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Chapter Text

The baths in Mount Carbon are extraordinary, a marvel of both engineering and artistry. Those fortunate enough to partake descend a series of stairs down into the mountain, marveling at the mosaics lining the walls that depict scenes from Mahakam's long history. At the end of the stairs, bathers reach a large, dimly lit room where they change out of their clothes and collect a towel. Then, they enter a small antechamber where they must wash any sweat and grime off their skin before entering the baths themselves.

Beyond the doors lie pools carved from gleaming stone, fed with water from a mineral-rich hot spring via a maze of pipes that snake through the mountain.

Very few outsiders have seen them, fewer still have been invited to use them. It is a tremendous honor to have gotten this far. And yet, standing in the grandeur of the heated antechamber, all Reynard feels is dread. 

Queen Meve’s ragtag army had arrived early that morning, concluding a brutal trek through Mahakam’s snowy environs. As her general, Reynard guided his troops through a seemingly endless series of battles against shealmaars, barbegazi, territorial draconids and pissed-off harpies. Add to that a scheming Nilfgaardian emissary, Dwarven clan politics and the constant threat of frostbite and he had a group of soldiers and strays pushed to their absolute limits.

The respite offered by Mount Carbon is sorely needed. Still, Reynard thinks he would rather endure another cold night alone in his tent than face the potential humiliation of a communal bath. Particularly one with his expected company.

It’s strictly logical, he reminds himself sternly, to host their customary command tent meeting in the baths. The queen and her advisors must debrief after their contentious first meeting with Brouver Hoog, and Meve does not wish to delay her chance at a proper bath for even one more moment.

Besides, King Reginald had held impromptu meetings in the baths below Rivia Castle all the time when he was alive. Often they turned from discussing matters of state into excuses to drink and gossip with the King's inner circle, Reynard included. Those gatherings became more frequent as Reginald and Meve’s wishes for the Twin Kingdoms diverged and the royal couple clashed and bickered. 

As Reginald increasingly used the guise of masculine camaraderie to shut Meve out of his decision-making, Reynard began to dread the King’s invitations- where he would be plied with alcohol and forced to endure his peers’ vulgar stories.

Even now, eight years later, the whiff of fragrant steam wafting in from the adjourning room prompts a squirming discomfort in the pit of his stomach. He takes a deep breath, trying to settle the anxiety. Meve has every right to discuss official business in a decidedly unofficial setting. To treat this meeting as anything other than routine would be to treat Meve differently than her late husband, something Reynard vowed he would never do. 

Adjusting the towel wrapped around his hips, he frowns at his reflection in the looking-glass hung on the wall. That’s another facet of his reluctance: the dismal state of his appearance.

The march has not been kind to him. His skin is dry and chapped, sickly pale where his armor has shielded him from the sun; which only makes the ugly scrapes and bruises earned during the last skirmish stand out more. Dark circles lurk beneath his eyes and ridges of worry are carved into his brow. He’s not had time to shave, and his dark stubble makes him look unkempt and scruffy. His hair is a mess as well. Frowning, he runs a hand through the messy strands. It’s unkempt and thinning and- gods, how long has it been this grey? Even the hair on his chest is starting to fade to a dull silver. 

His critical gaze drifts lower, to the rest of his body. He used to have more visible muscle on him, but their supplies are meager and the days are long. He’s lost weight. That isn’t good. And yet, the stubborn softness of middle age still clings to his belly. At least there’s still some decent definition in his arms and legs, he thinks, turning to examine himself from another angle. But is it enough to distract from… all the rest. Scowling, he clutches the towel, sucks in his stomach, puffs out his chest, and then exhales in frustration. He looks like any old soldier. Completely unremarkable save for the faded Rivian insignia tattooed on his arm and the large diagonal scar across his torso- both mementos of his youth. 

All these thoughts are pure vanity, Reynard scolds himself. He’s known Meve for nearly two decades now. And if he didn’t catch her eye at thirty, when she was freshly widowed and he was still in tournament-ready condition with thick, dark hair and no wrinkles around his eyes, then he certainly won’t be pleasing to her now that he’s pushing forty. He tightens the towel around his waist once more, wishing it would conceal more of him.

His grim self-appraisal is interrupted by a completely nude man striding in from the changing room. He carries two tankards in each hand, almost spilling frothing ale onto the stone floor. Ah.

“Gascon,” he frowns, “who else is joining us?” He almost didn't recognize him without the stupid hat.

“What?” 

“You’ve four tankards.” 

“Oh, right. No, it’s just you, me, and Meve. Two of these are for me,” he grins, then cocks his hip.

Reynard tries not to look, but his eyes flick down and back up before he can stop himself. 

“Like what you see?”

Gascon’s laughter rings off the stone as Reynard feels his face flush. It’s not his fault the damn scoundrel barged in stark naked. Gascon’s body is lithe and muscular, his freckled skin smooth. The jut of his hipbones draws the eye down, down to- Reynard looks for something, anything else to stare at and ends up studying the ceiling. The tiles are patterned with interlocking shapes. Hmm, pretty.

“What are you waitin’ for? Go on,” Gascon gestures at the door to the baths.

“I-” Reynard glances between the door and the mirror. 

“Ahh. Nervous before your royal audience, eh? That why you were staring at yourself when I walked in?” Reynard grimaces. Gascon leans toward him and adds in a conspiratorial tone, “If y’ ask me, you’ve got nothin’ to be ashamed of.” 

Reynard scoffs, but Gascon persists, “For once I’m not makin’ fun. You’re not bad-looking underneath all that armor. Always been partial to broad shoulders myself. Meve’s for example-” 

“-It is improper to speak of her Majesty in that manner,” Reynard interrupts sternly.

