.
Lord Hentley, for that matter, had no right to squeeze him so jovially by the shoulder as he leaned into his ear. Stinky alcoholic breath swept over the King’s face as the lord not very quietly muttered.
“Then let your majesty go to bed…”
He did not need to raise his hand as a sign to be helped. A strong, invisible movement pulled Lord Hentley backwards until he flapped his shoulder blades against the back of the chair. However, he was too drunk to pay attention. He nodded communicatively at the King.
“Go to sleep!” he announced loud enough for those closest to him to look at them. “Have something of a life sometimes, your majesty! Today we celebrate!!”
Duncan was a hair’s breadth away from ordering this partygoer, too, out the door to sober up. He was only stopped by the premonition that Lord Hentley, though annoyingly useless in day-to-day political life, might for once have been of some use.
He seized the opportunity when other voices also rose, lending their support to a cause that had never been brought up for discussion. Eventually, even Erak banged him on the back again with the palm of his hand, encouraging him to go and sleep off the day so they could party again in the morning. He was joking, surely. Duncan hoped so at least.
For the last ten years of his live, less strangers had touched him than they did during this one feast. And he’d had enough of them. In brief words, he thanked everyone for gathering here, wished them a successful rest of the party and asked them to maintain the remnants of propriety. Although he was answered by laughter at the latter, the guards at the walls and doors were fully aware that this was an order and permission at the same time.
Rising from his chair, he was again grabbed by the arm by Lord Hentley, and this time Crowley also pushed him aside with a swift, forceful movement. The Lord, however, managed to tell the King what he wanted.
“Have a good night, your majesty. You have a surprise at your chambers.”
The urge to bang Lord Hentley’s head on the table or one of the platters had grown so strong that, had Crowley not pushed him away even further, Duncan would have done it himself. He merely murmured something in the form of a farewell and walked away from the table without further delay.
Two steps Crowley took with him, through which he still managed to whisper that he would make sure of Cassandra’s safety, before he disappeared into the crowd. The King was escorted away by three knights of the Royal Guard.
The chill and darkness of the empty corridor wrapped around him soothingly as soon as the door to the feasting hall closed behind them. Duncan breathed a sigh of relief. Feeling the beginnings of a growing ache in his temples, he welcomed the silence and darkness around him all the more readily. The knights accompanying him must have noticed this, for they remained silent as they followed him down the corridor. Torches plugged against the walls illuminated small stretches of the corridor, casting a faint, flickering glow. Long shadows stretched from their feet and any shapes on the walls. Open doors, columns at the cloisters. So many patches of shadow.
Duncan smiled softly as his gaze wandered from one patch of darkness to the next, knowing that a human shadow could be hiding in any such. To someone else, such a thought would have filled him with trepidation, but he enjoyed it sincerely.
All sounds of the feast were far behind them, the deep night covered the rest of the castle and gradually absorbed him more and more as well. He felt as if he was about to fall asleep standing up when they finally reached his chambers. It was only there that the knights said anything, but they made no attempt to engage him in conversation, only bid him farewell and assured him that they would remain on guard, as they usually did. Not always. Ever since Duncan, as a prince, had returned home after the Gorlan Tournament and spent his first nights with sword in hand, airing danger in every sound in the corridor.
Now he did not want to think about it. He bade them farewell as well, and it was only as he reached the chamber door that he remembered Lord Hentley’s words. It could only have been drunken gibberish, of course. But after all he had been through, Duncan was not going to take any chances. So he handed over to one of his guards what he had been told and waited until he was the one to first check that nothing threatened the King in his own chambers.
The knight returned confused, and avoiding looking the King in the eye replied only that he was in no danger. Duncan looked at him thoughtfully, but he honestly did not have the strength to talk at this hour. Whatever Lord Hentley dropped to his rooms, however stupid or embarrassing, could wait until tomorrow. He wanted to go to bed. Finally. He said goodbye to them again and waited no longer.
