Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11318424.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Fire_Emblem:_Rekka_no_Ken_|_Fire_Emblem:_Blazing_Sword
  Relationship:
      Eliwood/Hector_(Fire_Emblem)
  Character:
      Eliwood_(Fire_Emblem), Hector_(Fire_Emblem), Elbert_(Fire_Emblem), Uther_
      (Fire_Emblem), Nimue_|_Niime
  Additional Tags:
      Sexual_Experimentation, Injury_Recovery, Teenage_Drama, Hand_Jobs
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-06-27 Words: 8535
****** The Shoulder Scar ******
by PubliusEros
Summary
     Hector's really messed it up this time. Right when his lord brother
     needs him on his best behaviour throughout their diplomatic visit to
     Castle Pherae, he's gone and hurt Eliwood during a sparring session!
     With his pride - and a very dear friendship - on the line, Hector
     knows just one thing: he needs to make it right.
     No matter what it takes.
The room was strained with a terrible silence that, more than malice, spoke of
a great and unpleasant awkwardness. It was broken only by the occasional,
pitiable sniffing of a boy whose desperate desire to remain strong in the face
of pain caused juvenile tears to threaten at each new sting.
The boy in question was the young Prince Eliwood, freshly fourteen, doing his
best to appear unphased and resolute even as the exacting gaze of some of the
country’s most powerful people glared directly down at his exposed torso. He
was upright on a wooden chair by the infirmary window, pristine collared shirt
pulled back to his stomach, revealing the soft white skin of his shoulder
interrupted by a long, thin gash that had bled quite profusely, with a hefty
quantity of bloodied white bandages heaped on the floor next to the boy. A
stuffy cleric was delicately applying the herbed ointment of an orange-bottled
vulnerary to the wound, the red-haired prince’s involuntary sniffs and jerks at
each new application of the stuff not hampering the cleric’s technique at all.
Watching this fleshy drama unfold was Eliwood’s own father Elbert, Marquess of
his home march of Pherae, along with his most trusted vassal, the knight
Marcus; the third man however was altogether more foreign. A hard-looking
presence with strong blue hair and stern features, this man was a visiting lord
of the highest calibre.
“Lord Elbert, I sincerely hope this does not…” The outsider began.
“Don’t be foolish, Uther,” Elbert replied immediately. “This will be an
important lesson for both of them.”
Newly-ascended and diplomatically inexperienced, Marquess Uther of Ostia all
but fumed in his place as he watched his host’s son squirm and shiver at the
treatment of this wound – a wound given by Uther’s own younger brother.
This sibling, the usually brash Prince Hector, now watched red-faced from
behind the wall of men worriedly, the slim training axe that had dealt the blow
still in his hand. Uther spun around and shot him a dirty glance as the cleric,
satisfied, gingerly brought the wounded prince to his feet and instructed him
to remove the rest of his shirt, as it had been cut and bloodied also in the
bout that had led to this. The mood seemed to relax as Eliwood managed to flex
his shoulder with only the slightest wince, beginning to undo the remaining
buttons without reopening the wound.
“What about a staff?” Hector spoke up, hoping his voice would not crack out of
nervousness as he did so. “Surely even a basic one would-”
“Silence, Hector,” Uther urged. “They do things different here. You’ve got a
lot-”
“Uther, please.” Elbert interrupted once more. “This is an overreaction. My son
is fine, aren’t you, Eliwood?”
The young prince nodded quietly as he slipped on a loose white shirt, careful
to not disturb the bandages as he did so.
“Lord Hector, one of the key strengths of Pherae’s cavalry is their speed and
momentum,” Marcus explained, turning to face the young man. “They do their best
not to be slowed down, and that means self-treatment of one’s wounds by way of
common medicine is essential. We don’t want Lycia’s frontline over-reliant on
healing staves.”
A few more moments of treatment, and the cleric nodded, satisfied. “That should
do it. Whatever you do, don’t show him to the old bat living down in the
barracks.”
Elbert thanked him, the curate bowing to the vermillion Marquess as he took his
leave from the improvised sickbay. Marcus also received his due, the purple-
haired knight chuckling as he left.
“The first good hit is always a shock,” he said, directing his gaze from father
to son, “but I’ve seen many men twice his age react half as well. You’ll make a
fine knight yet, young master.”
