FANFIC: Stew and Ale
6 August 2023 07:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cyanoscarlet-
It was their first time back home after a long time on the front lines. Dion wanted to commemorate the occasion by spending the day alone with Terence, of which he was only too happy to oblige.
Terence had gotten better at cooking since the day he made Dion soup two summers ago. Marié had been a firm taskmaster, but his efforts had borne the sweetest fruit, when Dion had partaken of his first homemade pot-au-feu with a smile and asked for seconds. He remembered his prince being so genuinely excited at that time, he’d forgotten to rinse off his mouth after the meal; thankfully, no one had so much as noticed nor spoken of it.
It had happened again a second time, after they shared a meal in their private tent in the encampment, a more flavorful vegetable stew chock-full of ripe tomatoes. They had been heartily discussing the soldiers’ drinking contest that had happened a few days back, and how silly everyone had all been in hindsight. Terence had stopped short on seeing Dion’s smile then, which had quickly turned into a concerned frown at his sudden silence. “What is it, Terence?”
There it was again: a streak of red above his lips and on his teeth, and his prince was too close.
Before Terence had known what he was doing, he’d quickly put his lips over Dion’s, gently licking away the sauce that had been there before withdrawing to drink a glass of water. Either it had tasted better than he remembered, or he was already drunk. “I-I couldn’t find the table napkin,” he’d stammered his poor excuse while groping around his side of the table blindly.
Dion’s cheeks had been equally red, even as he smiled in amusement while putting a hand over his kissed lips. “I see.”
Looking back, his prince had probably set it all up, the sneaky, magnificent bastard.
Then it happened a third time, then a fourth, then Greagor knew how many more. Terence already prepared a couple of extra napkins with him since then, so he would never be unprepared for any more surprises. Dion would fortunately(? wisely?) relent on their busier days, but would otherwise act uncharacteristically petulant on seeing the napkin, either staring Terence down until he relented or outright grabbing the cloth from his hand and hiding it behind his back. Those days would end up with heated kisses, mussed hair and bruised necks, and food spilled everywhere else. (“I thought the idea was to make you presentable in a manner of your choosing, my prince?”
“It was, indeed. And I am now presentable,” Dion had smirked, his cheeks a healthy glow from the making out they had just done earlier. The commanders had seemed pleased at how well their liege appeared that day, so Terence had to concede.)
All these thoughts crossed Terence’s mind now as he spread out on the blanket several containers of food he had packed for today’s outing: hard-boiled chicken eggs, several loaves of bread, summer sausages, an assortment of dried fruits and nuts, and a hearty beef stew with carrots and potatoes. The last of these was clearly a bad idea and was difficult to prepare, but Dion had insisted on it. (And Terence should have known to refuse, really, but he was not in a position to disobey his liege. Really, he wasn’t.)
For now, he set those thoughts aside to partake of their late lunch after hours of riding. Dion, as always, was all smiles tasting Terence’s cooking. “Marié has been teaching you well, I see.”
“She is very… particular about following recipes. I do appreciate the strictness all the same.” Terence dipped a slice of bread into his stew and bit into it. The flavor of this one thankfully kept throughout their journey, unlike the other choices he had considered before Marié had whacked him over the head and told him everything wrong about said choices.
Dion merely laughed at the story, the loudest Terence had ever seen him do so in weeks.
They forgot the time as they ate, talking about everything under the sun, everything they had missed out on while they were busy and exhausted with their work. They were always happy to make the most out of these days of respite, few and far between as they were. Life was too short to spend brooding over unfortunate possibilities and events that have yet to pass, after all.
It was only when they had packed up and loaded everything back on their horses that Terence noticed a large drop of thick sauce that started from the corner of Dion’s lip and threatened to drip down the angle of his jaw onto the white collar of his shirt. Before Terence knew it, he immediately stepped close to his prince, napkin at the ready. “You missed this spot, my prince.”