"Only you would speak of propriety when you're moments away from soakin' nude in a tub with the Queen of Lyria and Rivia."

He must look truly miserable because Gascon sighs and holds out two of the ales.

"Here. Down one of these quick. That'll loosen you up a bit, take the edge off."

Reynard stares at the proffered drinks. Maybe it would settle his nerves somewhat. However it would be well, improper, to drink right before discussing official matters. He needs his mind clear. But, he considers, his mind is not clear right now. It's crowded with insecurities and vanity.

Before he can second-guess himself, Reynard grabs one of the tankards and downs its contents in several hasty gulps. A slosh of cold ale spills over the rim and trickles down the side of his throat.

"Good man," Gascon smiles, "now, c'mon, we're going to be late. Then having your bits out in front of Meve will be the least of your worries." He hooks an arm through Reynard's elbow and pulls them both through the door.

A cloud of fragrant steam engulfs them. Reynard blinks and stumbles forward, one hand trapped under Gascon's arm and the other clutching the towel around his waist. That Mahakam ale is stronger than he expected. On an empty stomach it's starting to go straight to his head. When his eyes finish scanning the room they settle on a figure in a wide stone pool. His throat goes dry. He feels short of breath.

As they draw closer to the queen, Reynard silently thanks Melitele - or whichever deity is most sympathetic to him - that the water in the bath is opaque. There must be some salts or minerals that cloud the water, making it shimmer and dance as it flows and concealing what lies beneath the surface. He's also grateful that Meve is here already, settled into the water up to her collarbones with her freshly-washed hair braided and piled atop her head. It takes several attempts to pry his eyes away from the slope of her shoulders, the bare skin of her neck, the tiny wisps of hair that have not been tamed by her braid. He needs to pull himself together or this is going to be sheer torture. But despite his nerves, it cheers him to see her relaxed.

"How's the water, Mevie?" Gascon calls out, causing her to open her eyes and sputter at his unexpected nakedness. Quickly regaining her composure, she rolls her eyes.

"Fancy a drink?" he says, "I brought enough to share."

"Yes, fine, but hurry up. We have several matters to discuss and I wish to resolve them as quickly as possible. I shall close my eyes again now, so those of us who still have manners can get in the water without a fuss."

"Think she's talkin' about me?" Gascon asks Reynard in a stage whisper.

Eyes shut tight, Meve tips her head back against the stone lip of the pool, a clear signal to get on with it, dammit. Reynard hastily removes his towel, folds it, and sets it close enough to the bath that it will be within arm's reach. Gascon spares him from any lewd comments, but does not spare him from a pointed glance downward and an exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows. The absolute scoundrel.

The bath is hot but not scalding, the steam fragrant but not cloying. It's perfect. As he settles into the water, Reynard stifles a groan as his muscles start to relax. There's a ridge on the inside of the tiled pool, at the proper height for a man or an elf to sit comfortably with his head and shoulders above the water. This particular chamber must be designed for guests. That must be why the other pools are empty. Perhaps Nilfgaardian emissaries have enjoyed the Elder in Chief's hospitality recently, soaking in these very waters, Reynard thinks bitterly.

Once they're settled in the water and Gascon has distributed his ales, Meve launches into the business of the evening as officiously as she would in the command tent.

"Hoog has indicated that he is open to hearing a petition for aid tomorrow," she begins, "a somewhat tepid reception, considering how much time we spent traipsing across his country slaying foul monsters and settling disputes between his countrymen. However, we should prepare for some… delicate negotiations."

She looks between her advisors.

"Could ask for gold," Gascon muses, "our little excursion into Boro's Rump proved the dwarves have heaps of it and no immediate plans t' spend it."

"True," Reynard says, "yet from what Gabor has told us of Elder Hoog, he may bristle at that proposition. If a foreign army descends from Mount Carbon with overfull coffers, other clans may find out, and start asking questions Hoog will not want to answer. Aside from that, we will have little use for vast sums of gold in the swamps of Angren. It could be more of a liability than an asset."

"Well if gold's out, some of those fine Mahakam battleaxes would look awful good in the hands of my Strays. Wouldn't say no to a few barrels of mead either."

Meve hums thoughtfully. "Weapons, provisions, dry goods… all things we need. But we did not come to Mahakam to beg for supplies, but to secure an advantage. We need something that will tip the scales in our favor when we advance into Angren."

"Soldiers, in other words," Reynard frowns. "Manpower."

"Dwarfpower," Gascon corrects absently, but his expression is grim.

"Yes."

The three of them ponder this conundrum in silence for a while, the only sound the mechanical clanking of hidden pipes and the bubbling of water at it cycles through the pool. Meve takes a sip of her drink, lost in thought.

"The Elder in Chief was absolutely livid about those Scoia'tael we encountered on the Langbridge," Reynard muses, "perhaps that could give us leverage. As Nilfgaard supports them. Albeit nominally."

"True, but I suspect a move against Nilfgaard and their allies, even indirectly, would be too partisan for Hoog's taste. He's trade relations to preserve," Meve counters.

"We could devise some premise," Gascon says, arms up on the lip of the pool, "have a detachment meet up with us after we leave Mahakam. Let him support us in secret."

Meve nods thoughtfully. "Not a bad idea."

They continue to strategize, preparing an opening offer for the queen to make that Brouver Hoog will surely reject. The ensuing counteroffer will be what they truly need. As leverage, Reynard has compiled letters of support from key clan leaders that will be crucial in reminding Hoog what is at stake if he refuses. The last thing he wants or needs is further strife among his people. But those letters will be revealed as a last resort, to avoid bruising Hoog's ego, Meve decides. 