In the first room he did not notice anything unusual. In the second, however, a light was shining that should not have been there. He also felt the faint smell of incense, which he was sure was not lit in his chambers. Very slowly he approached the doorframe. His hand reflexively went to the knife pinned on his hip, which he usually carried hidden between the bends of the cloth of his tunic.
The smell intensified, as did the soft light. Candles? Surely it wasn’t the chandelier he used to illuminate the rooms with when he worked at night, for it provided much more light.
He made sure his shadow didn’t cut off at the threshold as he approached the door carefully enough to cover the rest of the distance in one movement. The remnants of sleepiness eased from his head.
With a limber step, he slid all the way into the room, his hand on his dagger and ready to fight or shout to the knights for help. The room was shrouded in twilight. Above the bed floated clouds of fragrant smoke from the incense lit by it.
His appearance caused fear.
There were three women sitting in his bed chamber, one on the bed, one in the armchair and one by the window. They all twitched as he appeared unexpectedly between them. None of them were fully clothed. On their hips were ringing silver bells attached to silk hipbands. Duncan didn’t notice anything else for that one blink of an eye as he stared confused, and they looked at him with fear.
He turned away a second later.
He clenched his jaws because if he had closed his fists it would surely have come off even more terrifying. Fuck. He was definitely going to hit Lord Hentley’s head against the wall at the first opportunity. Or better, throw him from the tower into the moat. No, no, even better, he was going to have Halt throw him out of the tower. The guy’s back home, let him be useful for something.
To all the devils, he really didn’t have the time or the strength for that right now.
“Your majesty…” One of the women had already shaken up enough to speak up. Duncan shook his head, asking her not to say anything more, but did not get the time to interrupt her. “Lord Hentley sends his congratulations on end of the war and the alliance with-”
“Leave,” Duncan spoke up slowly and calmly. Still with his back turned to them, he firmly shook his head. “Get dressed and go home.”
“Your majesty-”
“If we are not as you would like us to be, my lord, we can summon others-”
He hated all the lords of this kingdom so much in that moment.
He shook his head emphatically.
“Lord Hentley will answer for the fact… that he… gave you to me… as a gift,” he struggled to pronounce the words, disgusted at the very thought of this reptile and his surprise ideas for the King. It was only when he said this that it occurred to him that, used to such a life, the women might have misunderstood him. “Have no fear. You have done nothing wrong. Just… go. Get dressed and leave. One of my knights will help you leave the castle so that you will not be… bothered by anyone.”
None of them tried to convince him anymore. He waited to see if any of the others, fearing for their own lives, would start reciting the old-fashioned chant in a voice full of wantonness. The anger in the King’s heart grew with each passing moment as he stood like this, his back turned, hearing the rustling of clothes behind him.
The incense was also extinguished. Only then did he look at them again. Clad in dark cloaks, with only strong traces of blusher paint on their cheeks, they looked at him with fright. They bowed when they met his gaze.
“Did he pay you?” Duncan asked.
The two women shook their heads, and only one dared to speak up while the King waited for an answer.
“No money before… the task.”
So that’s what it was called.
Lord Hentley had, for some years now, been one of a not inconsiderable group of advisers who insisted passionately that the King should marry again, or at least find himself a concubine to secure his family line. However, Duncan would never have imagined that he would go this far. Especially after all the changes Duncan has been pushing through the laws for the past dozen of years.
So, without a word, he turned towards the cupboards above the long desk, where he had quite a few useful items tucked away. It didn’t escape his notice that as he lifted the latch of the lock, they averted their gazes.
“How many of you are there?” he asked, handing each of them a pouch of gold coins.
The one who dared to speak to him before smiled bitterly.
“Half a world, your majesty.”
And to each of them fate might at some point have reduced them to this role… to this… task.
His own daughter from princess, an heiress to the throne, became a slave. His wife from a queen had become just another woman dying in the pains of childbirth, with no one around to save her.
Duncan couldn’t bear the woman’s sad look and was the first to look away.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. He hoped they understood that it was not for telling them to leave that he was apologising about.
They said no more.
He escorted them to the door, summoned a guard he knew he could trust in the matter, and ordered them to be escorted safely back to the town, to the address they indicated.
