He Built Him a Ship

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Winter brings with it many things. The cold. Unsatisfying trysts in Fort Trinity’s storerooms that everyone above can definitely hear. A lack of sunlight.

All things pertinent to Roza at the moment, in ascending order. He has been shifting his seats closer to the windows, but he can do little to catch the sun when it flees in the middle of the afternoon. Also, Trahearne had seem mildly hurt exactly once when Roza had moved the chair in his office away from him, so of course he can never do that ever again. And now misfortune is collecting its weary toll from him in the form of an assault on his wellbeing.

Roza is feeling mostly fine, save the fatigue and dizziness and bodily aches. He faces a conundrum: whether or not to tell Trahearne. On the one hand, it is not yet severe enough that he requires rest. On the other, Trahearne has explicitly expressed that Roza is to be honest about his health when questioned. The solution to this, of course, is to not be questioned, and thus not be noticed. This poses a further point of contention, since Roza’s high station in the Pact necessitates his presence in a variety of matters, half of which involve the marshal. He has decided to write everything down in order to work it out plainly, and is currently mulling over his journal as he lets his breakfast sit uneaten.

A messenger deposits herself in front of him. “Meeting with Marshal Trahearne in fifteen, Sir.”

“Is it urgent?” Roza asks.

She hesitates, perplexed. “I… didn’t ask, Sir.”

“Tell him I am indisposed.” Roza scribbles down: Avoided third meeting – suspicion low. “I will review with the transcriber later.”

The messenger stares at him as if he has just cost her her job, but eventually runs off. Roza adds a question mark—nothing has happened yet, but he will adjust as needed.

The words in front of him blur into each other, and he shuts his eyes his headache returns with a vengeance. He opens them when someone clears their throat in front of him.

It is the same messenger. Nervously, she says, “Er, Marshal Trahearne wants to know why you are indisposed. Sir.”

“I am still working on that very important project from last time.” Roza stirs his breakfast bowl aimlessly. When she doesn’t leave, he pauses. “Is that all?”

“He… wants to know why what you are working on is more important, Sir. He wants to know what it is, because you didn’t tell him last time.”

“Oh, for fuck’s—” Roza tears a page out of his journal and scribbles down a handful of jargon that have a vague relevance to Pact political matters. He ends it with, I am sure you are competent enough as Marshal to handle the Pact without me to hold your hand, because the headache is making him irritable. He folds the paper, hands it to the girl, and waves off her and her trepidatious stare.

Suspicion medium, he rectifies. Warded off for now. Will have to come up with outside project. Fitting rockets to battlements? Return to giant cauldron idea.

This time, he sees the poor girl coming from across the hall. She is nibbling on something in one hand, and clutching the torn journal page in the other. She reaches him and stops. Takes a deep breath.

Roza spreads his hands. “Begin.”

“Marshal Trahearne requests you come to his office immediately,” is all she says. She thrusts the paper towards him.

Roza takes it from her, flipping it over. On the other side, Trahearne has written,

Commander,

Your progress on integrating an ancient Krytan blood-letting ritual into a Nornic spells of warding for the spirit world to strengthen the Veil in Jormag’s territory would be impressive, were it actually possible and not simply many random words mixed together that make no sense arcanimically. Your presence is required here, now.

T

Below the note is his signature and seal. Roza hides a wince. Alright, ‘Medium’ might have been a bit of an understatement, but he is still working out the kinks in his plan. Underestimating Trahearne’s ability to perform basic logic might have been one of them.

He makes his way to the office slowly, taking in the sights and trying to absorb as much sunlight as he can along the way in a futile attempt to mask his condition. If he acts normally, he can dial the suspicion aroused all the way back to nil. It is maths, really—one variable affects all the others. Roza is a master at deception and manipulation. If he stands exactly five or more yards away, he should be able to conceal any sign of illness. If he raises his speaking voice by about five decibels, it should remain in its regular range. He straightens his back as he reaches the door and raps on it. Yes. He knows what he is doing. Nothing can go wrong with his plan.

Trahearne himself opens the door, and makes direct eye contact with him. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he says.

Damn it.

