#countbirch

I love my chemically imbalanced romantic puppets guys. (girl help I am being dragged back to my MCR phase)

Today was the day the knight would go on his journey to slay the dragon. It was still early in the day, barely after sunrise, but putting on his armor always took a long time. So many pieces and buckles to fasten. Lucky for the knight, he had a squire to manage all of that for him.

The knight stood still in the center of the room, while his squire bustled about him. He was, as always, efficient. Likely because the knight had never been one to put up with anything less than efficiency.

He turned his head, making eye contact with his reflection in the mirror on the wall.

His stern expression did not waver as he looked himself over. He liked to think that- despite his smaller than average stature- he cut an impressive figure. Wide shoulder pauldrons, solid breatsplate, heavy steal polished so clean it shone like silver. The squires present in his lordship's court had spent all night ensuring that he would be eye-catching. This would not last very long once they got on the road, but that sort of thing had never really mattered to the king. Everything was a performance to him, and every actor needed to be at their best.

Especially when it was time for them to make what may be their final appearance on the stage.

The squire paused in front of him, holding out the final piece of his armor.

The knight took it without a word, staring down at the metal. It reflected his furrowed expression back at him, seeming to accentuate the heavy bags under his tired eyes. His frown deepened.

There was a knock on his door, and he set the helmet down on the table with a sigh. He turned, his metal armor clanking slightly. He schooled his expression, smoothing away any discomfort. “Come in.” His voice was gruff and disinterested. 

The door opened, and his patron stepped inside. The Count's long cape flared out behind him, casting a dramatic silhouette in the pale dawn sunlight. He scanned the room, smiling politely when he set eyes on the squire, who stood frozen from surprise.

With practiced ease the knight dropped to one knee, bowing low. “My lord Count. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“You are leaving the city tonight.” The Count replied, moving out of the doorway. “I thought it only right I come and give you a proper send-off.” 

The knight glanced up, watching the nobleman. His back was straight and tall, the regal bearing proper for a man of his status. His hands were clean and manicured, the hands of someone who had not been involved in hard labor.

“What of my march through the streets?” The knight retorted. “Is that just for fun?” 

The Count rolled his eyes slightly, then waved a hand at the squire. "You may leave us." His voice was pleasant, though dismissive. The other man fled the room without another word.

After the Count shut the door, he continued speaking. “You know as well as I that the march is for the benefit of the people.” He moved closer to the knight, who remained knelt on the floor. “No, this send-off is for only you and I.” 

The knight bowed his head once more. “That is very kind of you, my lord Count.” 

“Stop that.” The Count scolded. “There’s no need for such things when it is just the two of us.” 

The knight said nothing, but lifted his head to look the nobleman in the eye. The nobleman’s eyebrows had furrowed, his mouth drawn. His regal posture had slackened, the propriety unnecessary in such company.

The Count ran a hand through his hair with a huff. “Was there truly no one else the king could send?” 

The knight laughed. It was not a mirthful sound, instead an irate one. “Who would you have him send? Perhaps Ser Theo, who was still my apprentice this time last year? Or maybe we should only send my squire, and hope my ill-fitting armor will protect him from the dragon’s breath?” The knight leaned closer, a sardonic smile on his face. “Do you wish to see the dragon dead, or would you prefer a dead dragon slayer?” 

The Count sighed through his nose. “You know that is not what I mean.”  

“And yet, that is the only answer I can give.”  

The Count stepped forward again, reaching out the press a hand against the knight’s cheek. The hand was cold, colder even than the armor had been. The knight leaned into it and closed his eyes, relishing the familiar contact. 

The thumb rubbed back and forth against his face, rasping in the short scruff that covered his cheeks. "My knight, you would do anything I asked, wouldn't you?"

The knight tilted his head, pressing a kiss to the inside of the count’s wrist. “If you commanded me to, Codruț,” He murmured into the cool skin, “I would endeavor to bring you the dragon’s still beating heart.” 

The thumb paused in its ministrations.

“And what if I commanded you to stay?” The Count replied. “What if I told you to remain by my side, to ignore the king’s summons?” 

The knight opened his eyes. Codruț was looking down at him, lips down-turned in a frown.

He raised a gauntlet, gently curling his fingers around the Count’s own, giving them a squeeze. "To command me this way is to command me to seek my own death. Would you truly desire such?"

"You know I do not." Codruț leaned forward, pressing his own kiss into the knight’s curly hair. When he drew back, his eyes were wet with tears. “For my last command before you leave; I order you to return safely.” 

The knight surged forward, capturing the nobleman’s lips. Their lips pressed together, the contact firm and certain. When he drew back, he murmured into the air between them, “I swear, I will do so. Even if all the devils themselves come up from below to dog my footsteps, I would slay every one of them to ensure I return safe.” 

“I’ll hold you to that.” The Count whispered. Then he leaned forward to kiss him again.

The kiss wasn't heated or rushed. It was solid, and continuous, the prolonged kiss of lovers who didn't want to pull away.

However, at some point, everything must come to an end.

Codruț pulled back. He let go of his knight's face, extracting his hand from the knight's grip. He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it back into place.

The knight watched him, feeling an inexplicable ache deep in his chest. It you ignored the slight flush to the count's lips, you could be forgiven for thinking nothing happened.

Codruț turned, cloak swishing, and walked back to the door. As he walked, his posture corrected. His back straightened, his shoulders squared, and soon he was back to his usual clean and proper self.

The Count paused with his hand on the doorknob. For a moment, he just stood there. Then he looked over his shoulder. "I will be awaiting your return with bated breath, Sir Birch."

The knight bowed his head again. "I will do all I can to hasten our reunion. If it were possible, I would run my horse at speeds even the eight winds cannot compete with."

Birch's gaze flicked back up in time to catch the count’s smile. It was not a happy expression, rather one filled with unspoken grief. "I know you would." He replied softly. Then he opened the door and, with a swish of his cape, left the room.

Sir Birch was alone. He remained kneeling on the floor for a long time. After a while, he reached up with a hand, gently tracing the spot on his cheek that still tingled from a phantom touch.

Based on Miss E's art!