To this, Dion merely smiled knowingly, wiping away the sauce that threatened to fall while ignoring the thin trail it had left on his chin. Good Greagor, he should have known. “You’ve been doing this on purpose, haven’t you?” Terence let his annoyance slip out before he could stop himself, but he couldn’t care less at the moment.
For a while, a contrite frown appeared on Dion’s face at seeing his lover cross at him, but this immediately transformed into a more wistful one as he explained himself. “It was the only way I could get you to lighten up, my knight. I apologize for committing all that subterfuge.”
Terence wanted nothing more than to laugh at himself. Or beat himself up. Do both at the same time. He ended up doing the first, as he put down the empty containers down to the side and cupped Dion’s face with his hands. “You didn’t have to do all that, my prince. You can always be open with me. I will always listen to you.”
They had both always known that, deep down; perhaps it was but a matter of affirmation on Dion’s part, as more and more of himself had worn away over time and over life. And Terence was the person who could give him that affirmation, an honor and responsibility he was glad to bear for the rest of his years, for as long as Dion would have him.
The same Dion now looked at him lovingly, just like the day they had first bared their feelings to each other, and all the days since then. “Thank you, Terence.” He then leaned up into Terence’s lips to capture a quick kiss, then cocked his head to a side invitingly. “I let you know what I want, my knight. Now tell me what you want in return.”
Terence did not voice his reply anymore, claiming Dion’s lips once more in a deeper kiss, licking off the trail of sauce around his mouth while he was at it. Dion hummed in approval as he responded in kind, circling his arms around Terence’s neck and running his gloved fingers through his hair. It was a good thing that they had nothing to do for the rest of the day, because they certainly wouldn’t be going home anytime soon.
All things considered, everything was still as it should be, for better or worse. And for it, Terence decided to forgive his sneaky prince for now, and maybe for everything else after that, should something like this happen again. It was what he wanted, too, after all.
-
Of all the stories that circulated among the members of the Imperial Dragoons, the rapid rise of one Sir Terence Poirier through the ranks was one of the best and most widely-told, probably second only to the great feats of their Lord Commander and Warden of Light, Prince Dion the Bold himself. And indeed, Sir Terence had achieved so much in his many years of service to the Empire, that he more than deserved to be called a living legend in his own right.
Many had wondered how Terence had come to attain his exalted status: some said he had slain an army of monsters alone, others said he had bested his fellow soldiers in successive single combat, until none dared to challenge him out of respect and awe. These and many other tales filled the drinking halls of the Sanbrequois Dragoons’ encampment on many occasions, each one grander, wilder and more far-fetched than the last.
The truth, if it could be called that, was much simpler, though no less amusing: he won a drinking contest.
It was a surprising development that had happened in Dion’s temporary absence from the barracks to attend to certain royal duties back home. Terence had not accompanied him on this particular trip owing to some pressing issues among the troops that needed immediate attention, which warranted someone high enough on the chain of command to sort things out. Dion was admittedly a little lonely and longing while they were apart, but he fully trusted Terence to hold the fort well until his return.
A week later, the scene he arrived at was this: all his top-ranking commanders sprawled on the floor of the drinking hall, in various states of undress and inebriation, while the lower-ranking soldiers cheered and jeered from both sides. At the center of the table was none other than Terence himself, waving an empty tankard with his hand as he smugly scanned his opponents for any resistance. “Do you all yield?!”
None of the others were conscious enough to challenge him. The jeering continued. Seeing that he had clearly won, Terence set down the tankard with a large thunk that visibly shook the table. “If I hear any of you slandering my prince again, I’ll make you regret it. Do you hear me?!”
Dion’s entire face immediately flamed at the threat he’d just heard; perhaps it was the open use of their private terms of endearment, or the aggressive way he forced his opponents into submission. Or the fact that this whole thing ever happened because Terence had taken it upon himself to protect his prince’s honor, even at the cost of his own. Or maybe it was a combination of all three, and then more.