“I am sure I do not know what you mean, Marshal,” Roza says in his most aloof voice. He strides to the window, gazing out of it with a pensive and mysterious air.

“Why have you been staring out the window all week?” Trahearne asks. “Are you waiting for certain weather? A flash snowstorm? Hail? Another Elder Dragon? A messenger bird bearing a royal decree to excuse you from all meetings forthwith?”

He sounds a tad piqued. Roza clears his throat delicately, folding his hands behind his back. “Such injurious remarks do not become your station, Marshal.”

He can feel the ripple of Trahearne’s reaction to that in the Dream, and he winces. Oops. Perhaps he should attempt to speak in a more modest tone, to soothe his marshal’s humours—

“Do not become my station?! What exactly do you call this, then?” Trahearne snatches the paper from him and holds it up.

Roza is calculating a perfect response, which is a brave endeavor with his current mental afflictions, though he is a precocious sylvari who rises readily to any challenge—when the piece of paper violently waggles itself in front of him as if to make a point of its existence. Roza resets, changing his response—and Trahearne dangles the paper again.

“Stop that.” He snaps his head to the side, aborting the gesture halfway.

“Finally, you are acknowledging me.” Trahearne throws up his hands. “What in Pale Mother’s name is going on with you? You have been avoiding me all week. Did I do something wrong?”

“No!” Roza says instinctively, and then, “I haven’t… been avoiding you.”

“Then explain to me why you are suddenly too busy to meet with me.” Trahearne crosses his arms. Lowering his voice, he adds, “Both on and off duty.”

Thorns. This is going to turn into another immovable chair situation, isn’t it? Roza swallows and begins, “I have been inspecting our battlement artillery and I believe that replacing them with rock—”

“Roza,” Trahearne says flatly.

Roza’s eyes dart around, searching for another excuse. Trahearne steps closer to him, boxing him in against the window. He lowers his head, and Roza desperately tries not to notice how purposeful the movement is, or how it feels to be the focus of his attention. He fails.

“Tell me the truth,” Trahearne says. He shouldn’t say that, not like that, not while Roza can barely form a coherent thought. Or while he is ill.

His meticulous mind falls back on a singular equation. Give Trahearne what he wants, and get what Roza wants in return. “I am sick,” he reveals, his desire for the thrill of the end result overtaking him.

“You are sick.” Trahearne sighs, his breath fanning out over Roza’s face. “And so…?”

“Didn’t want you to notice,” Roza admits, and quickly rectifies, “Couldn’t lie to you about it if you caught me.”

Is that enough? That must be enough. Trahearne looks him up and down, most traces of his annoyance slowly draining away.

“Why couldn’t you… ah, it matters not. Thank you, Roza. You did well to tell me.”

It is not quite Well done, but it has the same soothing effect on Roza regardless, and he calms, feeling much like a cat that has been pet.

Trahearne is examining him with a frown. “Follow my finger,” he requests, and Roza sluggishly complies.

They run through more basic checks, and Roza tries his best, confident that his marshal will deem him fit for duty. This is simply a slightly worse version of his normal, after all. He cannot very well go on leave for the entire winter.

“The season is harsh on you—I should have foreseen this,” Trahearne mutters. “You have not been eating well either, if I were to guess. At least you are sleeping fine. Are you experiencing any weakness or fatigue? Loss of cognition?”

He should open Roza’s shirt to touch him again, like he did last time. He undoes the top button of his collar, and Trahearne’s gentle hand stills his wrist.

“What are you doing?” he asks softly.

What is he doing? Executing another brilliant plan. “Helping you,” Roza explains.

Trahearne looks confused for a moment, before he says, “You can help by answering my questions, my dear Roza. Tell me your symptoms.”

The endearment melts some of his headache. “I… am tired,” he decides. “Even more so than usual.”

“Yes?” Trahearne’s hand sweeps past his temple, and he leans into it with a heavy head. “You feel tired. Are you hungry?”

There is a small tray of biscuits on his desk, but they are not appetizing. Roza shakes his head.

“Can you tell me the difference between extracting a soul’s essence for corporeal reanimation as opposed to meta-physical? How do the two operations differ?”