“Thank you, Marcus,” Elbert replied, every inch the experienced mediator. “You
are dismissed. Lord Uther, we will resume shortly in the atrium. Come, Eliwood
– your mother is keen to see you patched up with her own eyes.”
“Yes, father,” the prince in question piped up for the first time since his
treatment, voice still trembling slightly as he fell in behind his lord
parent’s step. Hector stammered Eliwood’s name weakly as the smaller boy
passed, but the redhead did not break gaze from his father’s back for even a
second.
It was when the host party had cleared the hallway beyond that Hector found
himself wheeled around by his royal brother and delivered a glare that could
snap iron in twain.
“Can I leave you alone for even one blasted second?” Uther groaned. “I brought
you with me because at least around Eliwood you usually mellow out a little,
but…” Exhaling through his nostrils, Uther tried to compose himself. “You’ve
gone and hurt him while we’re under his roof. What would our father think, the
Saint rest his soul, if he saw you disgrace us like this…”
“Brother!” Hector pleaded. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to! We were just sparring,
and he rose too late, and I just…”
“Hector,” Uther shook his head. “A spar isn’t a duel. It’s a conversation. And
last time we visited, your discipline was still the sword, not the axe. Did you
even give him a second to adjust?”
The younger brother remained tellingly silent. This uncomfortable gap in sound
lingered in the air for a few painful seconds.
Uther let out a sigh. “Alright. Gods. Thanks to you, I now have to apologise to
the Lady Eleanora.” He ran a stressed hand through his slicked-back hair.
“Elbert may have been good about it, but he has to be. You mark my words, you
and Eliwood better be very publically speaking again soon, or all armoury
access is revoked indefinitely – and that’s just the start.” The lord moved to
the doorway, leaving a distraught brother in his wake.
“But, brother!” Hector’s shame doubled as the lordling watched his brother make
the turn back towards his official business. “I don’t know what to do!”
“I don’t care what you do!” Uther snapped. “All I know is, Prince Eliwood had
better be singing at the dinner table tonight, you hear me?”
--
Hector shifted impatiently on his stool, the wooden tripod too low to the
ground and too small a surface area for him to be comfortable resting on. He
hunched over it, arm lazily dangling outside his hulking form and probing the
canvas before him with disinterested irritation. Art was not something he had
much time for, at least the act of composition, and so as his easel suspended
his work in front of him he could only feel further annoyance at its
substandard quality.
The task was portraiture; the Ostian lordling’s offering was not. Well, a
figure was at the centre of its focus, however it was far from an examination
of their character. Rather, this supposed portrait of the great warrior Durban
was less an elaboration on his feats and traits and more a thinly-veiled excuse
for Hector to idly doodle a weapon of some kind. The vague outline of the
classical hero was poorly defined, a mere scribble compared to the lovingly
coloured and shaded weapon in the man’s hand – indeed, the mighty axe Armads,
famed for its enormous size and strength, was the only thing in the
illustration that gleamed.
Hector found the silence of the small studio interminable, and despite the
elegant doors flung wide open to the terrace outside letting in a passive
breeze, the smell of oily paint still caused his nostrils to wrinkle. To his
right, Eliwood painted away contentedly, the slight protruding of his cheek
indicating he had his tongue fixed between his teeth in concentration. There
were two others behind them, the son and daughter of a local landowner whose
names Hector hadn’t bothered to memorise, and at the front of the class was
Petrarch, the white-haired academic who directed the class.
“Sir,” Hector started, causing the two behind him to look up momentarily. “If I
may ask, why does painting class remain mandatory here in Pherae? In Ostia I
had the opportunity to not continue it shortly after my thirteenth birthday.”
Old Petrarch regarded the inquisitive prince with a hawklike gaze, one that
examined and analysed as he stalked over to Hector’s position and regarded his
canvas critically.
“Genre work,” he grumbled scornfully, before addressing the question. “Ostia
may be mighty, young Prince, but here in Pherae our culture is a crossroads of
all Elibe. Artists and merchants from everywhere stop here on their way across
the continent, from Bern Keep all the way to the Western Isles! As such, our
lordship must be attuned to the nuances of Pherae’s thriving artistic
landscape. Why, they say Lord Elbert’s grandfather was a poet so gifted the
academics scoured his legislature for meter and rhyme!”