Oh, how he loved Terence. Dion willed his heart to not jump out of his chest, before gathering the courage to enter the hall.
A sudden, tense silence enveloped the hall. Everyone who was still conscious scrambled into formation and saluted their Lord Commander, trembling and quaking in their boots as they awaited the inevitable dressing down that would happen. Dion strode further inside with heavy, measured steps, meeting the eyes of those who didn’t dare look away out of shame with a stern, disapproving glare; those men eventually looked down, too, in embarrassment.
Dion stopped at the center of the table, where Terence stood in full attention, a complete opposite of his unruly behavior just earlier. He, too, had the decency to appear contrite for his and the others’ misconduct, his own gray eyes clouded over with remorse even as they met Dion’s own gaze head-on.
It made Dion sad to see Terence dejected like this. He sighed, half in frustration and half in defeat. There will be a severe reprimand tomorrow for all involved, but that wasn’t important right now. “Clean all this up and return to your posts,” he said in a low voice. “Everyone will assemble in the courtyard tomorrow at the first bell, no exceptions. Terence, with me.”
Dion left the hall in a sweeping motion, his strides getting longer as his pace quickened. Terence kept up as he meekly followed his liege back to their tent. As soon as Dion undid the flaps that held the entrance open, Terence immediately slumped onto him, his drunkenness finally catching up to him.
“Oh, Terence,” Dion exclaimed softly, supporting both their weight until they reached the bed. He was firmly pinned under his lover’s full weight, and could not move both his legs. Dion peered closely into Terence’s sleeping face, mentally tracing the dark circles and the lines of exhaustion around his eyes. He raised his free arm and gently stroked Terence’s back, easing him into a deeper, more forgiving rest for the night.
The promised reprimand happened the next morning, with Dion firmly outlining the specific rules of conduct all Imperial Dragoons ought to keep and obey at all times, under threat of major sanction and punishment for anyone who breaks them for any reason henceforth. Throughout the assembly, a different sort of silence emerged: one of awe and respect among the soldiers, all directed at Terence.
Since then, everyone treated their Lord Second-in-Command with an even higher regard than they already have, the looks of admiration evident in their eyes as they passed through the barracks at various points in time. The new recruits, especially, seemed to have been told an embellished version of that night’s drunken events, and soon Terence became an icon all the dragoons looked up to, almost greater than Dion himself.
On certain days, Terence would ask to be excused at the end of their work, citing meetings with different groups who wished to have a meal or a drink with him. Dion would allow him to do so, for camaraderie was essential for those who lived on the front lines and fought for a common purpose. Those days, Terence would return late into the night when Dion was already asleep, easily slotting himself into the space beside him and holding him tight. On rare occasions, he would not return at all, and Dion would spend the night cold and alone, longing for the warm presence that filled his bed on most nights.
It was on one of those rare nights that Dion decided enough was enough. Terence hadn’t returned to his side for three nights in a row now, and he found himself lonely and pitying himself more than usual. It was quite inappropriate for him, considering who he was and what he was to his men, but underneath all that was but a human being who greatly missed the one he loved.
So he dressed once more and headed to the drinking hall, intent on drowning his sorrows with cheap ale imported from the local tavern. The Waloeders had called it ‘disgusting piss,’ but it more than served the purpose for tonight.
No one noticed when Dion entered this time, tonight’s revelry apparently in full swing as badly-slurred drinking songs echoed throughout the hall. He sat alone at the bar, his head bowed as he mumbled his order to the unsuspecting bar master.
Beside him, two of his senior captains were engaged in a serious discussion of sorts; Dion couldn’t help but listen in. “—telling you, ‘tis not fair!”
“Damn brat needs ta learn ‘is place. Second-in-command, me ass!”
“Ya reckon he’s a special ‘un ta our prince, eh? Can’t imagine any otha reason for it.”