Only when he was left alone, in a room scented with incense and candles, did Duncan slowly sit down on the very edge of his bed. He stared dully at the wall for a very long moment before exhaustion pushed him to curl up on the sheets and close his eyes, if only for a moment.
* * *
Some shadow stood over him. If he was going to wake him up, however, he needed to try much harder. Duncan noted the presence at the edge of his consciousness, in the way that tired people slumbering still remain aware that they are about to have to get up soon. He did nothing with that awareness, however. The shadow was familiar, even if invisible.
Also familiar was the hand with rough, worn fingers that rested against his cheek. Duncan squinted, still plunged into an unconsciousness that was closer to sleep than to awakening. The echoes of the outside world reached him, confused and muffled. Unsure if the shadow was with him at all, he drifted off into a deeper sleep again for a moment. He was only awakened by the warmth of a soft cloth that rested for a moment on the side of his face.
Then Crowley readjusted the blanket.
The thought was lucid, and though calm, with its matter-of-factness it woke him enough for Duncan to lift his eyelids. The chamber was no longer dark. It was almost light inside. With noiseless steps the shadow wandered across his chamber. It was only when he blinked his eyes and focused his gaze that Duncan was able to discern its outline.
The air trembled over his cheek, riled by the movement of a hand he could not yet see but felt. It softly framed his cheek.
“Sleep,” a soft, gentle voice wheeled over his head.
It sounded wise and enticing, but the glow of a new day in the room troubled Duncan a little too much for him to listen to that pleasantly soothing voice.
“Dawn?” he whispered.
“Some time ago,” Crowley nodded.
“Cassie?” Duncan asked just as quietly.
“Safe. She’s still at her chambers, most likely still asleep. The night passed peacefully.”
He closed his eyes, reassured. In that case, even the dawn and the coming of a new day did not worry him so much. Besides, after such a feast, the castle would surely sleep a little longer. He could count on a quiet day with half the inhabitants still asleep and the other half fighting a hangover.
As long as the feast was over at all… because it was also possible that Erak wasn’t joking at all, and they intended to party for at least a few more days.
“Have they gone yet?” he asked, not opening his eyes.
He felt movement beside him and the bed sag. He shifted a tad, as much as half asleep he could coordinate his movements. Sitting beside him, Crowley continued to gently run his fingers over his face.
“Just now,” he murmured quietly. “Ours fell off some time ago, but the Skandians are holding on bravely. Eventually we chased them off on the pretext of preparing for the next day’s event.”
Duncan groaned in anguish.
“How long can they feast?”
Crowley hesitated for a moment before matter-of-factly answering with a question.
“How long can our granary hold out?”
He was very grateful for this alliance. And that was the only reason he hadn't started cursing anyone yet.
“I don’t know…” he admitted in a pained voice. “And I’m afraid to ask, what state is it in after yesterday.”
“That’s something I haven’t checked yet,” Crowley muttered. “But I have managed the rest.”
“Drunken lords?”
“Half are sobering in their chambers, the other half in the dungeons.”
That didn’t sound very comforting.
“Any rampages?”
“Three. All between our own.”
Duncan snorted with disdain.
“They don’t even know how to party…”
“Don’t worry. The Skandians’ delegation wasn’t offended.”
“No?” That didn’t particularly sound like he was going to be pleased with it either.
“No, during the last one they arranged bets on who would win. They had a good time. Erak wants us to organise ‘the fights of the lords’ again. Yes, they named it.”
Duncan laughed weakly, not lifting his head from the bed. He opened his eyes slowly and was relieved to see the face above him, unusually revealed from under the hood, lit up with amusement.
“That would actually solve a great many of our problems,” he had to admit upon reflection.
Crowley nodded his head in contemplation.
“I haven’t heard any objections so far, so the idea can safely be considered a project in the second phase of organisational settlement.”
Almost soundless laughter shook the King’s chest again. Crowley’s thumb stroked his cheek bent from smiling.
“We didn’t do so badly. The Skandians are delighted with us.”
“Are they sleeping too?”
“No, they went to explore the area. Halt took them for a walk, so it will be quiet.”