Roza groans. The words make sense, in a distant corner of his mind that he cannot be arsed to access at the moment. “The fuck do you mean? Go act out your mentor fantasies elsewhere.”

“I will take that as a no.” Trahearne moves away from him—o dreary day—to his cupboard, taking out a bottle that he presses into Roza’s hand. “This is the medication I used when I roamed this land. Take a double dose minimum, and more if you need it. I will get you your own prescription. You do not need to spend a quarter of your life feeling like this.”

An unexpected bubble tightens Roza’s throat. “I… don’t?”

“No, dear one.” Trahearne’s touch returns to his weary bark once more. “In fact, I’d wager that you are deficient for most of the year. We will attend to that come spring. For now, I’m giving you the rest of the day off. Go get some rest.”

Roza wrinkles his nose. “I am not an invalid.”

“No, but it would put my mind at ease. Would you do it for me?”

Roza tugs at his sleeve. Yes, of course he would. He nods, and Trahearne rewards him with a smile. “Thank you. I will see you in the evening.”

The rush of endorphins is halted by a feeling of uncertainty. “Do I—” he says, and stops, worrying at his lip.

“Retire to our—to my chambers, yes, if you’re comfortable with it,” Trahearne answers. “I would like to keep an eye on you, if that’s alright.”

It is more than alright. Roza nods again, and reaches out for—for something. Trahearne squeezes his hand. It is not enough—he holds his breath and initiates a tight embrace. Trahearne is warm and has a comforting smell. Roza scurries out of the office when his lungs fail him, cheeks aflame.

~*~

He thinks about it, in the space between dozing and staying awake. Our chambers, Trahearne had almost said. Like our house. Our Pact. My dear Roza.

Roza presses his face into the mattress. It is ridiculous. He is not owned by anyone, and his marshal would never hold him hostage. But—My Marshal. My Trahearne. He wants it. More than anything, he wants that.

He gets up and opens the drawer where Trahearne keeps his extra blankets. There it is—the blue woollen one that he had given to Roza almost two years ago, when they had barely known each other. Roza has tried to give it back many times without success. Now it is only here because he is, too. He hasn’t slept in his own bed for nearly a month.

But what does it mean? Trahearne does not make him do anything. He only offers, and Roza takes. And then he offers more, and Roza takes that too. And Roza pushes, and he gives. Now they practically share a suite.

He is reading when Trahearne enters later, some text about skritt anthropology that makes less sense the more he stares at the pages. It is early in the evening, hours before he would usually retire, and Roza does not mask his surprise at seeing him.

“What, can’t I mind the clock like a normal person?” Trahearne takes off his outerwear, hanging it by the fire Roza has started with an appreciative nod.

“You? Never.” Roza dog-ears the page and sets the book aside. “You should be in your office at this hour, ignoring your dinner in favour of some stuffy old scroll.”

“Without my evening’s entertainment?” A smile and a glance in Roza’s direction.

“I—wh—,” Roza stammers.

Trahearne laughs softly. “I mean nothing so crass. ’Tis boring at work without you, my dear Roza.”

Roza is keenly aware of how this separates them from their morning selves, even from the marshal that had touched his cheek so gently and told him to take rest. He wishes there was no separation. He is afraid of there being no separation, and of what that would mean for them. He would not know how to behave, or how to react to how Trahearne would behave, much like he does not know how to react now.

Trahearne kneels at his side and beckons with one finger. Roza obligingly lets himself be examined, fueled by some feeling he cannot quite identify. It is different than the morning, somehow. Trahearne is more purposeful with him, more firm, yet somehow indelibly softer. He releases Roza’s chin after a minute.

“It is hard to tell after barely a full day, but I believe you are doing better,” he says. “Did you finish the lunch I sent up?”

Roza looks away, ashamed.

“It’s alright,” Trahearne says, in a way that he wants to trap and keep forever. “You don’t have to force yourself. Dinner is coming in half a bell. Are you hungry?”

Roza sighs. “I do not know,” he says truthfully.

Mischief twinkles in Trahearne’s eye as he puts his boots away. “Would it help I handfed you?”

