Chapter Four
Scythaline knows he ought to be more focused. This year he will debut before both courts against a truly formidable foe and if he wins… if he wins then perhaps something will change between him and his teacher, Kelradest. It’s been a hope that has bitten and stung him more than once in his time as Second Knight, but he can’t help but return to it each time there is an opportunity for him to demonstrate his value, to reassure his teacher that it was the right choice to select him. Kelradest could’ve chosen any one of the many soldiers that have served the White Kingdom for years– he could’ve even chosen Argos, who he raised from childhood to be a very fine and skilled warrior. Despite all the potential candidates, Kelradest chose Scythaline and has taught him much. The honor of it is as elating as the pressure of it is stifling. Scythaline is familiar with Syl, at least from afar… their strength and skill is apparent in the way they move, in how the Black Knight regards them. Scythaline has to defeat them… but his mind keeps wandering away to another, more substantial love than the sort he feels for his teacher. Gwyn and he had their first kiss last year on this very day… The games opened with Scythaline entering a relationship that he thought might be open and welcome, but had discovered, in time, would have be a purely clandestine affair.
Gwyn had insisted that despite his husband’s disapproval, he wanted him, and after many evenings spent together, many ‘meetings’ in Gwyn’s offices, and even more warm, secret glances across court assemblies, Scythaline has gotten more than enough affection to accept that all of it must happen without Dreigas present to see it. The Bishop could have challenged him to fight over the insult of sharing his spouse, he could have gone to the king and had Scythaline removed for being a disruption to court proceedings, but Dreigas hadn’t done much of anything but be overtly, openly hateful. Scythaline can endure Dreigas’ uppity, precocious hatred if he can have Gwyn, so he does. This is a special day, a day that he ought to spend with Gwyn, but he can’t, so even though he is with Kelradest, who he also loves and deeply admires, his mind is elsewhere, wondering if the Rook is missing him and recalling the beginnings of their romance.
"I’m sorry, teacher. What were you saying?" he asks, when he realizes that Kelradest has asked him something and he’s completely missed it. They are on their way… somewhere… to do… something important, in preparation for the games before the commencement event. It could be that Kelradest wants him to go and be dressed for the evening, it could be that Kelradest wants to take him out onto the field for a bout to make sure he’s fresh. He isn’t sure. He’s thinking of the small pouch he has tucked in his clothes for Gwyn, and the thrill he felt opening the door to his quarters to find Kelradest there smiling at him, encouraging him to come with them. It doesn’t help that looking at Kelradest is as distracting as his thoughts of Gwyn. His teacher is tall and lithe with fine, regal features. His necromantic gifts have kept him beautiful despite two hundred years of life and Scythaline can get himself into trouble easily admiring their lips and pale eyelashes, the shining, healthy, impressive length of their hair or the tawny color of their eyes. In motion they are breathtaking. Their voice is soothing, their mind is fascinating, Scythaline knows he’d be a better student if he wasn’t helplessly in love, but thankfully, or really tragically in his opinion, Kelradest seems utterly oblivious to his interest and patient with his absent minded moments and dreamy staring.
"You are miles away." Kelradest chuckles, but there is only fondness in it. Even when Scythaline falls short of the mark, he never mocks. Their corrections are firm, at best, when they cannot afford to be gentle. "I said that this meeting with His Majesty is likely one that I can manage myself," he says, "that perhaps you might prefer to drill alone before the bouts begin. Now, it seems that you might be more in need of some time to yourself." They look to Scythaline, then, and slow their stride. "Something on your mind?" Scythaline’s eyes go wide, and he curses himself– the deep tan, freckled quality of his skin never saves him when he blushes, so he’s sure that as soon as the heat radiates in his face it is obvious, visible to Kelradest in his cheeks and ears.
"Well—" Scythaline should lie, but he is terrible at it and he knows it. "Yes. I am… a little distracted. The games this year are special." It’s an enormous omission to say something so vague, but he can only hope that Kelradest will interpret his sentiment as excitement for the fight he’s going to debut in and not anything else. It’s hard to say if Kelradest has any opinion at all about his relationship with Gwyn; it is an open secret, of sorts, and Scythaline hasn’t allowed the relationship to disrupt his lessons or training, so Kelradest hasn’t commented on it or asked after where he spends his nights. He wishes, occasionally, foolishly he knows, that Kelradest would and there’d be something to it… curiosity, jealousy… but a year has passed and as far as Scythaline knows, Kelradest might be entirely disinterested in his personal affairs.
