Of Knight's Honor

That he had been ordered to prime, merely for exhibition. The threat of the Prince would have been incentive enough and yet… his Father bade it so. No doubt it is the wake of this elation that had seen his love solicited for his talents.

They descend into hanging gardens, sun warm against Princely skin, and he listens. Dion shakes his head.

“I would not have you betray your heart, Terence.” Even if it pains the Prince. Dion’s demeanour has been weary ever since that day, his own heart heavy and body bruised still from battling Odin. Only Terence is permitted to see him thus and the eyes of his people witness only divine radiance. “There is naught to forgive.”

Wandering pauses, and Dion casts a golden gaze first over the islands and canals of the northern quarter stretching below them, then impossibly upward, as Drake’s Tail rises to the heavens in all her gargantuan splendour. The Prince mourns the loss of his home.

“That you speak true has value beyond meaning. I would not have it any other way.” Terence has ever been his guiding light; Dion needs him now more than ever. “I only wish it did not weigh so heavily.”

His gaze returning, Dion casts around; he is not yet familiar with the grounds and he should like someplace to sit, preferably with some semblance of privacy, while they speak in blasphemous tongues. A gentle lilting of running water catches Dion’s ear and he makes for it, discovering a walled garden housing a modest fountain within. It is warm and fragrant, alive with colourful blooms and busy insects. 

"There will be plenty more, though my rules may have to be brought to light. Only Dion the Bold shall be painted.." A small smile emerged and he took this moment to bring the hand that captured Dion's to his lips. "Besides, it is not my calling. I am here at your side for a purpose." To guard him until his last breath is diminished. Terence knew that he longed to take that last exhale of air first. The thought of Dion leaving this earth before him was too much to bear.

As they resumed their journey, the hand that had found comfort in Dion's slipped away, the unknown scenery stretching out before them.  If anyone were skulking around, it was best to err on the side of caution. He follows closely behind when the garden emerges from the ivy hedge and a secured wall. Dion's forlorn words prompt him to seize his sword, swiftly unsheathing it.

Quill stills upon parchment, nary a moment after Terence begins speaking. Dion knows the melody of his voice as keenly as he knows his own heartbeat, quickening within its ivory cage. Outside, a flock of birds soars, afternoon sunlight and the scent of sweet blooms filling the space between them and although the sun ever feels like home, the Dominion is yet to claim a place within his heart, for all it signifies. This orangery, nestled within the northern gardens of the palace, is far more comforting than conquered halls.

It has not escaped the Prince’s notice, how Terence fails to raise his arms to the heavens in praise of Bahamut. How his voice is silent, when those around him sing of Greagor’s servant. Dion sets his quill aside, before a drip of ink can spoil the missive. He knows Terence’s voice and he knows when pain taints his heart, fears realised not moments later. 

Terence has pledged his loyalty and his heart a thousand times over and yet, in moments such as these, Dion doubts his own worthiness. 

That Terence would turn down such an opportunity…

Dion rises; the missive can wait as it is of no great import, mere menial correspondence between the order and its commander, while he attends matters of state.

“Come. Walk with me.” Though this glass house is secluded, it is all too easily accessed by the palace staff. He should like more privacy if they were to talk of such matters. Dion passes amongst the blooms, and they reach for him as if forgetting the sun; he trusts Terence will follow into the gardens outside. “Does the King of dragons pain you so, Terence…”

"I know I should not feel such a way." Fingers fold into his fist, a gripping clench that can be heard when leather is squelched hard enough. "I cannot help it." He's aware that Dion would understand, though he feels as if he is doing a great grievance in thinking in such way. "Forgive me these thoughts."

“You shall be the talk of the establishment,” Dion murmurs, taking that hand within his and pressing his lips to his knight’s palm, “For a good many nights, I’d wager. All this secrecy.” For it would not go unnoticed, the coy and clandestine way Terence and his companion arrived…and concealment behind heavy velvet. “Would that I could be a spider on the wall.”

A soft chuckle as Dion rises. A soft kiss upon Terence’s lips, as he stoops to cradle his face between hands far too worn for a man of his age. 

“Only you see me truly, Terence. I am the most fortunate man in all of Valisthea.” Dion would write poetry upon Terence’s lips as often as he could, and sometimes even by more traditional means. That he is so vaunted a tactician, many often forget Dion is also a talented wordsmith, though it is a skill often waylaid in service to his Empire. Another kiss and he adds; “You have not answered my question. Think upon it, while the bearers do their work.”

Dion parts from his knight with a lingering touch, to the bed, where he undoes the curtains draped from the heavy frame and conceals himself behind them.

He's quite sure he'd never get over Dion's touch or even the words that make him stumble with his. After bearing his heart at the tender age of eighteen, he still has moments where he's caught off guard that affections are given to him ten-fold in return. He knows Dion lacked devotion throughout his life in other regions (where it proved to be most impactful); he would forever try to prove it and lavish him as long as he lived. To hell with his family. 