“Hardy har.” Roza rolls his eyes, puzzling at the odd turn in his stomach. It is probably from his illness.

“I wish to shower,” he announces. “I have been surrounded by your germs all day and I feel disgusting.”

“No one was forcing you to stay here,” Trahearne reminds him. He dips his head towards the ensuite. “Go on, but don’t take too long. I have been surrounded by my germs too.”

Roza sniffs disdainfully and plods off towards the shower. The hot water melts into him and he closes his eyes, pretending for a precious few minutes that he exists only in this moment. Then it is over, and he shuts it off. His towel and sleep clothes are draped neatly over the changing screen.

“I’m naked behind here,” he calls out, for what purpose he doesn’t know.

“So am I,” Trahearne replies.

Roza quickly pokes his head out. Trahearne is sitting on the bed, fully clothed. He looks up.

Roza darts back, scoffing to himself. Firstborn and their little games. Roza can play games too. He prances out, half dressed, and Trahearne breezes past him, pausing to plant a small kiss on his forehead.

“I hope you didn’t use up all the hot water,” he murmurs, and then he is gone.

Roza gapes at the bathroom door. That… he… what was that? How in Tyria is he supposed to react to that?

He sits heavily on the bed, touches his forehead, and thinks about it for the entire ten minutes it takes Trahearne to shower and get dressed. Soon enough, their dinner arrives, and he pushes him to go answer the door. He has no wish for them to be the talk of the fort.

Trahearne brings the plates over and lounges on the bed. It is unusual—he is ordinarily meticulous about crumbs.

“We are going to make a mess,” Roza points out, making himself comfortable. He is thankful Trahearne is taller than him sometimes—sometimes—since it means he can be fully used as a backrest. (He is also useful for reaching high shelves, but Roza will only admit that on pain of death.)

“Mm?” Trahearne’s arm settles over his waist. “That’s alright. You are taking a sick day.”

“Does that mean you are going to handfeed me?” Roza asks.

Trahearne chuckles. “Do you want me to?”

“If you are tending to me tonight, I do not see why not.”

Trahearne considers him, amused, and then tears off a piece of bread. He holds it to Roza’s lips. “Open.”

Roza feels that gut-clench once more, that rare feeling that tickles the corners of his brain. He wonders if Trahearne can sense it from him. The thought makes the feeling squirm its way further into his insides.

Trahearne lowers his hand. “You do not have to—”

Roza gently bites the bread from his fingers. They make an odd moment of eye contact, before he forces his gaze downwards, chews, and swallows.

“I am sorry,” Trahearne says softly, needlessly. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Oh, shut up,” Roza grouses. “I wanted you to.”

“Still,” Trahearne insists. “I never want to take advantage of your…”

He pauses. Roza pointedly jabs his bread in his broth. “You don’t,” he says, and then, “Of my what?”

Trahearne’s prolonged hesitation only makes him more curious. “Trahearne,” he asks, prodding him in the chest. “Of my what? Go on.”

“Your, ah… desire to please,” Trahearne tells the far wall. His cheeks darken a deep green.

Roza feels as if someone has lit a match inside his head. He stares, and Trahearne diligently refuses to look at him, and he provides both of them with a three-second lightshow.

Trahearne winces. “I-I—didn’t mean to embarrass you. You, ah… I appreciate it. I try not to take advantage.”

“It’s not a sex thing,” Roza blurts out.

Trahearne breathes out a small laugh of relief. “No, I gathered. Even if it were, that would be alright by… I mean, if you were alright with it, then I would be as well.”

“Oh,” Roza says.

“It is, ah, just you,” he admits a minute later. “I do not know what that means.”

“That’s alright. We do not need to decipher everything about ourselves. Roza… I truly do appreciate being given your trust. There is not a day that goes by where I do not treasure what you have placed in my hands.”

“You deserve it,” Roza replies without a thought.

Trahearne looks at him achingly, and Roza is driven by a strange compulsion to kiss him, which he does not follow through.

“Thank you for being here,” Trahearne says eventually. “With me.”

Roza relaxes into him, and the arm around his waist tugs him close. “Thank you for taking me.”