“Or they’ll burn a town down.”
“That’s a possibility as well.”
Duncan didn’t even try to negotiate the fact that, at least out of politeness or mercy, Crowley might deny such pessimistic visions. What he greatly appreciated about Crowley was how painfully honest he was with him, whether they were talking alone or in council.
He was also very unambiguous in his reactions when he happened not to be donning one of the masks he wore on a daily basis towards many different groups of people. And now he was worried as he looked down at him and stroked his cheek with the pad of his thumb.
“Hentley is sitting in the dungeons,” Crowley muttered quietly before Duncan had time to ask him what was going on.
So he knew. And a good thing, too. Duncan wasn’t sure he’d put up with the calm between them if he still had to tell him, word for word drawing a picture of what had happened.
“So they told you already?”
“You know I have my access in the guard.”
Duncan replied with a weak smile. Crowley had his access everywhere.
“I locked him in a cell, but I made sure no one knew about it…”
He focused his gaze on Crowley again, this time grimly. He already remembered everything that had happened and every thought that had haunted him the night before. He did not rise from his bed, still tired, but he was now completely awake.
“Why?” he asked, when it seemed to him that there was some kind of threat in Crowley’s voice.
“Because I don’t know what you want to do with him yet.”
Duncan sighed. Gone were the irretrievable years when he had deluded himself into thinking that with great zeal and donkey-like persistence he could turn back the course of the river with a stick. Bitter disillusionment with the world had also sunk its claws into his belief that he had any influence over anything.
“And what can I do?” he asked grimly.
Crowley stroked his face in a soft, long motion. He then shrugged his shoulders thoughtfully.
“Some misfortune could happen to him. Accidents happen to people. He could have drunkenly strayed… let’s assume hypothetically, on a ship like this one that’s in our harbour… and could accidentally go out to sea with them. And by chance, the crew might realise this when they were already far from Araluenian soil.”
A very faint, bitter laugh grew in his chest only partly from amusement.
“An unfortunate accident, you say.”
Crowley nodded one more time.
“I’m sure it could be arranged somehow.”
He looked so serious, like a man ready to put his every word into action. He always looked like that. With the calmness of a man who was aware of his control over everything within his grasp, his menace and his determination to achieve the goals he had set for himself. A statue of a man who had built his life with his own hands, having never received anything he would not have won himself.
Duncan looked at him with a small, bitter smile for a long moment before he shook his head weakly.
“I appreciate it. But one lord less or more… no difference.”
“Always a start,” Crowley remarked quietly. “And while you won’t have a majority on the council when you get down to making changes… well, overhauls have to start somewhere.”
To raise and arm the army to fight the second civil war, Duncan had no choice but to invite anyone with a treasury and his own troops to the council. It made for a crowd, full of noisy old lords used to the world order of decades gone by. The last year had thrown him too many worries and crises to manage to have the opportunity to somehow get diplomatically rid of some of these now redundant aristocrats who wanted to advise on everything, mostly on subjects they knew nothing about.
And Crowley was right. He had to start somewhere.
He also had a flawless eye when it came to reading the King’s facial expressions. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“What are you thinking about now?” he asked quietly.
His hand, the rough and heavy hand of a warrior, wrapped around his face softly and soothingly. Duncan shifted his head so that his cheek pressed more fully into his palm. He sighed heavily, not hiding his awareness of the horrors that had brought these thoughts to him.
“I think of how my daughter was safer among the barbarians who made her a slave than she would be here if she had not been protected by who I am.”
Crowley’s hand became still, encircling him. His face no longer had a hint of amusement in it. The sad eyes, however, expressed not a hint of the disappointed resignation the King was feeling at the moment.
“You can change this…”
“How?” Duncan asked quietly. “Put half the country in chains? Hang them all? Amend law after law, fighting every single disgusting bastard in this country until there’s no one left?”
“For a start, yes,” Crowley nodded without hesitation. “Start with those within your reach. With Hentley. With those like him. Banish every one of them from your court. Put them on trial. Person by person, law by law…”
“There’s not enough of my life left,” Duncan whispered bitterly.