Hector, far from humbled, felt the urge to argue grow within him. “But always
such stuffy styles! Why all these boring landscapes? Why all these ancient
poets? Why those paintings of fruit and cheese?”
“The term, young man,” Petrarch heaved, “is still-life!”
“Exactly!” Hector shot back. “What emotion does it inspire? What can’t a
picture of Durban do that a painting of-”
He only just now turned to look at his friend’s painting, and was surprised to
see someone he’d never seen before. Eliwood had painted his entire canvas
pearl, giving the whole image a pinkish tinge that perfectly complemented the
cerulean and scarlet that adorned its centre. An ovaloid rim of white willow
flowers framed the torso of a pale-skinned woman, tall and slender, whose
flowing celeste hair brushed well past her shoulders. She had her long arms
posed in a flourish, adorning the sides of a flowing icy dress, glacial velvet
topped by rich seams of oaken leather. The face atop her tall neck was
dignified yet despondent, pursed lips and piercing crimson eyes, yet had a
soft, inviting smile that gave her presence beyond her two dimensions.
Hector fell silent as he looked at the unfamiliar visage. The teacher, who had
been expecting further belligerence from the boy, then turned to examine
Eliwood’s offering. “Ah,” the professor sighed. “The sister.”
“Who?” Hector asked, deflecting the question back to the other two students,
who diverted their gaze – afraid to question the intelligence of a prince such
as him.
Eliwood blushed and mumbled something unheard at Hector, the lithe prince
shaking his head.
“A figure from folklore,” Petrarch explained, though Hector had stopped
listening the moment Eliwood had deigned to address him again. “House Pherae
recently bore host to an exhibition of Ilian art… the prince was quite taken by
one particular piece which illustrated the famous folk tale of the sibling ice
dragons who sought refuge deep within the frozen woods.”
Hector looked at Eliwood, watching the youth gazing into the portrait with a
mix of trepidation and mild frustration. Hector could tell he was not fully
satisfied with the work, the boy’s reddened cheeks and sharp breaths indicating
his concern that he wasn’t doing the beauteous vision justice. The Ostian
chuckled.
“So,” the old man’s voice came again, tearing Hector from his trance of
observation. “Have I suitably corrected you, Prince Hector?”
Hector was forced to make a tactical retreat from the instructor’s gaze. “Yes,
sir.”
“Good!” the old man fussed as he moved towards the terrace for some fresh air.
“And, my prince, modern consensus is that the Armads was shaped more like a
scythe than an axe, and sized for an ordinary man.”
Hector sunk down in his stool. “Bull,” he argued, low enough for no-one else to
hear. “I bet Armads was huge.”
The silence that followed gave the wind leave to enter, a slight whistle of the
breeze filtering into the room and gently ruffling that which could be ruffled.
Hector glanced at the old man out on the terrace and, finding him suitably out
of earshot, took the opportunity to lightly nudge his maligned friend’s shin
with his boot.
“Hey,” Hector whispered. “Hey, Eliwood.”
The boy in question sighed almost imperceptibly. Almost.
“C’mon,” Hector grinned, seeing an opening, the slightest gap in his defences.
“You can’t keep it up. You know you can’t. I know you can’t. Just-”
“Hector!” Eliwood hissed, snapping left to face him, annoyance evident on his
features. “You’re disturbing Randolph and Maria.”
The other two, who had looked up to watch the highborns bicker, quickly turned
back to their work.
“No I’m not,” Hector scoffed. “There’s no attention to be paid here. Besides, I
have an apology to make.”
“Well, stow it!” The Pheraen turned his nose up. “Maybe later.”
“Come on,” Hector groaned. “My brother says if I don’t apologise, he’s gonna
revoke all armoury rights for me back home.”
The redhead sighed again, remaining quiet. He put his brush down resignedly –
Hector seized the moment. “I messed up,” the visitor grunted. “I should’ve
given you a second to adjust. Maybe not been so eager.”
Further silence from the other lord.
“You getting hurt was my fault.”
Eliwood bit his lower lip. Hector could feel the boy close to caving.