The meeting shifts to less consequential topics as Reynard recites reports and dissects logistics in preparation for their first foray into Angren. He can sense Gascon's attention drifting and is about to comment on it when Meve waves a hand and says,

"At ease, Reynard. We've covered all I wished to discuss. Thank you both for indulging this whim, I simply could not bear another moment of cold."

"Any time," Gascon laughs, "were it up t' me, I'd call the whole war off and live down here."

Even Reynard has to admit that the strange detour down into the bowels of Mount Carbon has been enjoyable. The constant ache in his joints is soothed, his muscles relaxed and loose. In the water's heat, he can feel the thrum of his pulse throughout his chest, an odd but not unpleasant sensation. But of course the blissful relaxation can not last. He's about to ask the queen to be dismissed when Gascon announces, "I've a game we could play."

"A game?" Meve asks over the rim of her tankard.

"Aye, invented by myself and a few of my Strays. All you need t' play is a bit of combat experience and a lack of modesty."

To Reynard's surprise and mild horror, Meve raises an eyebrow and says, "Go on."

"It's easy," Gascon continues, "one player shows a scar of their choosing and tells two stories of how they got it; one story the truth and the other a lie. Then the others have'ta guess which is the truth."

"Hmm, interesting," Meve hums, "between the three of us, I suspect we could go quite a few rounds."

"So you're in?"

 Gascon ignores the desperate look Reynard shoots him across the steamy water. Discussing official business is one thing, some sort of… crude game is another.

"Why not?" Meve shrugs, setting her tankard on the rim of the pool.

"I'll go first, demonstrate how it works." Gascon stands so his torso is above the water and points to a spot on the left side of his chest, below his rib cage. "Here. This little beauty I got from fallin' out of a tree that I'd climbed to escape an alghoul, or," he turns to show off a different angle of the scar, "I got it after leaping out of a second-story window to escape the jealous husband of a very comely seamstress in Novigrad."

Meve tilts her head and says, "Let me have a closer look at that." Gascon, all too happy to oblige, sloshes over to her so she can examine the scar. Reynard watches Meve's eyes narrow as they trail over Gascon's bare skin and feels his stomach twist itself into a jealous knot.

"How exactly did falling out of a window inflict this type of damage?" She asks skeptically.

"Fine, I suppose a follow-up question is allowed. From fallin' out the window, it was because I scraped against a balcony on the way down. From the tree, it was a branch that stuck out."

Meve nods and sits back, seemingly satisfied by his answer. "Tree," she declares.

Gascon turns. "Reynard, care to take a closer look?"

"No need," he replies, "it's the second one. The balcony. That's the truth."

"How d'you figure that?" Gascon asks, settling back down into the water.

"You are incapable of resisting the urge to boast of your romantic conquests. I suspect this whole game of yours is merely an excuse to bring up sordid tales of your brigand past in front of the queen."

Rather than offended, Gascon looks delighted at his accusation.

"Ha! Knew you'd fall for it. Meve's the winner. I actually did fall out of a tree."

Reynard's scowl fades as he watches a bright smile spread over Meve's face. She looks genuinely delighted for the first time in… months. It's been months since she's seemed so carefree. And, he supposes, even if- when she takes back her throne, the chances for levity afforded to a queen are few. Meve catches his eye across the water and he cautiously returns her smile.

"Your turn then, Mevie," Gascon says, stretching his arms over his head and rolling his shoulders.

Her brows draw together and she chews on her bottom lip, a habit Reynard has observed fondly over many years of watching her strategize during council meetings. After a few moments of contemplation she exclaims, "Oh! I've a good one. Here," and holds out her left arm, palm up. Gascon leans in for a closer look and she impatiently gestures for Reynard to do the same. Face burning, he complies and steps closer.

The scar is curved, a small but noticeably raised bit of tissue that is slightly thicker on one end. Like a teardrop.

"Right. I got this scar from either… a cat scratch or from an ill-fated attempt to hide a dagger in my sleeve."

The dagger story seems more like Meve, Reynard thinks. But… his mind races as he studies Meve's bared forearm like a map. Would a small blade leave a curved scar like that? Perhaps if she'd cut herself at an angle… Then again, if a cat's claw dug in when it scratched her, that would explain the thicker part at the end.

He's holding her arm, staring at it, he realizes with a jolt. Releasing her as if burned, he steps back and blurts out, "Cat." Retreating in shame to his edge of the pool, he attempts to hide his reddening face behind his tankard of ale. His heart is kicking hard against his ribs and a bead of sweat slides lazily down his face. When had he started sweating so much? The water is hot, yes, but this is ridiculous.

"Cat, eh?" Gascon smirks, "I'll go with dagger. I know just how dangerous it can be to conceal weaponry in one's clothing. Once tried to hide a stiletto in my trousers and nearly ended up slicing off my own-"

"-Reynard is correct," Meve interrupts.

"What?" Gascon sputters, "no way. From a cat? How?"

"It's a bit embarrassing."

It takes a mere moment of coaxing and begging from Gascon for Meve to launch into a story.

"The winter I was carrying Anséis- it was dreadful. I was ill, I was restless, I was terrified that something would go wrong. Yet Reginald chose to travel to Rivia despite my being unable to join him. And he took Villem with him, leaving me alone in a frigid castle bored out of my skull."

Reynard remembers that winter all too well. At the King's insistence, he had accompanied Reginald to the Rivian court for the season, along with the young prince. He'd enjoyed spending time with the lad - he was bright, inquisitive, and well-mannered - but Reynard's mind had drifted often to Meve. She must have been dreadfully lonely, away from her son. And her husband, but it was no secret that the royal couple's personal relationship was almost as frigid as the Rivian countryside Reginald favored.