“Imagine? He’s only from House Poirier. I know those lowborns, they’re—”
Dion angrily banged his half-empty tankard onto the bar counter, some of the cold drink spilling out onto his hands and onto the floor. The same tension from that night returned with a vengeance, and everyone was too stunned to react this time. Still holding his tankard, Dion leveled a cold glare at the two objects of his ire, who both promptly backed away and saluted when they realized who exactly was seated beside them. “How dare you speak such slander about my Second-in-Command?”
No answer. Dion gripped the handle of his tankard tighter, all but snapping it into two. “I asked you two a question.”
“N-No, milord, we did not mean—”
“I challenge you both. Man to man. Right here, right now. ” He downed the rest of his ale and banged the tankard onto the counter once more. “I challenge all of you, who dare harbor any envy and resentment towards my knight! Let us settle this once and for all!”
Normally, no one would have deigned to even go against their Lord Commander even when he was not in his proper mind, but because tonight was one of those rare nights, someone from the back threw something hard in his direction, screaming: “Bottoms up!” The rest of the unruly gathering immediately followed suit.
Soon, Dion found himself downing tankard after tankard of increasingly horrible brews of ale, at a faster rate than what he was used to. His first two opponents lay dead drunk at some dark corner of the hall and were being tended to by their fellow squadron members. The line of challengers extended to the other end of the hall, each one aiming to drink their commander under the table, but they would fall one after the other after more or less three rounds—not surprising at all, considering all the alcohol they had already imbibed earlier before he crashed their gathering.
So he pressed on, ignoring the way his throat burned and his abdomen threatened to burst, sheer willpower being the only thing that kept him focused on his simple goal: to defend Terence’s honor at all costs. He was down to the last three men, and was so close to winning. Just a little more, he told himself each time. Just one more.
After his last drink, Dion quickly turned his head to scan the hall; good, no one was left standing now. However, the sudden forceful moment caused him to lose his balance, and he fell forward onto the bar counter with a loud thud. Some people were cheering—jeering. Laughing. Whatever. Did he win? Where was Terence? Did he watch?
Dion woke up to gentle sunlight streaming through the flaps of his tent, and to a very disapproving Terence. “Please do not rise, my prince. You are not well enough.”
He blinked, still confused. “... How long… has it been?”
“Two days. We were all afraid you wouldn’t wake after what happened the other night.”
It turned out Terence hadn’t been in the drinking hall that night, and was instead in town with a couple of the younger recruits to explore the food stalls. He had only learned of what happened when the frantic bar master met them at the entrance of the encampment, detailing with great panic what his liege had done and the state he was in. It was more than enough to send Terence into overdrive, rushing into the hall and spiriting an unconscious Dion away from the gathering at once.
Dion felt a dull ache in his hand; Terence had gripped it tightly with both of his, holding it up to his tired face, as if in fervent prayer. “Do not do that again, Dion. Do not scare me like that. Do not…”
Terence was lost for words as he held back his tears, but Dion understood anyway. It was reckless of him, really, to have worried his love to death like that. It was hardly the first time, after everything they had been through, and it wouldn’t be the last. And he was sorry for it every time, every moment. He wanted to pour out his heart, say with his body what words cannot. But alas, he still lacked the strength to do as he wished.
So he reached out his arm, caressing Terence’s careworn face with his aching hand. “I’m sorry, my knight.” He didn’t promise anything, however. And Terence understood this, as he smiled and leaned into Dion’s open hand, cradling it with both his hands. “I know, my prince.”
There will be time to make up in the evening. To enjoy each other’s company. To kiss each other like there was no tomorrow. To join their bodies, hearts and souls together like it was the end of the world. But none of those times were now; this, just like this, was enough.
“Just… Promise to not drink like that ever again,” Terence implored once more. “Or at least take me with you. Like back then.”
Dion smiled, relenting. “That much I will do. I’d rather not experience this horrible headache again.”
“Glad to hear it. Now take your medicine, my prince. I still have a lot to scold you about.”
