Chapter Text
Meve, Gascon, and a small detachment of mostly Strays depart for Devil’s Tower before dawn. Over the following days Reynard keeps the army on a steady march, planning skirmishes with his senior officers and a few other select guests. He includes Gabor at these meetings, hoping that further collaboration with the dwarves will convince him to remain in Meve’s service after the war. They’ll need all the allies they can get, and it would be foolish not to pursue closer ties with Mahakam.
The queen’s absence sits in the pit of Reynard’s stomach like a stone, stealing his rest. He spends most of his nights in the empty command tent, pouring over reports and maps. He’s not the only one on edge; the dog has taken to following him around, clearly missing his master. Knickers is loyal to Gascon first, Meve second, then all the cooks in the mess tent, with Reynard a distant fourth.
“You aren’t exactly my first choice of company either,” he grumbles to the impatient bundle of fur at his feet. “They’ll return soon- tomorrow evening at th’ latest, or else I’ll ride out and search for them myself.”
Wonderful, he’s venting his anxieties to the dog now. At least his newest confidante doesn’t argue when Reynard mutters, for the tenth time, that sending the queen out with so few soldiers escorting her was a terrible idea.
Knickers flops under the desk and whines, needing far more attention than the general can offer. Reynard sighs, “Fine. Come on, then. A walk shall do us both good.”
They patrol the perimeter of the encampment together until Knickers’ nervous energy has been worked out. The walk helps clear Reynard’s mind as well, as his thoughts settle long enough for him to appreciate the relative stillness of the evening. The night is brisk, bordering on chilly. A steady breeze carries the scent of the nearby forest, soft earth and sharp pine. After the oppressive stench of Angren’s swamps, each deep lungful is a blessing.
On the way back to the command tent, Reynard is stopped by Corporal Larkin, one of his best scouts. “Update from the advance unit, sir,” he says, straightening his posture and giving the general a crisp salute.
“At ease, Larkin. Go on.”
“The queen’s party, they’ve been spotted- a day’s ride out, by our estimates. We can expect them to make good time. Terrain’s solid, and it seems like the storms have cleared for now.”
“Excellent. Was- ah, was there anything else?” Reynard stops himself from asking if Villem was spotted amongst his mother’s light traveling party. The purpose of the queen’s brief absence from her forces is secret to all but a few.
“No, sir.” Larkin glances down at Knickers, who is furiously wagging his tail and pressing a wet nose to his knee. The dog knows better than to jump up on anyone in the general’s presence, Reynard trained that out of him within the first week of Knickers joining their forces. There is more than enough mud and grime to go around, no need for eager paws to add more to the queen’s traveling clothes or the soldiers' ragged uniforms. Knickers whines impatiently. Clearly the poor creature is still starved for attention.
“If you’re headed to the mess tent, Corporal, would you mind taking the mutt along? I think he’s usually begging for scraps right about now.”
“Certainly, sir!” Larkin drops into a crouch and ruffles Knickers’ ears. Overcome with the affection, the dog rolls onto his back and squirms in delight as his belly is thoroughly rubbed.
“Good man.”
The next day passes without the queen’s arrival. Reynard doesn’t sleep at all that night, torn between maintaining the secrecy of Meve’s mission and mobilizing the entire army to search for them. He receives another report- the queen and her party deviated from their expected route, bearing southwest towards Scala from their current location, but they’re making good time. He could cry with relief. If it wasn’t for Villem, if the future of her kingdoms didn’t hang in the balance; Reynard would never have agreed to let the queen go off on such a risky mission. But she likely would have done so anyway. All he can do is wait. And pace. And grind his teeth in anticipation.
The following night blaring signal horns startle Reynard out of a shallow slumber, a long note followed by two short ones. Riders, friendly. Melitele be praised.