"Would you have me go and do drills?" He wants Kelradest to tell him no, to say that he’s ready and he doesn’t need it, but Kelradest is too practical for such sentiments. More time, more training, more study is always a good thing, and even with so many years as Knight without blunder or loss, Kelradest still dedicates much of his time to honing his skills in combat. Scythaline of course believed at one point that no one could defeat Kelradest. There are other people in the Kingdoms that are Kelradest’s age, older even, but none so dedicated to their craft, so devoted to the Kingdom of White as he is. His fantastical admiration had been altered some with the games though, when Kelradest faced the Black Rook.
She is terrifyingly formidable, a very serious and sharply honed warrior… one that Kelradest chooses to face more than once each games, and will likely face again these games. She might be able to beat Kelradest, but they always end their combat in a stalemate. That the Black Kingdom has such a person on their court would be a cause for great concern if not for the fact that for once in many, many years, there is… relative peace. "I could go make rounds, if you wish it. I can collect a few more powers for the bout…" He pulls his sleeve aside to examine the intricate, pitch black rings of tattooing that wind up his arm, each segmented flourish a different power he’s harnessed from others, maintained for a time before he spends it. His gift is this, no power of his own but the power to take power from others. He’s had a time learning how to use his gift for combat when the powers he borrows must be accessed in sequences that go from simple to complex. He cannot call a lightning bolt without first conjuring a flame. He cannot quell a storm without summoning a thin, crisp layer of frost. He’s had access to much of the White Kingdom army to select abilities from, so the manifestations of those powers are many, wrapped around his shoulder muscles and reaching all the way down to his fingers, spreading across his pectorals and shoulder blades too. He releases his sleeve and pulls open his shirt partially, the robe spread to reveal the markings and symbols on one side of his chest. It isn’t risque to let Kelradest see his skin, but he does feel a thrill about it, about those knowing, clever eyes on his skin.
"I’m well equipped, but I could ask around."
"The match is too close," Kelradest says, an assessing glance over the markings laid into Scythaline’s skin. In their time together, he has learned to read them, but their gaze still lingers. "You must settle this distraction, whatever it may be. Syl Zevyr is not an adversary to face with a clouded mind. If training will settle you, then train. If sleep will do it, rest while you can." Scythaline nods obediently and is determined to keep his expression neutral even though he can feel his face getting redder. What would settle him is Gwyn’s hands and mouth, but that isn’t exactly an easy ask when Gwyn must make his own preparations for the commencement. It is embarrassing to at least within himself recognize that sharing an evening with Gwyn would clear his head right up. His teacher would likely not approve of such lewdness, so he keeps the reality of his situation entirely to himself. Kelradest’s expression creases with concern. "You’re not feeling unwell are you?" His hand is cool against Scythaline’s brow, the back of it soft, free of callus.
"Regardless of the significance of these games, if you’re ill, you must be certain to say so." Scythaline tenses, even as he reflexively tips his head into the press of Kelradest’s hand.
"I’m fine, I’m not unwell," he insists, "I’m…" He struggles to find a dignified way to express himself. He isn’t a child, but twenty five years of life is nothing in the face of Kelradest’s time as Knight. It is both entirely natural that he should admire someone who is so far above him in experience, and embarrassingly vulnerable when one day he might have to take Kelradest’s place. "I’m excited for the bout. I will show how much you’ve taught me. I’m excited for the commencement as well; the courts celebrating together is historic. I’m distracted by the scope of the matter, that’s all, teacher. I am amazed the games are still ongoing without incident, and I hope to make you proud. The flushing, my face is just… ignore it, I assure you I’m fine." He reaches to take ahold of Kelradest’s wrist, and then his hand, squeezing it gently before letting go because he can get away with such small gestures as Kelradest’s most revered student, but much more than that would be untoward.