"One night," Meve's voice draws him back to the present moment, "I was so dreadfully bored, I crept down to the palace kitchens looking for company. All I found was the huge brown tabby cat the cook kept around to hunt vermin. He was no good at catching mice, apparently, but very good at begging for scraps. Had a very sweet nature. I thought he'd make a fine companion up in my big empty rooms."

"Ah, and he much didn't like getting carried, did he?" Gascon guesses.

"No, he was shockingly amenable to that," Meve recalls, "despite the size of his belly and mine, we made it up several flights of stairs before I got a tickle in my nose and sneezed right on his head, startling him so badly that he leapt out of my arms. One of his claws caught on my skin and…" she holds up her arm. "Left a mark."

"My, my. The fearsome Queen Meve, taken down by a tomcat."

Meve's gaze drifts off into the distance. "My boys loved that silly beast. Do you happen to remember what he was called, Reynard?"

"Bread-and-Butter-Pudding," Reynard says, surprised that he remembers, "so named for the dessert he ruined on the eve of the Yuletide feast in… '58, I think it was."

"That's right," Meve nods, her smile wistful. It's the first time since she was exiled that she's spoken of her eldest son and heir with anything resembling fondness. The smile fades, replaced by a slight frown, and Meve clears her throat."

"Your turn, I think, Reynard."

There's no getting out of it now, he thinks, stomach clenching with dread. The thought of inviting closer scrutiny of his body makes him squirm, but Meve was enjoying herself just a moment ago. To back out now would just spoil things. Squaring his shoulders, he turns his back to Meve and Gascon and says,

"Right, uh, there's an old injury, left shoulder. I got the scar either from an arrow or a crossbow bolt."

Gascon scoffs. "Oh, you are no fun. That's not how the game is meant to be played at all, and you know it."

He just shrugs, satisfied with the loophole he's found until he hears a slosh of water and feels a hand brush against his bare back. His breath catches in his throat.

"Hmm," Meve hums behind him, "I think an arrow would leave a wider mark. I'll say crossbow bolt. Gascon?"

Whatever Gascon replies, Reynard cannot make it out over the thudding of his own pulse in his ears. When Meve steps back, he turns to sit back down and sinks into the water up to his chin.

"Her Majesty is correct," he mumbles.

"Hey!" Gascon protests, "you didn't even let me guess!"

He's about to halfheartedly apologize and finally make his excuses to leave when Gascon says, "I think you owe us another round."

"I'm afraid all my stories will be just as dull-"

"- Completely missin' the point," Gascon's complaints continue, "and why did you choose such a small, boring scar and not the bloody great huge one across your chest?"

"Oh," Meve says, "because it would not be fair. I already know that story."

"Well I don't," Gascon pouts, "c'mon I've been dyin' of curiosity this whole time."

Reynard is about to refuse and once again attempt to excuse himself when Meve catches his eye and inclines her head, a subtle, oh, go on, then. It's as good as an order, and the return of her soft smile only encourages him further. Drawing a deep breath in and out, he reclines against the lip of the pool, arms stretched out on the tile. With the upper part of his chest now visible above the water, he feels Gascon's eyes lingering on the scar. Meve's gaze drops down as well. He clears his throat.

"Very well. Although I must warn you, I am no raconteur. And my memory may not be as sharp as it was."

"I can help with that, perhaps," Meve says.

The two of them tell the tale together.

Chapter Text

It was the first tournament held by the newly-joined twin kingdoms of Lyria and Rivia. A costly affair, it was a raucous, elaborate celebration of the new royal couple designed to draw the attention and envy of their neighboring kingdoms.

The tournament grounds spread over a massive field, turned into a bustling temporary village. Complete with merchants, entertainers, every type of food and drink one could hope to consume, music, dancing. It was almost overwhelming. And there were the seedier elements to be expected, as well. Gambling, fisstech, men and women in heavy makeup and perfume slinking between tents to sell their wares.

Sir Reynard Odo let the bright cacophony pass him by as he picked his way back to his own modest tent. Fresh from a joust, he was soaked with sweat and covered in dust. Graciously accepting congratulations and waving off offers of drink- or more, he worked his way through a small throng of admirers until the banners bearing his family coat of arms finally came into view.

His father, the venerable Count Crevan Odo, welcomed him with open arms and a broad smile. Reynard tried to motion for him to stay seated, but the count stubbornly rose from his armchair, leaning heavily on his walking stick. A childhood illness had left Count Crevan frail and sickly his entire life, but he'd insisted upon accompanying his only son to the first tournament held by the newly-unified Twin Kingdoms.

"Well done, my boy, well done!" his father cried, clapping a hand against Reynard's dusty pauldron. He'd been too weary to leave the tent today, but still kept a keen ear out for the results of his son's various bouts and events. News of his victory had apparently reached him before Reynard himself could.

It was newsworthy, he supposed. His opponent, Sir Loreck of Kaedwen, had been the clear favorite coming in to their matchup. Reynard's victory was an upset, and the energy of the crowd had reflected that as they whooped and cheered in disbelief. Sir Loreck was also widely known as a braggart and a brute, and thus his downfall had ignited a great sense of jubilation among his fellow knights and their retinues.

Reynard relayed the details of the joust to his father as one of House Odo's servants helped him out of his armor piece by piece.

"For what turned out to be my winning pass, I switched the lance to my left arm," Reynard explained. He was mostly ambidextrous, a fact he kept to himself until he was ready to throw off an opponent. "Had I not, I must admit I think I would have lost."

A coughing fit from Count Odo interrupted Reynard's tale. Urging him to sit back down, he asked the servant to brew a cup of the tea an herbalist had provided for their journey. Really, his father should have stayed home, his health was so poor. But the man was damn stubborn. And Reynard had visited his family home so infrequently over the past several years, he was loath to argue. It was guilt that had finally made him relent, lest he be accused by his mother of being a neglectful son.