“And I think,” the taller boy assured, “you took that hit like a real knight of
Lycia.”
Eliwood looked down, hushed a moment more, before he pouted, “You really think
so?”
Hector dove in. “Of course I do! Now come on, man, what d’you say? Are we
good?”
Eliwood let out a smile and nodded weakly, causing Hector to laugh loudly and
give his host a fond clap on the back. “See?” he guffawed. “That’s more like
it! You’ve gone and saved my sorry hide this time!”
A frown, however, returned to Eliwood’s face, and the Pheraen asked again. “Do
you mean it?”
“What, you taking the hit?” Hector asked incredulously, not waiting for
confirmation before answering. “Well, I wouldn’t have needed the vulnerary,
but, of course! For taking an axe to the shoulder, you’ve recovered really
well.”
Eliwood looked right back from his painting to his feet, the young man
struggling for something to find visual solace in. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “You’re
right.”
“Of course I am!” Hector added, trying to not let his mood be dampened by his
friend’s continued melancholy. “Now come on Eliwood, cheer up, class is about
to-”
“About to what, Prince Hector?”
The boy hadn’t heard or seen old Petrarch make his return to the studio, having
been too busy with the business of schoolyard diplomacy. “Ah, nothing, sir,” he
improvised, “I’m just concerned for Eliwood, is all.” He hoped Eliwood would
forgive him anew for using such an excuse.
“Well!” the old man exclaimed. “A few minutes left there may be, but there is
still time enough to-”
“No, sir,” Eliwood piped up, suddenly rising to a standing position. “Hector’s
concern is genuine. May I please be excused early to change my dressing, sir?”
Petrarch seemed surprised a moment longer before relenting. “Of course, Prince
Eliwood,” he nodded. “You must take it easy for the next few days, after all.
Come back tomorrow and I’ll help you refine the floral motif on your framing.”
“Thank you, sir.” Eliwood bowed to his teacher, stooped low to pick up his
leather book-bag, and turned for the classroom exit without further ceremony.
Concerned, Hector tried to stand also and follow him; but was stopped as soon
as he started, withering back under the instructor’s piercing gaze.
“And where do you think you’re going?” He barked. “I won’t let you leave for
tactics with so white a canvas. You’ve got five perfectly good minutes,” he
thrust a wide-brimmed paintbrush into Hector’s hands, “so get some colour on
something!”
Hector obediently began to fill in empty space, but his gaze darted
continuously to the exit, watching Eliwood’s back worriedly as it diminished in
size by way of the corridor’s length. It was only after the younger boy had
vanished from sight entirely that Hector cast another glance at the lordling’s
portrait and, though he did not know it then, felt a pang of jealousy flits its
envious way towards the dragon woman depicted on it.
--
“We must remember,” Marcus declared, his voice reaching far in the dusty,
stone-walled chamber. “We must remember the duty of a Pherae knight at war.”
The tactics session was a much more sombre affair, mostly due to its being an
actual class for learning knights of Pherae’s military – but as Ostia’s
dignitaries were visiting, this lesson was more ceremony than anything. Hector
himself was sat near the front of the room, distinctly aware of the silent
horde of Pheraen knights behind and around him – he recognised Elbert’s captain
of the guard, Harken, and Lady Eleanora’s personal steward, Isadora. His
brother was in the seat to his left, and to his right was an empty place where
he imagined Eliwood would go, were he here. The young lord’s absence was noted
as Lord Elbert waited patiently in the open doorway, however the Marquess had
nodded at Marcus to begin regardless.
“We must remember that we are every inch the standard in our left hand as we
are the sword in our right,” Marcus continued, the speech causing heads to nod
agreeably. “In battle we are expected to be gallant, and in victory we are
expected to be nothing short of magnanimous.”
Though the words were stirring, Hector took more interest in noticing that his
friend had tiptoed into the room silently, Elbert greeting the boy wordlessly.
“For our duty is Pherae’s mercy,” Marcus growled. “We protect civilians, no
matter to whom they swear fealty. We spare a man if his sword is surrendered,
no matter how bloodied his hands are. And we leave no doubt in the minds of
all,” he added, “that the knights of Pherae are mercy made manifest, that we
deliver justice, flawless and inevitable, upon those who deserve it and only
those.”