Crowley nodded without a shadow of a doubt.
“Your daughter will pull your work further.” His voice, calmly unwavering but so gentle, silenced the King completely. “Leave her with the foundations. You won’t have time to build anything until the end. She will build it. Leave her more than had been left to you. Start… the worst thing will be to start. Even to you, and you are a war hero and a man. Don’t just leave her with a plan. Build the foundations. Dry the ground and weather the building rocks. Cassandra will do the building.”
He shifted so that he could press his whole hand to his face, on which he was relieved to see first great thought and then increasing calm. Duncan closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Crowley smiled gently at the sight of that usually concerned face now so relaxed, under his touch and his words.
“Gather your strength,” he whispered. “If we’re going to go to war, you’ve got to stop being an unhappy king trying to pretend he doesn’t have a headache after a party.”
Duncan heard his own quiet, broken laughter and it was only then that it dawned on him how much he had relaxed. The fingers on his face continued to gently stroke his skin. Crowley was still sitting by him, and despite the dawn of a new day, he didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Duncan looked at him, not opening his eyes fully. He was still tired.
“I managed,” he remarked, expecting a little appreciation.
Crowley nodded solemnly.
“My congratulations, your majesty, you survived one day of feasting with your new allies.”
He had survived much more.
And Crowley thought so too. His hand lifted gently, making room for the other. He leaned down to embrace Duncan’s face in both hands. His lips rested softly on the King’s forehead with warmth.
“You survived,” he whispered. And they both knew he didn’t mean the last day. “It’s all right now. Cassandra is back home. Now rest.”
He stepped back, the warmth of his hands and breath disappearing again in a blurring gust of stirred air, the memory of which stayed on Duncan’s fingers.
“You should too…” Though some part of him feared that he was already left alone in the chamber, Duncan spoke up quietly.
“That’s the plan,” a soft voice sounded over his head.
Crowley was by his side even when he could neither see nor hear him.
“You can stay if you want…” The sleepily long-winded words hovered in hesitation for only a moment.
Crowley rested his hand on Duncan’s shoulder again, rubbed his fingers over the hitch of muscle. For a moment he collected his thoughts. Duncan waited, with eyes closing and heavy and with his heart calm. Certain that even if he was to leave now, Crowley would never leave for good. Aware that Crowley understood everything exactly as he was supposed to understand it, and that he already knew full well that the King’s words meant exactly what they were supposed to mean between them.
“If anyone from the service comes in here, the scandal will shake the country…” The Ranger commander remarked matter-of-factly.
Duncan shrugged a shoulder.
“At least there’ll be an excuse to cancel tonight’s feast. And maybe a sudden death from horror will take some inconvenient people away?”
Crowley snorted quietly. His hand patted the King’s shoulder meaningfully.
“We’re having a worse and worse effect on you,” he stated. Seeing that his signal was not understood this time, he added with slight impatience. “Be so gracious and move over, your majesty, I will not sleep from the door.”
Suppressing a heavy sigh, Duncan rolled onto his bed to the side, leaving the space on the side of the great windows vacant. The first rays of the new day streamed in through the open curtains more and more densely as Crowley was finally able to rest as well. He unbuttoned his cloak and finally put down his weapon. With a murmur of contentment, he sank onto his back on the soft bedding.
He wanted to wish the Duncans a good night and then turn it around to joke that the night was just about over. He did not manage. He fell asleep even before the soft and heavy duvet covered him.
A smile danced on the King’s lips, unwitting and tender. Crowley fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow, accustomed to taking full advantage of every bit of rest he received from life. All the Rangers were an unusual people who always lacked sleep and never lacked patience or coffee.
Duncan covered him carefully with the duvet and lay down again himself, so that, closing his eyes, he could see the full breath rocking Crowley’s chest. He soon felt that rocking beneath his hand as he reached out to him, with a last conscious gesture of wanting to touch him before sleep claimed him as well.
Luckily for them, the sleeping castle had several more long hours before anyone had the strength to get up for a late breakfast.
