#malwyn

Falric swears under his breath. Bless his heart, but Arthas has a gift for dropping by exactly when he doesn’t want to talk to people, let alone his best friend. Guards he can get away with growling or barking at, because guard captains are allowed to act like rabid dogs when hangover sometimes. The crown prince, on the other hand, is entitled to some amount of respect, which Falric does not currently feels like giving him. His head is killing him, his mouth tastes like something died in there, and he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes because he didn’t have the time to drag himself out of the ditch he passed out in to go home and change before the start of his shift.

He briefly considers pretending he hasn’t heard him, but finally decides against, because Arthas is his best friend and also his direct superior in the line of command and he likes his job. He keeps the helmet on, though. It hides his woke-up-still-drunk look and the cold metal is a blessing to his headache.

"Well, here I am, being looked at," he says, turning around. Arthas strides to him and claps his hand on his shoulder, hard enough to make him sway slightly. His grin is brighter than the sun, which is easy considering it’s barely up—just high enough above the horizon to make him squint and curse his ancestors, actually. This is worrying. No one’s cheerful like that in the morning, not even Arthas. He likes his beauty sleep. "Did you want something, or are you just here to be a nuisance?"

We said respect, Falric, you alcoholic bastard, he mentally berates himself. Arthas just chuckles.

"Actually, there’s someone I wanted you to meet!"

Arthas drags another man forward, making the stranger stumbles at the unexpected movement. He quickly straightens up, giving Falric another blinding—albeit smaller, more unsure—smile. He’s armored, but he stands too straight, the way new guards do. There’s so much unbidden enthusiasm poorly hidden under his anxious expression, it’s like a sucker punch to the guts. The guy can’t be much younger than him, he looks about Arthas’ age, but in front of him Falric feels like he’s half a century older than him, like his bones are already bending under the weight of his armor.

This is the face of a man optimistic about his future. The face of someone naive, some goody-two-shoes in it for the heroism of it all. Someone who’s never fought in a war. He remembers seeing the same expression in the mirror on his first day as a guard, before—everything. Fuck, where did his enthusiasm go?

"This is Marwyn Feywood, one of our newest recruits. He’s a friend."

"You have those?" He turns to Feywood. "Don’t listen to him. He’s just using you as a way to get out of his princely duties."

Arthas rolls his eyes. "Har har, hilarious. Stop undermining me in front of my subordinates."

Falric shoulders his scabbard, not bothering to tie it around his waist, and levels Arthas with a flat look. "You do it to me often enough. Anyway—good to meet you, Feywood. M’sure you’ll do great things for the crown—"

His rehearsed, welcome-to-the-shitshow speech is cut my Arthas who says, "Actually, I want you to train him."

"… Beg your pardon."

Feywood clear his throat nervously before speaking up. "I, huh. I know I’m new and all that but— it would be an honor to work under you!"

Dear god did that ever come out wrong. Falric swallows, hard, counts to ten and then backward in his head, and tries to think pure thoughts. He settles on thinking about murdering Arthas with his bare hands instead.

"Oh hell no." He points an accusing finger at Arthas. "You know exactly what you’ve done, you royal asshole." Guess that’s it for respect then. To be honest he didn’t expect himself to make it so far without insulting his friend—apart from Feywood they’re alone anyway, and it’s not like he will go snitch to the king. "You can’t just drop this poor sod at my feet and expect me to mentor him—"

"Why not? I know you’re a great mentor, I’ve seen it."

Falric opens his mouth in outrage, close it and gestures silently but vehemently toward Marwyn, hopping it conveys the right sense of ‘how do you expect me to resist that’.

"Marwyn, would you mind giving us a minute?"

The young soldier seem to deflate but obediently walks away.

Arthas’ two hands fall on both of his shoulders, efficiently pinning him in place. He looks him in the eyes, as serious as ever.

Oh no, Falric thinks. This is the lecture look. The I-worry-about-you look. The must-you-drink-so-much look. The do-you-want-to-talk-about-it look. Falric loathes that look.

"Fal—"

"If I accept are you going to stop giving me this lecture every time you see me?"

The abrupt interruption leaves Arthas quiet for a moment. Then his faces adopts a considering expression, which quickly morphs into a worryingly smug one. "Sure," he finally says.

"Fuck it, I’m doing it."

He takes his helmet off and strides toward Feywood, ignoring Arthas’ knowing smirk. "C’mon kid, training time! Let’s see what you’re made of!"

"Y-Yes, sir!"