Chapter Text
"My boy," breathes Duessel, running his fingertips over the curve of the back of the chair. "These are magnificent."
All of the blood and sweat that Cormag had sacrificed for these pieces is worth it for such rare praise. He beams, gazing down at the matching wooden rockers with a measure of pride he finally allows himself to feel. "Thank you. I appreciated the challenge."
Experimentally, Duessel presses the armrest of one of the chairs back a little, marveling as the chair moves with his touch and bounces back when he lets go. He even seems mystified by the chair's gentle creaking as it stabilizes back into stillness.
"I've never seen one that can move like this," says Duessel. "How did you think of such a thing?"
Cormag prays he's not blushing; what a thing for Obsidian himself to make a humble woodworker do. "I'd hoped Amelia and Neimi might grow old with these," he explains, "and when their joints hurt, they can just…sit down and let go."
Duessel chuckles. "You've really thought ahead."
"That's what my commander taught me to do," Cormag answers. "I made 'em as lightweight as I could. A couple horses should be able to do the job, yeah?"
"Yes, Cormag." Duessel keeps an errant hand on the chair, rocking it absentmindedly. "I believe Amelia will adore them, as will her bride to be. There is another reason for my visit, though."
Cormag blinks. "Oh?"
Duessel temporarily excuses himself to fetch something from the convoy, but when he returns, he knocks again in lieu of letting himself back in. Strange. Cormag opens the door, finding him holding a lance.
The lance.
The general's expression is grave, sullen. The three years that have passed since Fomortiis' defeat have certainly taken their toll on Duessel: his hair is noticeably grayer, his cheeks a bit more sunken. Still, even now, with what Cormag knows is about to be passed to him…he can't help but think of Duessel as strikingly handsome.
"I didn't want to bring the wickedness of this blade into your home without your full approval," Duessel explains. "And if the time is still not right, you may refuse. But, Cormag…do you still wish to inherit this lance?"
Cormag rips his eyes from his former general to affix them to the cursed weapon in question. It seems to even corrupt the sunlight that glints off of it, and Cormag is struck by its inherent power for a third time.
After a bulk of the rebuilding efforts in Grado, Duessel had come by for a visit, bearing the lance. At the time, Cormag's heart had wavered. It was near to the first anniversary of Glen's death, and the wound was still too raw to allow something so fraught nearby. He asked Duessel to come back once his resolve had strengthened.
Standing in the doorway now, Cormag fears it may never be strong enough. How many times can he refuse something he'd asked for himself, and still be called a man? How much longer may he run from his own shame and fear? And heavens forfend, if Duessel were to die before the lance could be properly passed down…
…it might end up in someone else's hands. It's unthinkable, unacceptable.
Cormag reaches out with his spear-arm. "I accept, General." The lance crosses the threshold of Cormag's doorway, and he takes it with a firm, steady grip. It's still warm where Duessel had grasped it. Cormag has never held a lance so heavy; does it require madness to handle such a beast with any sort of deftness or skill?
No. Cormag refuses the thought outright. He will tame this blade, and it will not change him.
"Thank you, sir." Cormag meets Duessel's eyes, carefully watching his expression. His face is perhaps inscrutable by design, and maybe Cormag only sees what he wants, or what he expects. Pride. Shame. Pity. No use in thinking about it now. "Please, come in. You look like you've come to bear bad news."
Duessel nods, pulling himself from the existential malady that grips him. "Apologies."
Cormag turns away, striding across the house to place the lance in his bedroom. Perhaps when he first bartered for this shack a couple of years ago, he should have thought more about exactly where this accursed thing would live. He can think of something later.
Duessel, standing in Cormag's kitchen, suddenly holds himself like a stranger instead of a friend. It hurts Cormag's heart a little. "You've had a long ride, yeah? You can sit down. Can I put on some tea?"
He only receives a good-natured grunt in answer, but Duessel does sit. "You're very generous," he tells Cormag. "Thank you."