Scythaline feels some envy when he thinks of the Black Kingdom’s lax attitudes about such things. On their side, the Bishop and Second Bishop are lovers openly. There’s no shame or judgment or courtly gossip as far as he knows, and they make a fine couple. In the White Kingdom, such a relationship would draw scrutiny that Scythaline knows isn’t worth the trouble for Kelradest even if his teacher does have hidden feelings for him. He isn’t worth the trouble. Kelradest’s reputation as the People’s Knight, his body and spirit and power dedicated to all of the citizens… for him to involve himself in an affair with someone who, should he choose it, could not even look at him without his explicit permission… it would be scandalous. It’s scandal that Gwyn is willing to navigate, but well… Kelradest is kind to Scythaline and good to him in all ways but the one he wishes for most.
"I’m sorry to worry you. I will settle myself and be ready and focused. I can’t afford to have as much fun as last year at the commencement," He jokes with a light laugh, "But it is a worthy sacrifice." Kelradest looks at him assessingly, but then at last, he smiles.
"I trust you. Take this time to look after yourself. I must not keep the King waiting any longer, but if you have need of me, you need only say so, my Second." The White Knight gives a polite nod of his head, pausing only to give Scythaline’s shoulder a squeeze, before they leave him. Scythaline watches Kelradest go while adjusting his clothes back into their proper lay, tucking his shirt more securely into the sash around his waist, adjusting his sleeves just so. He should sort himself out… but going to see Gwyn is a risk. Dreigas and he share quarters in the fortress, and while that did not stop Scythaline from meeting
Gwyn last year, it did require a great deal of luck and mindfulness of the Rook’s movements. Dreigas would not accept any excuse for Scythaline to enter their chambers after all, not even if death was the consequence. Scythaline can only ask around and hope that Gwyn has wandered away from the watchful eye of his frigid husband and he can have a few moments with him to give him the gift he has tucked away and perhaps share a kiss or two. He takes his time walking and asks casually when he runs into Pawns that are busy with preparations, and it seems that while there is no god for luck, he is favored by some other being that might appreciate his romantic aspirations.
He goes to find Gwyn where he’s been told the Rook is preparing for the commencement firework display, a tower where all of them will be shot off safely away from the onlooking crowd below. It’s an unusual time, a wonderful time to be alive, that the Rook of White might invent such a thing purely for enjoyment rather than as a weapon against the Kingdom of Black. The display the year before had been truly spectacular, and Scythaline suspects his lover will outdo himself this year just by virtue of being incredibly clever and free to create without the pressure of competing weaponsmiths on the opposing side.
"Gwyn?" Scythaline calls when he reaches the tower’s top room, stepping inside. The Rook of White is seated at a workbench, his lovely golden hair pulled into a loose tail. He glances over his shoulder, smiling when he sees Scythaline.
"Just the man I was hoping to see. Let me put this aside." Gwyn doesn’t make him wait, quick in his work with the ground crystals that would, in resonance, produce sparks bright enough to light up the sky. "Dreigas is tied up with preparations for the commencement." He doesn’t need to elaborate. The Bishop won’t cut this chance meeting short. Scythaline closes the door behind him and turns the lock on the door despite the assurance that Dreigas won’t come around. It’s just as likely that a Pawn or two in Gwyn’s retinue might come up to see if he needs any assistance, and that would be only marginally less fortunate. Scythaline comes to Gwyn and takes advantage of the fact that the other man is sitting, resting his hands on Gwyn’s shoulders and leaning in to kiss his cheek. Gwyn towers over Scythaline considerably when standing, and while that’s never been an issue, Scythaline enjoys instances where he can lean down rather than up to kiss the other man.
"I have a gift for you," he says, too eager to reveal it when he’s been holding onto the gift for weeks leading up to the games. He produces the pouch, a box wrapped in red silk that is recognizable as the product of a famous jeweler in Selenite. It is an expensive gift, he knows… but Gwyn can afford all sorts of finery and is always dressed handsomely with attention to the popular fashion of the Kingdom. Only a gift that he might wear proudly will do. Gwyn gasps softly, just at the sight of the telltale silk.
"Oh, Scythaline, are you certain?" He touches the fine material, but pauses. "I don’t have your gift with me. Shouldn’t we wait?" Scythaline shakes his head.