“Oh?” Dion pushes his plate away and reaches for his own drink. “Am I to be your courtier, Sir Terence?”

Perhaps, had the stars aligned differently, a life of pleasurable servitude would have been Dion’s destiny. It is not something he dwells upon overmuch, for it is a shadow within the many recesses of his mind that had plagued the young Prince since his lineage was revealed to him. It matters not. He had been chosen to serve his nation and his Father, the highest of honours any man could ever wish for.

Or so Dion tells himself, on nights spent alone with only phantoms as company.

This night, he will serve Terence gladly. Dion partakes in his mead and releases a breath, warmth flooding his veins and lightening his mind. 

The blush turned scarlet when Dion sank to his knees, only to slither up between his legs, a view that he would never get used to -- nor calm him. Had he still been consuming his drink, he would have coughed with the sudden hitching of his throat. Dion's acts of love and devotion came in the form of different performances and words. The willingness to please him was always reciprocated with equal vigor.

The swallow that came forced the knob of his throat to rise and fall. There was a long list of 'desires' had he had the bravery to speak of it. "I-I will have it done." He cleared his throat, forcing his throat muscles to regain his normal tone of voice. "You'll have to sprawl on the bed behind the curtains. I'm sure they'll like to know exactly who I brought in here tonight…" Especially the woman that always saw him in his room. She had offered her services at one time, for which he declined politely.

Privacy was a commodity to be stolen. A field of tall grass or wheat. A barn full of straw for nesting birds. A secluded woodland pathway. All these and more had witnessed their quiet moments alone and now, the noble lords and ladies of this establishment would be counted among them. Only here, there is very little danger of interruption, nor discovery upon impassioned voices. A detail Dion has not failed to notice.

“It is certainly more discreet than I might have imagined,” He responds, still heartily enjoying his meal, “Though certainly no less garish. Are they all thus, I wonder?” Thoughts spoken aloud, Dion continues. “It does seem you are the scholar on such matters, Terence. Is this your only frequented establishment? Or do others command your whims.”

"Mmm… perhaps." He rebuts, shifting to fixate his eyes on the open frame of the balcony. "It does give me a fine sight of what I am missing when I come here, however." He turns his attention to him again before slipping his finger in his mouth to catch all the sweetness the bread had left on him. "You'll just have to meet me here.. under your disguise, that is. Don't worry, it happens often here with the occupants… " Those who sought mistresses to satisfy something missing in their life.

Perhaps one day, they shall find peace, for it is all he has ever wanted for his kingdom. Granted, his father’s actions of late have given Dion a cause for concern and especially those of his stepmother. He would simply have to bide his time. To earn the trust of his citizens so that when the day comes, he may sit upon the throne in times of abundance. Or at least, so the Prince hopes. As ever, the blight is cause for concern, but it has not yet encroached enough to threaten their lands. Briefly, Dion wonders if aught can be done to halt it’s progress, but concedes that he knows little to nothing of the phenomena that is slowly gripping the Twins and it wouldn’t do well to ponder such things when he is wholly ignorant.

One thing Dion is certain of; Terence’s unwavering devotion is reflected in kind. To sit upon the throne with him as consort, so they may rule together, is everything Dion wants for his future. He pauses, to pour them both a goblet of fragrant mead that Dion brings to his nose briefly before speaking again; honey's distinct bouquet ever reminds him of his love.

“Come now Terence–” The Prince catches his Knight’s bashful mein and pauses to gently laugh–”There is nothing to fear in my gaze, nor judgement. Though, to see you thus…”

Dion is not in the habit of hiding his adoration for Terence, which he indulges in now for a protracted moment with the look of a man who has seen the divine and is content. He takes a draught of mead.

Dion's laugh always created a tightness in his chest; it was rare to hear. Even with all the admirers the Prince held, his laughter did not often have the same wholeness he found when alone with him. "If you wish it, it will be done." The goblet is fitted into his hand, and he raises it up in a small toast to match his words.

Only a sip is granted, far different from what his fellow Dragoons partake in late in the evenings. Terence had come to find out just how raw his feelings were when under the influence. As much as Dion promotes such things, this would not be on the docket for the night. The heat slowly ebbs though it won't be long before the mead takes its place.

For a few comfortable moments, no words are spoken, while bread is broken and buttered, the ambience of the evening filling the silence in their stead; the bustling street, a distant bard and the distinct sound of a brothel going about its business downstairs, albeit muffled. Perhaps the patrons of the second floor were more reserved. For now. Still, a particularly loud exclamation sees Dion pause and give Terence a look of bemused concern, before chuckling and beginning his meal in earnest.

"I would not be able to stand what you pit yourself against. At least with me as your champion, I can ensure you are well protected." He had paused to reflect on this answer before aiding in sharing the feast before them. "I don't think a life of peace is for either of us." At least not in this lifetime.