Gascon would’ve teased him mercilessly for sleeping fully dressed and wearing his boots, but he’s grateful for his foresight as he springs off the floor and hurries off in the direction of the horns. It takes all his self-discipline to avoid breaking into a sprint. By the time he sees a familiar blue gambeson in the light of the torches, his hands are shaking.
Relief crashes over him in waves when the short figure next to Meve pulls down his hood to reveal a mop of blond curls the same shade as the queen’s.
“Your Majesties,” Reynard calls out, straining to keep his tone flat and emotionless. Inwardly, he could weep. His heart thumps harder for a few beats when Meve turns to him with a dazzling smile. For the first time in months there is unspoiled joy written across her face, radiant in her triumph. Beside her, Villem shifts his weight from foot to foot; glancing around the encampment, taking in the sheer size of the army his mother has managed to amass during her exile. With the crown prince back at her side the ranks will only continue to grow.
“General Odo,” Meve replies, “I’ve a new recruit, eager to prove his mettle. You will assign him as you see fit, as you would any other soldier- Villem will not shirk his duties, I’ve been assured.”
Any other soldier would be flogged and imprisoned for defecting to Nilfgaard, and Reynard fears that the rank-and-file will bristle at Villem joining their ranks, no matter how contrite he appears. He’ll have to consider the prince’s assignments carefully.
“I wish to contribute, to see my countrymen liberated from Nilfgaardian rule as I have been. I vow to work tirelessly under your command, Count Reynard, uh- general… sir.” Villem’s clearly rehearsed speech falls apart at the end as he attempts to find a fittingly formal address for a man he’s known his entire life. When Reginald was still alive he used to tease his chief advisor by pronouncing his name the way Villem did when he was very small, replacing the first ‘r’ with a ‘w’. That may as well have happened in another lifetime.
Clearing his throat, Reynard adapts a suitably detached expression as he returns Villem’s intense stare. In the flickering torchlight the young prince’s features seem to shift. He looks older than Reynard remembers but still boyish, half grown-into his limbs and sporting a sad attempt at a mustache. “You shall report to me directly tomorrow morning,” he says to Villem, “I’ll arrange for personal quarters-”
“-No need,” Meve interrupts with a yawn, “Villem can stay with me in th’ command tent tonight. I’ve asked for another cot to be brought up.” She claps her son on the shoulder and gestures toward the center of camp. “Go on, grab some food from th’ mess, I’ll join you in a moment.”
Once Villem is out of earshot, Meve draws Reynard aside. “I was right. Villem’s terms were audacious.”
“Yet you accepted them?”
Meve grins. “Audacious, but not unreasonable. I fear my son has become quite th’ politician in my absence. We can go over everything tomorrow. I’d debrief tonight but frankly, I’m exhausted. Oh, and there is another matter- but it can wait.”
“Yes, your Grace.” His voice must betray the flash of anxiety he feels because Meve rushes to clarify.
“Nothing dire. I’ve promised Gascon a title and I’d like your input on what precisely that should entail. Land, estate… so on. As for his rank-” Meve yawns, waving her hand dismissively. “Ah, pardon me. We’ll discuss th' particulars after I’ve rested.”
“Oh, ah, yes. Of course,” he stutters. It’s good sense, elevating Gascon to a more official position. Makes it more likely that he’ll stick around after Meve regains her throne. Perhaps he’ll even retire that ridiculous “Duke of Dogs” moniker. Reynard smiles to himself as he scans the rest of Meve’s party, searching for a familiar pointed hat.
“Where is Gascon?”
“He was right behind me-” Meve looks around, puzzled. “Snuck off to find Knickers, I’d wager. Or he may have gone straight to bed. It was a hard ride.”
Reynard escorts Meve and the rest of the Strays to the mess tent before going to search for Gascon himself. It’s unlike him to steal off while there’s attention and admiration to be had, especially from the queen.
In anticipation of his arrival, Gascon’s tent had been set up the day before near the eastern edge of the encampment. It looms against the treeline of the nearby woods, undisturbed and apparently unoccupied.