"Can you please stop talking to me like I'm a rookie?" Cormag fills his teapot and fiddles for a moment with the magic spark to get a flame beneath it. At last, he sits across from Duessel. "Are you having second thoughts about the wedding or something?"
The change in subject seems to be enough to snap Duessel from his stupor. "Old habits," he explains. "Not second thoughts. Amelia and Neimi are very happy, and very good for each other. I suppose it simply serves as a reminder that I'm getting older. That she doesn't need me anymore."
It's still an easier snag to pull apart than anything about the spear. "She adores you, y'know. Even Neimi's gotten a lot more confident around you. You're still needed."
Duessel smiles at the attempts at comfort. "In some ways, I'm needed too much," he gripes. "The Empire is still a shell of her former self. There's only so much I can do to keep the seams from showing. I suppose all that's in my control now is ensuring that the girl I trained and the woman she loves have as little as possible to worry about in Grado's future."
"That's the spirit," says Cormag. "I won't have you riding out to the wedding all mopey. It's a bad omen."
At last, Duessel lets out a real laugh, echoing amongst Cormag's thin walls. Cormag wishes he could bottle it up and keep it at his bedside. Such a joyous, triumphant sound.
"I'll admit," Cormag continues, "I was pretty surprised when you wrote to me. But I suppose if you didn't, I might not even know about the wedding. Still…couldn't you have asked any Imperial woodworker? They're probably more skilled than me, sir."
Duessel's eyes are heavy on him; bright, clear, belying his sixty-odd years. "I suppose I could have," he capitulates. "They would've done a fine job with the chairs, I'm sure. But a lifelong gift such as this means more coming from an old friend. Besides, I was afraid you weren't getting a lot of clients, so far out in the sticks."
Cormag scrubs the back of his neck. "I like it out here. Nobody really bothers me or Genarog unless I want 'em to. I have a couple of wealthy regulars that commission me a few times a year, and that keeps me fed. I guess I just…"
Huh. That had come out unbidden. "No, never mind."
"Speak, boy," Duessel says gently.
Cormag crumbles under such a soft order. "It's nice to have company."
The creases around Duessel's eyes deepen as he smiles, sadly. "You've been lonely."
It's a devastating revelation, like a blind spot exploited. "Sometimes, yeah. I suppose I have."
"Your name has been cleared," Duessel continues. "You don't have to live a three-day ride from civilization, if you don't wish to. You could come live closer to the Capital."
Cormag nods, shying away. "I've made a life here," he says quietly. "I built my whole shop from nothing. Genarog and I, we've got a good routine. It'd be nice to have friends come over more often, but…I'm happy, sir."
"No more of that, please," says Duessel. "I'm just a man like any other, here."
Cormag breaks into a wide grin. "Old habits."
Duessel's gaze is piercing, even in a calmer moment. Normally, the scrutiny would bother Cormag, but it feels safe coming from Duessel. Like he wants to be picked apart.
"I hope you don't think I have a lesser opinion of you just because you're no longer a soldier," Duessel says softly.
Cormag runs the words over in his mind, looking for any fleck of truth in them. "Not really," he says. "I enlisted more or less because of my brother. But if even a man like him was cut down, what chance did I have?"
The ensuing silence tells him it's the wrong thing to say, but Cormag can't scrape the words back into his throat. "I'm — "
"Much of survival is merely luck," Duessel cuts in, matter-of-factly. "I can teach a man everything I know. He may be swift, strong, lion-hearted. But if he is standing in the wrong place when disaster falls, then he, too, will fall with it."
Cormag's throat tightens. "Duessel — "
"There is little other reason that I stand here today," he continues, "while men greater than myself have fallen before me. You were lucky to leave when you did."
The gravity in Duessel's time-roughened voice reminds Cormag viscerally of the evening that Valter was slain. Cormag had found Duessel in the battle's aftermath, and wept. He crashed against Duessel like a wave, and the general had borne all of his misery. There was the catharsis of revenge, sure, but it was mixed with helplessness, that Cormag had not landed the killing blow himself.