"Easy," Reynard said, sitting down beside his father, "let's both have a bit of tea." They continued to chat about the jousts as they sipped the pungent, herbal brew. Outside the tent, the jubilant mood sweeping over the grounds continued to swell. The next match must have just wrapped up.

Soon, the participants and spectators would feast and drink in the communal tent, hoping to catch a glimpse of the royal couple. Reynard would be expected to attend, of course. King Reginald would inevitably boast about him after his recent victory. The attention would be tedious. Perhaps if he cited his father's poor health he could depart early…

"Tomorrow's event is marksmanship, yes? Are you prepared?"

"As prepared as I can be," Reynard sighed. Marksmanship was his weakest event by far. He was reasonably consistent, but lacked the deadeyed accuracy that set apart truly skilled bowmen.

"You must remember to relax. When you are stiff, it spoils your aim. Try to fit in some extra practice time this evening, if you can."

"I won't be able to see the targets after sunset."

"Then focus on your draw instead. Make the entire motion fluid. And don't forget to breathe."

"Yes, sir."

"Good lad." Another rattling cough shook Count Odo's lean frame.

After fussing over his father for a while longer, Reynard continued to undress, looking forward to finally washing the stale sweat off his skin. He'd just peeled off his grimy undershirt when a twitch of canvas made him turn around. A man lurched forward.

"Sir- Sir Loreck?" he sputtered. The knight was changed out of his armor, dressed in expensive-looking clothes that were oddly rumpled and disheveled. He swayed, unsteady on his feet, and took another lurching step forward.

"You bloody cheated, Odo," Loreck slurred. He was clearly drunk, his face reddened and his eyes bloodshot, "that shit w' the lance… t'was a damn dirty trick!"

Reynard stepped between Loreck and his father, arms raised in a sign of peace.

"Sir Loreck, please, let us discuss this as gentlemen," Reynard kept his voice low and soothing, "I assure you, we both fought most honorably; my conduct-"

A flash of steel and a blaze of pain interrupted his appeasing speech. Then several things happened at once. Reynard watched Sir Loreck's eyes grow wide, followed his stare down at his own chest, which was streaked with crimson. Several people seemed to be shouting at once. The intoxicated knight fled, bloodied dagger in hand, prompting more screams outside the tent.

Reynard blinked. He was lying on the ground. His father was kneeling at his side, pressing shaking hands against his chest. Trying to stop the bleeding, shouting for help. Others were bursting into the tent, surrounding him. The pain was making him light-headed, or maybe that was the blood loss. There did seem to be a lot of it.

The last thing he recalled with any clarity was being helped onto a stretcher and carried away from his father, staring at the blood on his hands.

He came to groggy and confused with someone leaning over him. Pain seared across his chest, his mouth felt like it was stuffed with sand, and he was having trouble focusing on his surroundings.

"You passed out for a moment," a voice proclaimed, sounding far too cheerful for the circumstances. It was a healer, he was in the infirmary. Of course. The healer - a short young woman with messy auburn hair - held her tongue between her lips in concentration as she pulled a needle through his skin. Reynard hissed in discomfort.

"Oh, you poor thing," she cooed, "here, drink this."

The concoction tasted foul and worsened his disorientation, but it soon dulled the worst of the pain. A blessing, that was, as the healer had many more stitches to go. The medicine did nothing to soothe his parched throat, however.

"Thank you, my lady," he rasped.

"Oh, none of that," she giggled, "I'm Marta."

"Marta…" he repeated sluggishly, "might I trouble you… my mouth is so dry-"

"-Oh! Of course. You must replenish yourself. Some help?" She shouted across the tent.

Two other young women quickly appeared at her side with bundles of clean linens and a pitcher of clean water. One of them wore her long, blonde hair pulled back beneath a kerchief and the other had her curly dark hair tamed by a braid. Marta introduced her colleagues as Mira and Bertha. Marta, Mira, and Bertha. That was going to be difficult to keep straight, Reynard thought blearily.

Bertha - dark haired - used the dressings to apply pressure against the unstitched portion of the wound while Mira - the blonde - stood to the side and wiped sweat from his brow in between sips of water. Reynard's head was spinning. Marta's sutures were small and clustered close together. She needed a lot of them to keep the wound closed. Still, blood was seeping into the bandage that… Bertha was holding against his chest.

"You were lucky," someone said, "the wound is large, yes, but fairly shallow. Sir Loreck was apparently just as clumsy as he was in the joust." That voice belonged to Marta, he thought, maybe Mira. They both had a somewhat sing-song quality to the way they spoke.

"Everyone's talking about it," another voice, Mira, perhaps? "Do you think he'll get thrown out of the tournament?"

"Of course he will!" scoffed the third voice, the gruffest of the trio, "Stupid bastard got drunk and sliced open one of the king's aides? We'll see if he gets his arse out of Rivia in one piece."

The phrase sliced open sent a shiver down Reynard's spine and his eyes snapped open. "Was it really that bad?" he asked the dark-haired healer - Bertha? Dammit. He sat up, trying to get a look at the wound. Two pairs of hands obstructed his view as they worked.

"His blade cut into your muscle deeper right here," Marta or Mira pointed at a spot just to the left of his sternum, "but it could have been much worse. You lost a good deal of blood, Sir Odo, but with rest you shall recover, don't you fret."

"Unfortunately, you will have to miss the remainder of the tournament's events," Mira or Marta added, "A shame, really. We hear you're very good." They both giggled as Bertha rolled her eyes. Reynard's slight dizziness was turning into a splitting headache.