“Gascon?” Reynard peers into the dark tent. It’s empty, save for some scattered possessions strewn about. One of the canvas panels is hanging open, like someone barged through it in a hurry and neglected to tie it back down. Strange. And there’s something spilled in the dirt just outside. Reynard follows a trail of trampled wildgrass away from the tent towards the trees. His footsteps quicken as his stomach clenches in fear. Something isn’t right. He considers falling back, gathering a few soldiers to help him investigate; this far from the campfires the darkness is nearly impenetrable. But if something’s happened…
Suppressing a welling sense of panic, Reynard steps carefully past the treeline. The woods are alive with sound; the croaking of frogs, a symphony of insects, the hiss of the wind. Branches creaking as they sway- the crunch of a footstep-
“Gascon?”
Something slams into him at speed, shoving him up against the trunk of a tree and driving the air out of his lungs. Before Reynard’s hand can grasp the hilt of his sword he feels the cold bite of steel against his skin. There’s an arm across his chest and blade to his throat, the tip hovering under the hinge of his jaw.
“Don’t move.” It’s Gascon’s voice, ragged and broken.
“Gascon-”
“-Shut up,” he hisses. “One more word, one f*cking flinch and I swear I’ll open your carotid.” The tip of Gascon’s dagger taps the artery in question, the threat surgically precise.
Reynard says nothing. His thoughts are a maelstrom; a churning squall of fear and confusion that threatens to drown out his reason. Grasping for any scraps of information, he risks a quick glance down. In the dim light he can barely make out Gascon’s features. His eyes are wide and wild, his lips pulled back in an animal snarl. He’s lost the hat, or left it behind, and his hair is a tangled mess of curls. This close, Reynard can smell vodka on his breath as he breathes- fast and heavy. He reeks of it. Must have started drinking while still on the road.
He’s wondered before if Gascon exaggerates his affect when he drinks socially, appearing exuberant in company but sobering quickly when eyes are no longer on him. It occurs to him that he’s probably never seen him truly drunk before. It also occurs to him that he has never truly known Gascon, and it was foolish for him to ever think he did. More foolish still to share his bed with him. It’s far too easy - especially since they’ve gotten… closer - to forget the danger that lurks beneath the man’s easy charm. For every dimpled smile there’s a corpse mangled by the highroad, a vicious snarl for each melodious laugh.
And now… he’s twitchy and unstable; anger as sharp as the blade still held to Reynard’s throat. Normally, Gascon moves with an archer’s grace- his slender hips the perfect fulcrum for the rest of his body. But drunk and furious his movements are erratic, his whole frame seeming top-heavy and unbalanced. Reynard swallows hard, feeling a sharp sting as the keen edge of the dagger momentarily bites into his flesh. It would take no effort at all, barely a slip of the wrist- and his heart is pounding so fast he’d bleed out in moments.
Gascon leans closer, the sound of his breathing and the stench of his booze-sodden breath closing in. “Were you there?” he rasps. It takes Reynard a moment to realize he’s asking a question.
“What?”
“Were you there?”
“Was I- Gascon, I don’t-”
“-Scala.”
Reynard frantically digs through his memory. Scala? Scala… the scouts said Meve’s party had ridden through the region. And Gascon had mentioned it himself when asked about the location of Devil’s Tower. Something is stirring in the back of Reynard’s memory. Something best forgotten.
“No. No, I’ve never been to Scala.”
“Bullsh*t,” Gascon speaks through gritted teeth, “King Reginald’s favorite knight? You were there, weren’t you?”
“No, I-” The scattered pieces of information Reynard has been grasping for through his panic converge all at once, a sudden bolt of clarity. “You… you’re a Brossard,” he says slowly, “Gascon… Brossard.”