"No, it’s alright. I would like to see you open it now," he assures. Gwyn smiles again, carefully removing the wrapping and opening the box. The sapphire studs inside are beautifully cut, catching the light at the slightest movement.
"How beautiful…" Gwyn looks up at Scythaline, the faintest bit of mischief, of invitation, touching his expression. "Help me with them?" Scythaline feels a fluttering warmth rise up in his chest at Gwyn’s approval and flirtatious offer; of course he wants to put them on for Gwyn, it was his hope that Gwyn might wear them at the commencement and even if he spends his entire night next to Dreigas, the gleaming sapphires would be a sweet secret just for them. He delicately takes one of the earrings from the box and just as gently encourages Gwyn to tip his jaw. The golden strands in Scythaline’s way are brushed aside before he takes the backing off the earring and gently guides it into Gwyn’s earlobe. It’s not as though it will hurt, Gwyn’s ears are not newly pierced, but Scythaline still puts the earring in with reverence, like he could hurt Gwyn if he’s not careful. He takes up the other earring, and does the same with it before admiring his work, leaning in to press a kiss to Gwyn’s jaw, just below his ear.
"They’re even more beautiful on you. Will you wear them tonight, for me?"
"Of course, I will," Gwyn agrees, gathering Scythaline’s hands into his own, pressing kisses to the knuckles. "Thank you. They’re lovely." He pauses, thumbing circles into Scythaline’s skin. "When can I come to see you next? I’ve missed you." Scythaline squeezes Gwyn’s hands gently, touched by the sentiment and feeling much the same when traveling all the way from Selenite to right up against the Ghostlands had meant several days of being apart, of not even catching a glimpse of each other.
"I wish I could say, there are a lot of eyes on me this year." He laments, "Perhaps after my bout with Syl we can meet without causing a stir. If I win, I will celebrate my victory with you." He’d dedicate his victory to Gwyn if he could, but it’s too much and would most certainly result in Dreigas retaliating. "I can’t say it, but if I win, it will be for you. And if I lose… well…" He laughs weakly. "I hope you will comfort me and not think less of me."
"I could never think less of you, Scythaline," Gwyn says at once. "Win for me, or lose, and I will ease your disappointment." Gwyn lets go of Scythaline’s hands, but only to draw him in, slipping an arm around his waist. "I only wish I could have you before the match…" His hand strays a little lower. Scythaline groans outright in his displeasure—turning Gwyn down is always awful, rare as it is that he must be the one to say no. It’s more often that Gwyn must remind him of where they are and time limitations, than that he is the one being mindful of circumstance. He strokes his hands over Gwyn’s hair and pulls him in close, standing between the other man’s legs and wrapping him up in an embrace.
"I would like that too… but there’s no time, is there? The commencement ceremony is long as it is, let alone that people will expect to see you mingling with the other court… I would rather have you to myself, but tonight is important." He is certainly saying it to convince himself more than to impress that reality onto Gwyn. He kisses Gwyn’s hair, sighing and breathing in the refreshing, wintry scent of the soap Gwyn uses to make it so beautiful. "If there is a moment, make a sign to me. I will meet you away from the festivities. But if not, know it’s not for lack of wanting."
"I will… But let me have a taste before you go, hm?" Gwyn’s clever fingers start to work at the fastenings of Scythaline’s clothes. "Since we may have to wait…" Scythaline doesn’t resist, tipping back from Gwyn enough to let him undo the wide sash around his hips and the lacings of his trousers. His shirt falls open, and Gwyn’s bare hands are on his skin, his lips, his mouth, all gentle despite their famous lethality. Gwyn’s talent would allow him with a touch to cause all of Scythaline’s blood to pour from his nose and mouth, could burst the very veins he’s tracing with his fingers… but Scythaline has only ever admired Gwyn’s ability because Gwyn would never hurt him. He might have insisted upon Gwyn removing the gloves he almost always wears, but they’re on the workbench behind Gwyn, leaving those dangerous, capable hands bare. Scythaline submits himself to Gwyn, pleased to be wanted, to be kept, even like this, even in secret. The glint of those pretty earrings catches his eye and the way they add to Gwyn’s loveliness fills Scythaline with pride, but after that, he can’t think of much of anything but how utterly certain he is that he is in love with Gwyn Theiris, a man married to another, but surely, surely is his.