"I have to-" blearily, he tried to sit up, but several pairs of hands reached out to pin him to the pillows by his shoulders. "-my father, is he-? The shock…"

"We sent a messenger to tell him you're safe, no need to get yourself all worked up."

"Oh, thank you, Mira."

"Marta."

"My apologies."

Minutes later another figure appeared in the infirmary. Reynard expected to see Count Odo - hopefully assisted by a servant so he did not have to walk across the grounds unaided - but instead his eyes grew wide at the appearance of Queen Meve of Lyria and Rivia in the humble tent. The fabric of her gown gleamed gold and crimson in the candlelight. Jewels draped around her neck and a thin circlet rested on her brow. In her royal finery, she looked like a painting come to life; each detail perfected by an unseen artist.

"Your- your Majesty," he sputtered, attempting to rise from his cot to properly greet her. The healers fussed and shoved him back again, so he settled on a bow of his head- as reverent a greeting as he could manage. "You honor me greatly with your presence. Please, ahem, please forgive my state of, uh-"

"You needn't apologize, Sir Odo," the queen said with a gracious wave of her hand to both him and the healers, who had stood to curtsy after restraining Reynard. "A knight in my husband's service is injured so ignobly at a tournament held in my honor? It would be a dereliction of my duties not to pay you a visit."

Her words had a slightly rehearsed quality to them, but the young queen spoke with confidence, her broad shoulders squared and her chin held high. Softening her posture, she sighed and added, "Besides, Reginald is too busy berating the Kaedweni ambassador to check on you himself. He wanted Sir Loreck flogged immediately, but that would have caused a diplomatic incident. I spoke to the ambassador privately before Reginald could get to him, so I hope that was enough to smooth things over…"

Meve had started to pace back and forth next to Reynard's sickbed, lost in thought. "Forgive me, Sir Odo," she blurted, "I've not even- how are you?"

"I am well, your Majesty," he said, right as a needle tugged painfully at his skin and made him wince.

"Ooh, sorry," said Mira - or Marta. Or Bertha? He was distracted, and had lost track of whose hands were pulling his flesh back together.

"Just a few more, looks like," Meve assured him.

Now that she had fulfilled her obligation to inquire after his well-being, Reynard expected the queen to excuse herself and return to the evening's festivities. But she stayed until the final stitch was tied off and the wound was dressed. The trio stood around awkwardly for a moment, unsure of how to gracefully exit the queen's presence. Eventually, Mira spoke up, blushing furiously.

"Please do not hesitate to call for us if you need anything, Sir Odo, anything at all," she said, resting a hand on Reynard's shoulder. "If you would please excuse us, Your Majesty?"

"Of course," Meve smiled, "thank you all for your work. You may go."

The healers departed, whispering furiously among themselves and stealing occasional glances back.

"Curious that it took three medics to stitch one wound," the queen mused.

"Your Grace?"

"Oh, nothing," she waved her hand, "now, about this situation with the Kaedweni ambassador. Clearly, Sir Loreck must suffer some sort of punishment, the question is how severe. I plan to formally request that he be banned from all future tournaments held in Rivia and Lyria, as well as pay you from his own funds the full value of any prize you may have earned in the rest of the tournament had you not been injured. I recognize the leniency of this proposition, and I apologize."

She paused in her speech, regarding him with a keen intensity that made a tremor go down Reynard's spine. After a beat too long, he realized she was waiting for him to respond. Despite the strong medicine, his disorientation had not fully cleared.

"No need to apologize, your Grace," he blurted, "Kaedwen is a vital trade partner and Henselt is notoriously fickle, as you know. I would never ask you or his Grace to risk a diplomatic incident on my behalf."

Meve visibly relaxed. "Truly? It does not trouble you that Sir Loreck will walk away with no more than a slap on the wrist?"

"It troubles me more that a scandal may cast a pall over an event held in your honor."

The queen laughed at that, which he found strange, as it was not a joke.

"All the best tournaments have at least one good scandal. Keeps them from being forgotten. You may find yourself the talk of court when you return to Rivia, Sir Odo."

He tried and failed to hide a grimace at that possibility, causing Meve's expression to shift from a warm smile to a puzzled frown.

"You dislike attention."

"I- yes, your Grace. I've learned… I prefer to keep to myself." The queen likely did not know about his court-martial, nor his brush with the hangman's noose a few short years ago that scared him off of attention-seeking behavior for good. And Reynard would prefer to keep it that way. This was the longest he'd gotten to talk to the young queen, and the first time they'd spoken alone. He didn't want her to leave with an impression of him as some sort of social pariah, but he feared that was exactly what was happening.

"Yet your position as my husband's advisor must afford you few opportunities for solitude. Is that why I rarely see you outside the council chambers. Are the social aspects of your role at court so distasteful?" Meve continued. Her tone was inquisitive, curious rather than accusatory; but Reynard scrambled to clarify.

"Not at all, your Grace. I only mean to say that I do not seek recognition on my own behalf. It is an honor to serve under your husband. And I hope to be of equal service under you." The words sounded wrong as soon as he said them, and Reynard felt heat spreading over his face. "As- as your marriage has brought together two kingdoms, my duties are to both King and Queen. Equally. Not that your Majesty does not already posses adequate council. That is to say- I-"

Mercifully, the queen saved him from his own rambling and dismissed the topic with a gracious, "I did not intend to pry, Sir Odo. I too value what rare moments of quiet I can find."

As they continued to chat, Reynard gradually relaxed enough to stop tripping over his words. He was not usually so tongue-tied around figures of authority, but something about the queen made him forget how to speak properly. Perhaps because the alliance between Lyria and Rivia was so new and fragile. The stakes of even simple social interactions were heightened.