Names and records flash through Reynard’s mind; he’s memorized the history of most noble Rivian houses a few generations back and the Brossards were one of the most powerful. It seems blindingly obvious now. G ascon Brossard . Reynard can picture the archives, the family records. Gascon’s father, Duke Brossard, leader of the disastrous coup attempt against King Reginald. His mother, daughter of another powerful house and an accomplished diplomat in her own right. And- oh gods, Gascon had siblings. Four of them? Five? Yes, five. Brothers and sisters. All younger than him. And his cousins- aunts, uncles… all dead now, the Brossard massacre an ugly blight on Rivia’s recent past.
f*ck. Gascon really is going to kill him.
Cold metal twitches against his skin, forcing him to tilt his head back further and bare his throat. Reynard waits for the sure thrust of the knife, breathing hard against the arm crushing his ribs. He hopes Gascon will go for the artery and not his trachea. He hopes it will be over soon. Meve is going to be so angry with him for getting killed like this- what a stupid last thought. Oh, well.
Nothing. Stillness, the wind, the fevered rush of his own blood.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I… do not expect you to. I can only offer you my word. I was not there, I swear it on my vows as a knight. King Reginald… it was near the end of his life. He was unwell. Volatile. I spoke out against his ruling so he sent me off to Lyria on some pretense and then departed for Scala himself-” Gascon leans more of his weight against him, an animal growl rumbling deep in his chest.
Still braced for the worst, Reynard shuts his eyes and steadies himself. There’s a chance that if he moves fast enough, if he can strike first, he can knock the weapon from Gascon’s hand before he plunges it into his neck. As he thinks through several options, he hears Gascon’s shallow breathing deepen to heaving gulps of air. He opens his eyes just in time to see the flash of steel as the knife is pulled away from his throat and hurled at the ground. The blade embeds itself in the knotted bark of a tree root, trembling faintly in the moonlight.
Gascon stumbles back, sobbing and furious. Hands balled into fists, he swipes at the tears spilling down his cheeks. Tension radiates from his body, coiled and ready to snap. He’s no longer armed but he’s still primed for a fight. Hurt and anger wrestle for control of his expression as he glares up at Reynard.
“I don’t want to fight you,” Reynard says plainly, watching Gascon’s entire body tense up. “And I know you think it will make you feel better, but-”
Gascon co*cks a fist before he can finish his sentence and punches him square in the face. Hard. Still backed against the tree, Reynard can’t move enough to properly absorb the blow. A sickening crunch reverberates through his skull as his nose breaks. Blood pours down his face and seeps between his fingers as he clutches his face in his hands. Not the general’s finest attempt at deescalation.
“Oh, f-f*ck,” Gascon’s eyes are wide, the shock of what he’s done breaking through his rage. “Oh, sh*t… I- f*ck . Hit me back.”
“No.”
“Hit me back! C’mon, even it out. I want you to.”
Reynard shakes his head as he pulls his bloodied hands away from his face. Tears of pain blur his vision no matter how fast blinks them away.
“Hit me back- please. You have to,” Gascon’s voice is high and hysterical. It sounds like he’s close to crying again. “Just… hurt me, f*cking do it!” His pleas continue, growing louder until he’s practically shouting, begging for retribution. Begging for pain. The disturbance is bound to draw attention eventually, and this situation would be extraordinarily difficult to explain.
With a sense of grim resignation Reynard sets his jaw, crooks his elbow, and punches Gascon in the stomach. He doesn’t put any real power behind the blow, doesn’t follow through or twist his hips - he’s aiming to startle, not to hurt - but Gascon crumples the moment his fist makes contact. Hadn’t even bothered to tense his abdominal muscles. Reynard catches him by the forearms before he can collapse to the ground and Gascon wheezes, the wind knocked out of him all at once. When his breath returns it’s in the form of deep, gasping sobs that make his whole frame quake.
At a loss for what to do, Reynard lets Gascon slump against him and weep. One of his hands cradles the back of his head - fingers twining into the short curls at the nape of his neck - while the other rubs slow circles into his back.