He had wailed like a babe against the plate adorning Duessel's chest, and both strong arms had wrapped firmly around Cormag's body, simultaneously supporting him and shielding him from the eyes of onlookers. In the three years since, Cormag has not forgotten the security of that hold, the steadfastness of his silent comfort. He longs to be held like that again, but only calamity could bring such a thing to him from beyond the pale.
Duessel stands, and for a moment, Cormag wonders if he will approach. Instead, he turns toward the door, just as the teapot whistles.
"Where are you going?" Cormag's voice is pitifully small to his own ears.
"To the chapel," Duessel says, like it's obvious. "It's still a few days out. I can leave a horse here for you, if you — "
"Please don't leave," Cormag murmurs. "Please. I…You've already journeyed so far. Rest here. I have space."
Duessel hides a sigh, but Cormag still notices. "I suppose it's a special occasion. And as you say, you so rarely have visitors. If you insist, my boy."
Cormag's thigh twitches. He wants to be called that again. And again, and… "Can I help you bring your bags in?"
"Such a gentleman," says Duessel, leading the way to his carriage and horses.
The horses are fed and watered; Genarog is brushed and socialized. He regards Duessel like an old friend, even going so far as to lick his face. Duessel takes it in stride, and compliments the wyvern's physique; Cormag could swear he preens at the praise.
Cormag throws a stew together once they finish their tea, talking about the jobs he's taken on in the past few years: a few training swords here, a few dining tables there. He'd once even single-handedly built a house for a wealthy benefactor who wished to leave the bustle of the city behind. That one kept him going for a whole winter.
At last, once Cormag gathers their bowls and checks the bolt on the door, he must face the last challenge of the night. He opens the door to his bedroom, blinking past the whiff of malevolence trapped inside. "You'll take my bed tonight, Duessel."
"What?" gawks the commander. "No, boy, I couldn't possibly — "
"Am I to make my esteemed guest sleep on the floor?" Cormag retaliates playfully. "Please, I insist. We don't need you to get a crick in your neck by the morning."
Duessel glances at the bed. "Is it not big enough for us both?"
Cormag blanches. The thought hadn't crossed his mind even once. He shakes his head. "You don't want that. I'm a blanket hog. And I splay out all over the place."
"I'm a deep sleeper in peacetime, Cormag." Duessel's tone leaves little room for argument. "Stop insisting on humbling yourself before me. We are both of equal standing in this house, yes?"
Cormag swallows against a lump in his throat. "Yes, s— Duessel."
"Very well." Duessel claims one side, shifting Cormag's lone pillow to the other. Cormag has never shared his house, let alone his bed, with anyone. And Duessel, in his sleep clothes, looks so much less imposing than in his armor. Smaller, more mortal. Even in his modest shirt, a few tufts of chest hair peek out from his collar, obscene in their innocence.
Cormag tears his eyes away as he kills the last lantern. Normally, he sleeps shirtless with his breasts unbound; tonight, he's not sure if he'll be able. Not because Duessel would question or look down on him, but because the very topic of his own body is dangerous when it desires what it certainly cannot have.
In the dark, he unbinds himself. Unseen, he holds his breasts, gritting his teeth at the hardening of his nipples. This is as close as he will get to nakedness, to unburdening himself completely, in front of his former general. He pulls a tunic over his head, loose over his braies, and settles himself down on the bed.
Cormag faces away from Duessel, toward the door. Toward the lance, still catching the faintest glimmer of moonlight from the window. He shivers, closing his eyes. Duessel is unbearably close, already breathing steadily, close to sleep. Sturdy and warm.
He pulls the bedclothes over his nose to mask Duessel's scent, comforting and overwhelming. He wills his body to be still, for its traitorous yearning to run dry. He dreams of riding Genarog over the barren remains of his motherland.