After some additional niceties, just when it seemed the conversation was winding down; Meve's demeanor shifted, and she lowered her voice. "I have to ask, how did you determine when to switch to yielding the lance with your left arm? I'd not seen that done before. Did you train for it?"

"Oh, uh, in a way, yes. Since I was a boy I have been able to write with both my right hand and my left- although my penmanship with my right is clearer. With fighting it is much the same. I am stronger on my right side, so I favor that in the joust, but against an opponent such as Sir Loreck - one whose advantage lies in consistency - I wagered a change in strategy would gain me the upper hand. That he would be slow to adapt his approach. I waited for enough passes to make the switch to make him think he'd taken my measure."

"Clever."

Reynard hesitated, recalling Sir Loreck's drunken accusation and the slight sting of truth that had come before the hiss of his blade. "Some might think it underhanded-"

"-Nonsense," Meve replied, "there is no rule against it - I checked - and Sir Loreck has ridden against left-handed opponents before. He simply failed to adapt, as you anticipated. His anger at you was misplaced. A bruised ego seeking to soothe itself by wounding another."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Reynard thanked her for her reassurance. If the tournament's honoree had no quarrel with his actions, others likely felt the same.

The medicine they'd given him for the pain was starting to wear off, and an itching, burning sensation crawled across Reynard's chest. Sweat beaded on his brow and his breathing turned shallow. Attempting to conceal his discomfort from the queen, he fixed a neutral expression on his face. It didn't work.

"Shall I call for the healers?"

"No- please-"

But she was already waving them over. One would have been sufficient, but all three young women bustled over and started to bombard him with questions, poking and prodding as they unwound bandages and examined the stitches.

"Well, I see you're in good hands, Sir Odo," Meve said, rising from her seat at the side of the cot. Reynard could have sworn he saw a half-smile on her face as she took her leave. "May you recover speedily, and I hope you will feel well enough to join Reginald and myself at our table during the closing banquet. You and your father."

"It would be an honor, your Majesty," Reynard bowed his head. He wanted to say more, to thank her for taking the time to check on him- truly an unnecessary addition to her doubtlessly packed schedule, but she was already walking away. But perhaps that was the sort of queen she was going to be: attentive, compassionate- a keen observer of both the personal and the political. Anyone would be proud to serve a ruler like that. He watched her depart, lost in thought, until Marta handed him another dose of the pain-numbing brew.

"I didn't know you were ambidextrous," Gascon says, lifting an eyebrow.

"That's your takeaway from Reynard's story?"

"It's interesting, is all!"

Meve tsks incredulously. "More interesting than him being attacked by a fellow knight during a tournament he was favored to win?"

Gascon shrugs. "Well, that was interesting too, I suppose. Good story, Reynard. I knew you couldn't have been a complete bore for your entire life."

Privately, Reynard is relieved that Gascon isn't making much of a fuss over his tale. He watches him playfully bicker with Meve for a while longer, letting his mind drift over the parts of the story he didn't tell. The long days spent on bedrest where Meve found time to visit him again. Their meandering conversations about battlefield maneuvers where he discovered the queen's keen instincts as a strategist. Meve meeting his father, and her kindness towards him. Eventually feeling well enough to attend the closing banquet- where the crush of attention had made him so light-headed that he nearly passed out.

His meandering thoughts are interrupted by Gascon. "Shall I fetch us another round of ales?"

Meve waves off his offer. "Thank you, Gascon, but no. If I spend any more time in this water I fear my skin will be permanently pruned. Reynard?"

A quick glance between Meve and Gascon is all it takes for Reynard to understand Meve's unspoken command. Reaching over, he claps his left hand over Gascon's eyes and covers his own with his right.

Gascon sputters, "Hey!" just as Meve says, "Thank you."

Water sloshes as the queen rises from the pool. The sound alone is enough to send a wave of heat to Reynard's face, and he's grateful that most of it is covered by his hand.

After Meve's departure, the two men linger for just a moment longer before rising from the water themselves. Again, Gascon's eyes wander unashamedly over Reynard's bare skin, idle curiosity more than anything, he supposes.

Back in the changing room, they each find a lantern and a pile of clothes laid out. Loose-fitting robes, they look to be; designed to fit the widest range of bodies possible. All their other clothing had been taken away for laundering. The borrowed garments make them look like priests, Gascon jokes. But they'll be fine for sleeping in. Reynard is nearly dead on his feet. The bath has relaxed him, yes, but it also made him keenly aware of just how exhausted he is. He sways slightly as he rolls up the sleeves of the robe and grabs the lantern to light they way ahead.

Their hosts have placed the general and the Duke of Dogs in the same room, and they wind their way up the stairs to their lodgings together. Inside the mountain, all is cool and still.

Gascon's voice rings off the stone. "Was that when it started?"

"When what-" Reynard frowns at him.

"-That tournament. Is that when you fell for her?"

Instinctively, Reynard glances around the stairway to ensure there's nobody around to overhear. How in the hells did Gascon even- ah, well.

"We formed a friendship then," he confesses in a low voice, "and from that friendship, I… I came to admire her."

"Oh, you admire her, is that it? Pure admiration, the way you look at her after a battle. And of course it was professional interest that had your face burning the whole time we were in that pool, eh?"

Hastening his steps to get away from Gascon's teasing, Reynard reaches the door of their room and ducks inside. Gascon follows.

"Ah, hey, I'm not tryin' to offend."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Fine, suit yourself," Gascon flops down on one of the beds, stretching like a cat. "But if you ask me, I think Meve - ahem - admires you as well."

"Nonsense."

"I'm serious! I wasn't the only one in that pool eyeing your scar. And when you were talkin' about Lira, Martha, and Bertie-"

"-Mira, Marta, and Bertha."

"Right, whatever. Point is, I could practically feel the jealousy wafting off of our dear queen."