While Reynard absently murmurs reassurance, his mind drifts elsewhere; to the other sounds in the forest, to the taste of his own blood on his teeth, to how in the hell he’s going to explain this to Meve. Briefly, he considers brushing it off as a mishap on the training grounds. But Meve trains as early as he does, and he doesn’t want to lie to her. She’d see through it anyway- sometimes her gaze is so intense he wonders if she can see beneath his skin.
No. Better to offer the truth, plain and unembellished. Once he feels the hitch in Gascon’s breathing subside, he draws back. The spot where Gascon has pressed his face into Reynard’s chest is damp with tears.
“Damn it, I’m bleeding on you,” he mumbles. The adrenaline surge from his life being threatened has started to recede, leaving him feeling slightly nauseous and fully aware of the dull throbbing pain in his skull.
“Gimme a minute- gonna be sick.” Gascon nearly trips as he retreats a few paces to empty his stomach. He returns looking even more miserable than before, his pallid face damp with sweat and tears. “Ah, sh-sh*t,” he hiccups, “did I break your nose?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Guess I should apologize t’ Meve if I’ve spoiled your good looks.”
“My good- this is hardly th' time for your jests,” Reynard winces, wiping fresh blood from his upper lip.
“Bet Isbel will fix you up if you ask nicely,” Gascon slurs, swaying a little as he retrieves his dagger.
“I am not about to trouble our only sorceress with something so trivial. You need to sober up, go on.”
For once in his life, Gascon complies with the general's order.
Back in his tent, Gascon clumsily strips down to his undergarments and sprawls face-down over his cot. It makes for a pathetic sight. All gangly limbs and awful tattoos, still painfully thin with an unhealthy pale cast to his skin. Some of that ill-coloring may be due to the alcohol, however. Gascon curses as Reynard slips a hand beneath him to gently palpate his abdomen, checking for bruising or swelling. He doesn’t think he hit him hard enough to cause any real damage but feels obligated to make sure.
“Does that hurt?”
“No. Quit pokin’ me.”
“Gods, there’s nothing to you. Have you fallen ill?”
“Piss off.”
Gascon has to be coaxed to drink water, and Reynard’s patience to do the coaxing and to refill his cup quickly runs out. The pain of his broken nose is starting to irritate him. It was Gascon’s own foolish idea to down a week’s worth of vodka in an evening, and the damned scoundrel had him at knifepoint less than an hour ago - he has a thin cut beneath his jaw as a memento - but Reynard cannot just leave. It’s his duty that holds him here, he tells himself, ignoring the disorienting melange of concern and guilt that swirls around his guts as he watches the Duke of Dogs choke down another cup of water.
“I feel like sh*t,” Gascon flips over and mutters into his pillows. His voice is hoarse, stripped raw by his stomach acid.
“You will feel far worse come morning if you don’t hydrate properly. Here.”
“No I mean… it’s not- I… Dammit. I feel like utter, absolute sh*t.”
Reynard waits for him to continue, but Gascon just turns his face away.
“Will you even remember any of this tomorrow?”
Sighing heavily, Gascon rolls over onto his back and stares up at the patched canvas roof of his tent. His narrow chest jerks with short, unsteady breaths. “I’ll remember. Didn’t manage to drink enough to forget.” He slings an arm over his eyes and mutters, “I would never… wasn’t really going t’ slit your throat.”
“Your intent matters very little,” Reynard snaps. “You were drunk. One clumsy gesture would have had me bleeding out at your feet.”
Gascon refuses to look at him, his apparent indifference tearing Reynard’s already thin patience to shreds.
“Briefing’s at dawn. Don’t be late.” Before storming out Reynard snatches a needlessly ornate embroidered shirt - stolen, no doubt - from atop a pile of Gascon’s belongings and tucks it under his arm; payment for the one he’s wearing that’s now stained by his own blood.
