freshly cooked art garnished with mint

--

He was routed.

Not on the battlefield, as his enemies hoped. No, where Odin had failed, winter prevailed. He would freeze in his bed, an ignoble end to the tale of Dion the Bold. Even the bards would be hard pressed to put it in a better light.

He lay unmoving, staring at heavy curtains drawn against the harsh demands of the late morning sun. Strangely, this did little to provide the warmth he sought.

"Terence," he said, in hope. He threw an arm behind his head.

His wrist was caught up in a sure grip. But a moment later and he would have smacked the man squarely on the nose. Terence, half-asleep (or doing a fine job of pretending it), grunted.

Dion looked over his shoulder and found his condition improved immediately. Terence had, indeed, lingered. He lay, rumpled, his body bent gently toward Dion's. His boots were at the foot of the bed, his responsibilities with them, and Dion was pierced through yet again. It happened each time he looked upon Terence, softer and yet more enduring than any wound from a blade. A year on, and the feeling only seemed to build upon itself.

He looked well, though the long nights of the season had left him pale. That suited Dion just fine. For the moment, he didn't care to share him with the sun, nor with any other thing beneath it. He watched as Terence shifted to accommodate him, observing with interest the play of tendon and muscle beneath his skin.

Terence watched him, too. He let go, returning Dion's hand to him, but not without first tracing the turn of Dion's forearm. Even his fingers were warm, Dion thought.

Something very wyvern-like roared to life inside of his ribcage. Dion seized upon it, or it seized upon him—moderation was not a natural talent, regardless.

"I am collecting tribute," he told Terence seriously. As seriously as one could, cocooned in cloth and furs. "I am your liege lord, and there are certain honors I am due—"

"What else is there for you to ransom from me?" Terence interrupted him, his voice little more than a whisper. His cheeks lifted with amusement, his eyes glittered, and Dion's heart beat harder in his chest.

"You've already taken all the blankets."

"I am certain you will work something out."

"Tyrant," Terence accused. He lifted an arm.

"If you knew the truth," said Dion, greedily accepting the heat of his body, "you would not breathe such poison to me."

"Oh?"

"Indeed." He threw a thick fur over them both, a gesture of his good will. "I sue for peace, Terence. I have only ever wished for peace."

"Hm."

"You will see." He sighed mightily, settling into Terence's embrace. "I am not the villain you suppose."

Doubt was writ plain on Terence's brow. His head was tipped in obvious thought.

"What are you plotting?" he wondered, touching the very tips of his fingers to the curve of Dion's cheek.

What he thought to discover there, Dion could only guess. But his attention was, for the moment, undivided. Dion held the advantage. He pressed his toes to Terence's calves, and the muted cry of indignation drawn from him was as much a triumph as the look on his lover's face.

"Are you certain you are not the Dominant of Shiva?" Terence complained, pitching his voice to be heard over Dion's laughter.

Dion, still laughing, did not answer.

"Your Highness," he accused him.

That would not do. Dion put Terence on his back, framing his love's face between his hands.

"Don't be cold," he begged piteously. His mouth would not quit its smiling, but that was to be expected. He had already accounted for such things in this campaign. "Not when I suffer so already. Besides…"

"Hm?"

"There is something other than peace we might make," he suggested, bringing their lips close.

"I might have known." Terence shifted beneath him. "Very well. We are in agreement, my prince."

Smiling, Dion bent in earnest.

"War," Terence declared.

With one sharp tug, he ripped the quilt and furs from Dion's back. The momentum sent him tumbling gracelessly from the bed. He was gone so quickly it seemed to Dion a trick picture. When all was quiet, and it appeared that the dust had settled, Dion moved to peer down at the wreckage. A sprawl of limbs and blankets greeted him.

"Is this victory, Captain?" Dion mused. “Sir Terence, do you believe you’ve won?"

"It hardly matters," said the pile of cloth. "You have lost."

The air was still cold, but his heart was full enough now to stand it.