"Doubtful. That was over a decade ago. And her Grace is not the type to succumb to petty jealousy-"

"-Maybe only when it concerns you."

Now convinced that Gascon is simply trying to get a reaction out of him, Reynard declines to respond and climbs into bed. But his teasing words run in circles through his mind as he tries to recall Meve's reactions to his tournament story. He remembers the golden shine of her hair, the rosy flush on her cheeks as steam rose from the bath, the toothy grin when he recounted his unexpected victory over Sir Loreck. His attention snags on other details. Water sparkling off of the queen's naked shoulders, broad and strong. Her collarbones, and the smooth skin below. When she'd leaned back, the swell of her breasts was just barely visible above the surface of the pool-

No, no, best not to dwell on that. Reynard attempts to banish that thought from his mind, face burning with shame. Despite his best efforts, his body inevitably reacts to the lingering images, arousal simmering low and tight in his belly and his blood racing hot through his veins.

Abruptly, he throws back the heavy wool blankets and makes for the door.

"Where are you going?" Gascon asks, sitting up and squinting at him in the dying light of the sputtering lantern.

Reynard mumbles something about forgotten reports, says don't wait up, and shuts the door behind him before Gascon can question him further.

Wandering the halls soothes his preoccupied mind as he constructs a mental map of his surroundings. He's certain there are vast portions of Mount Carbon stretching beyond his reach that no human has ever laid eyes on. This hall seems modest, connecting to a chamber beyond where guards will meet the queen and her advisors tomorrow to escort them to their meeting with the Elder-in-Chief.

Lost in thought, Reynard rounds a corner and nearly collides with-

"Your Majesty!" Meve is leaning out of an open doorway, wearing a similarly shapeless robe. The garment is much too large on her, swallowing her frame in fabric and hanging loose off one shoulder. Taken aback for only a moment, Reynard quickly asks, "Is something wrong?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Meve replies, folding her arms across her chest, "I heard someone skulking around outside my room and decided to investigate."

He hopes she cannot see his blush in the dim hallway. "I apologize. My, uh, restlessness compelled me. I shall return to my room-"

"Don't fret, Reynard, all's well."

His eyes dart behind her, to the darkened room beyond. The quarters are decently spacious, with a wide stone hearth and sturdy-looking furniture. A four-poster bed hung with heavy curtains sits against the wall. Good. Her majesty will be quite comfortable for the night, and the hearth and curtains will chase away the cold.

She follows his gaze, looking behind her. "It is nice, is it not?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. I was only looking- to ensure your comfort, your Grace-"

"-I am sure to be the most comfortable I've been in, gods, months," Meve sighs. A contended sigh this time, which is a welcome change. "After that soak in the bath I feel truly relaxed."

"I am glad to hear it."

"And what about you?" she tilts her head, studying his stony expression. "Did you at least find the experience somewhat tolerable? At times you looked almost pained."

He glances at the floor. "Ah, I- I could have done without Gascon's silly game."

"That I must confess I enjoyed. And we did manage to at last coerce a good story out of you."

Reynard catches himself smiling back at her. "I'd forgotten a lot of that. You know… for years after, right up until we lost him, my father still boasted about being sat at the royal table for that closing feast. He was so impressed by your grasp of the minutiae of tournament strategy and politics… but he remarked on your graciousness as well."

Meve's expression softens. "That is kind of you to say. I felt horribly out of my depth back then. Each public appearance was a performance and I was convinced my audience would start booing at any moment. It gladdens me to hear that I managed to make a positive impression on at least one person at that blasted tournament."

He wants to say that she impressed him as well, that he still thinks about her visit to his bedside every time he sees the scar on his chest reflected in a mirror. But he says nothing. They stand in silence, each waiting for the other to do something - say good night, formulate a polite dismissal - until the moment grows stale. Meve is the first to move, straightening her posture and clearing her throat.

"It is… odd, don't you think," she begins cautiously, "that the first time I ever spoke to you was when you got that scar. And I hadn't seen it again - healed - until this very night?"

"I suppose," unconsciously, his hand drifts to his chest.

Meve holds his gaze. "And I didn't really get a good look at it."

"You… no?"

"You were careful to keep your distance."

Careful. Yes, he always is. But Meve is staring up at him like she's waiting for something. They're standing so close together he can see the light freckles that dot the bridge of her nose. Her eyes drop to his mouth… and seem to linger.

It would be an unthinkable breech of protocol, what he wants to say. But this entire evening has been a breech of protocol. For Melitele's sake, they'd been naked in front of each other not even an hour ago, and were only granted modesty by the opacity of the water. And Gascon was there. If this is a miscalculation, Reynard will never forgive himself. But neither will he forgive himself if he lets an opportunity pass that he may never have again. There's a long, cold, dangerous road ahead of them.

He clears his throat. "If you would like a closer look, I would oblige you."

Meve's soft smile turns hungry. "You would?"

"I… yes. Whatever you wish."

She closes the narrow distance between them and grasps a fistful of his borrowed robe, pulling him through the doorway of her room. As the door slams shut, Reynard has a flash of clarity.

"If- if I fail to return to my shared accommodations, Gascon will ask questions."

A frown briefly flits across Meve's face, replaced by what Reynard hopes is fondness and not exasperation. She winds her arms around his neck and says, "In the morning, tell him two lies about your whereabouts and ask him to guess which is the truth."

Despite his nerves, Reynard laughs. His hands settle on her waist, tentatively drawing their bodies together. This close, he wonders if she can sense how fast his heart is beating.

He affects more boldness than he feels and says, "Her majesty's stratagems are cunning, as always."

Meve's brilliant smile chases away the last of his hesitation as she leans in and kisses him.