Evening of the Thorn
Jul. 30th, 2023 11:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seleniasTitle: Evening of the Thorn
Fandom: FFXVI
Characters/pairing: Dion/Terence
Rating: gen
Word Count: 700
Notes: Some political b.s.-ing drabble/toe-dip with Terence doing his best to recognize Anabella's intents with the dragoons. There's no way this guy doesn't know all the same shit that Dion does lol. I would love to write 5-10k of Terence being a badass and doing subterfuge for Dion behind the scenes but that will involve so much worldbuilding and drafting (and I still haven't played this f-ing game. wehh). Someday.
-
The new Empress was a chase of silk. Her eyes shuttered over the crowd, hands resting over her barely rounded stomach and commanding praise from all who looked. The reception hall had thrown its doors open and the nobility flowed through the corridors and chambers in threads of ivory and blue. Terence had taken the first glass of wine he’d been offered, not yet drunk or intending to be, and watched His Highness who most certainly was, a crisp line of white and flowing sleeves beside the door to the balcony, the cool evening breeze rustling his hair and doing nothing to erase the stone cold demeanor he’d decided to pen. The music played loud and raucous from the garden terrace; in the streets, the citizens celebrated the future promise of their second son and knew not the knife it would carry.
Beneath the careful facade of joy, there was an acquisition to be made in these glittering halls. The loyalest dragoons dawned noble colors and slipped through unnoticed as servants and escorts with open ears. Terence toasted to Dion when their eyes caught at last; his expression thawed, his feet approached and that signaled the end of their providence.
Terence knew all the rumors. Anabella Rosfield, traitoress to the duchy of Rosaria, axiom of courtly alliances and highest regarded bloodlines. A woman of the oldest Rosarian family. She appeared to be cast from plaster or ice. Her face scorned all who were not hers. Dion decidedly did not like her before her arrival in Oriflamme. He had greeted her courteously all the same with a bended knee while His Radiance gave her his arm from the carriage and rows of men bowed their stiff necks. That day had been hot and many summers since had passed. The greaves of Terence’s armor had left indents on Dion’s skin where they gripped each other later to soothe.
(She bought a group of our swords through what means I don’t know, but if she’s here, there’s another thread in our military that needs severed.
We swore fealty, My Prince.
—And many get material goods in exchange, but that doesn’t mean that I am worthy or anyone is beholden. I will take no chances.)
The orders are discharged as swiftly as a coin toss and the faces that greet Terence’s arrival in their captain’s quarters are unsettled but resolute. How quickly Anabella could turn around and shove the dragoons into the gutters, when His Highness had taken charge and dismissed as many old hands who were greased or made to be with sincere condolences and apologies. A painful review of calipers and names and intent and birth until Terence and him were both nodding off in paperwork, their late lords fawning over them in the morning, servants arriving with pots of tea and crisp hand pies that made their hands sticky and their work lazy. Dion eyed him from across the room where he washed his fingers with a warm towel; Terence saw his reflection approach in the pitcher of water before him and the quill stopped in his hand.
“What are you doing still,” Dion said. His head bowed low over the dip of his shoulder. He smelled less like wine, now like floral and berries. If Terence turned he could press his mouth into the hollow behind his ear. He could damn himself here. He’d be given permission.
“Work, My Prince.”
“An excessive amount,” Dion said. His hands came around and gently tugged on the back of his own. Terence didn’t move. How rare to find his efforts foiled.
“Will you allow me this service,” Terence whispered. “A few more letters, at least. I would not stand a repeat.”
“Neither would I. But I would have you stand properly now so I could kiss you.”
Terence made to move on sore legs and Dion slid past him, alighting to the dulling lantern and replacing the crystal within. Dion was back-lit when he slipped his palm along the starchy collar of his shirt and pressed a tender kiss to the cord in his neck. Terence let his eyes fall shut and held Dion tight in promise. Their terms would be absolute.
Fandom: FFXVI
Characters/pairing: Dion/Terence
Rating: gen
Word Count: 700
Notes: Some political b.s.-ing drabble/toe-dip with Terence doing his best to recognize Anabella's intents with the dragoons. There's no way this guy doesn't know all the same shit that Dion does lol. I would love to write 5-10k of Terence being a badass and doing subterfuge for Dion behind the scenes but that will involve so much worldbuilding and drafting (and I still haven't played this f-ing game. wehh). Someday.
-
The new Empress was a chase of silk. Her eyes shuttered over the crowd, hands resting over her barely rounded stomach and commanding praise from all who looked. The reception hall had thrown its doors open and the nobility flowed through the corridors and chambers in threads of ivory and blue. Terence had taken the first glass of wine he’d been offered, not yet drunk or intending to be, and watched His Highness who most certainly was, a crisp line of white and flowing sleeves beside the door to the balcony, the cool evening breeze rustling his hair and doing nothing to erase the stone cold demeanor he’d decided to pen. The music played loud and raucous from the garden terrace; in the streets, the citizens celebrated the future promise of their second son and knew not the knife it would carry.
Beneath the careful facade of joy, there was an acquisition to be made in these glittering halls. The loyalest dragoons dawned noble colors and slipped through unnoticed as servants and escorts with open ears. Terence toasted to Dion when their eyes caught at last; his expression thawed, his feet approached and that signaled the end of their providence.
Terence knew all the rumors. Anabella Rosfield, traitoress to the duchy of Rosaria, axiom of courtly alliances and highest regarded bloodlines. A woman of the oldest Rosarian family. She appeared to be cast from plaster or ice. Her face scorned all who were not hers. Dion decidedly did not like her before her arrival in Oriflamme. He had greeted her courteously all the same with a bended knee while His Radiance gave her his arm from the carriage and rows of men bowed their stiff necks. That day had been hot and many summers since had passed. The greaves of Terence’s armor had left indents on Dion’s skin where they gripped each other later to soothe.
(She bought a group of our swords through what means I don’t know, but if she’s here, there’s another thread in our military that needs severed.
We swore fealty, My Prince.
—And many get material goods in exchange, but that doesn’t mean that I am worthy or anyone is beholden. I will take no chances.)
The orders are discharged as swiftly as a coin toss and the faces that greet Terence’s arrival in their captain’s quarters are unsettled but resolute. How quickly Anabella could turn around and shove the dragoons into the gutters, when His Highness had taken charge and dismissed as many old hands who were greased or made to be with sincere condolences and apologies. A painful review of calipers and names and intent and birth until Terence and him were both nodding off in paperwork, their late lords fawning over them in the morning, servants arriving with pots of tea and crisp hand pies that made their hands sticky and their work lazy. Dion eyed him from across the room where he washed his fingers with a warm towel; Terence saw his reflection approach in the pitcher of water before him and the quill stopped in his hand.
“What are you doing still,” Dion said. His head bowed low over the dip of his shoulder. He smelled less like wine, now like floral and berries. If Terence turned he could press his mouth into the hollow behind his ear. He could damn himself here. He’d be given permission.
“Work, My Prince.”
“An excessive amount,” Dion said. His hands came around and gently tugged on the back of his own. Terence didn’t move. How rare to find his efforts foiled.
“Will you allow me this service,” Terence whispered. “A few more letters, at least. I would not stand a repeat.”
“Neither would I. But I would have you stand properly now so I could kiss you.”
Terence made to move on sore legs and Dion slid past him, alighting to the dulling lantern and replacing the crystal within. Dion was back-lit when he slipped his palm along the starchy collar of his shirt and pressed a tender kiss to the cord in his neck. Terence let his eyes fall shut and held Dion tight in promise. Their terms would be absolute.