Hector was staring Eliwood up and down from a distance. He watched as his
friend stood, rapt in view of Marcus, his father’s hand proudly perched upon
his uninjured shoulder. Hector could not fathom why, but Eliwood ‘changing his
dress’ had been quite literal – he now wore a rather formal jacket, a thick
scarlet one that matched his hair and gave off a regal appearance with golden
buttons and lining. Hector also couldn’t help but notice that the boy looked
tired.
“And you remember,” Marcus went on, “that where we go, our flags do not fly and
our towers do not raise. A peoples’ home is steeped in history, their own
history. The Saint forbid we ever fight Etruria, yet if we do remember that it
is from there that Elimine ascended to heaven. Pray for mercy if we ever war
with Bern, yet if we do remember that it is there that dragons first flew and
still fly today.”
The father and son of Pherae took the opportunity to stealth their way over
into their seats, Eliwood landing softly on the seat next to Hector’s as
predicted.
“This is the duty of a Pherae knight at war,” Marcus began to conclude. “To be
merciful. To be respectful. To be all the honour and decency that our enemy
would deny us. To prove there is a human, empathy and all, behind sallet and
shield.”
By now, there was nary shuffle or shiver in the torch-lit room as all watched
at attention, transfixed by Marcus’ knightly sentiment. “We are the battle-
standard of a better world,” he grumbled. “So we must remember that.”
Applause began instantly from Isadora’s position and spread like wildfire
across the enclosed space, ending up as thumping, percussive strains of
appreciation that made itself known from wall to reinforced wall. Marcus bowed
slightly in reception of the applause, then when it settled down Marcus drew
attention to their special guests.
“Now, before we begin, you all may be aware of the special guests in our front
row. So special, in fact, that they get a seat.” Laughter found its good-
natured way across the war room. “Our Marquess and our prince, and those of our
closest allies in Ostia. A round, if you will, for Uther and Hector!” Applause
again rang throughout the enclosure, but only until Uther waved it down
respectfully.
Hector reflected on Marcus’ words as the knight began his lesson in earnest –
and a lot of the ways Eliwood acted began to make total sense to him. Pherae
was a land born of gentleness, a place of songs and tales where the cultural
victory was every bit as important as the military one. It only seemed natural,
then, that someone as forthright and gentlemanly as Eliwood would emerge from
this environment. Hector turned to his right and beheld the young man. The
redhead was avoiding Hector’s gaze again, doing his best to track Marcus’ topic
with a clearly fading span of attention.
The better part of an hour passed before Marcus finally proposed a moment’s
pause in the lesson. As if by expectation alone a murmur of soldier’s chatter
arose, and Elbert stood to leave the room as an advisor appeared in the door.
This left his son sitting alone with the Ostians, shifting in his seat
uncomfortably and occasionally shaking his head softly as though to bring
himself back to attention.
Uther turned briefly to his younger brother and shot a look, cocking his head
towards Eliwood inquiringly. Hector grasped the meaning immediately, and became
eager to prove that he and the usually chatty Eliwood had made up. The larger
prince rashly wrapped his arm around the redhead’s back and over his good
shoulder. This made the lordling all but jump in his seat, the contact clearly
a surprise. His shoulders tensed, his body bristled, and Hector swore he saw
Eliwood’s face flash with the briefest of fears. Hector retracted his arm as
Eliwood slumped in his seat resignedly, gaze fixed shamefully on his boots.
“Blast,” Hector cursed, all but silently.
Uther wordlessly glared daggers at his brother and shook his head, the fading
patience in his eyes reminding Hector of his ever-diminishing time and options.
Marcus then reconvened the discussion, and so all Hector could do was clench
his resting fists on his thighs uselessly and let the doubts blossom in his
mind.
--
The air was brisk on the castle grounds as Hector stepped into the open green,
ghosting Eliwood as the Pheraen walked in front of him. The redhead was
seemingly determined not to break gaze with the horizon. Just as the last of
the social knights cleared the scene Hector quickened his pace, lengthening his
stride to meet his friend as he strolled down the sandstone path leading down
to the barracks and stables where their equestrian class was to be held.
“You’re really cutting it close, you know.” Hector mumbled to the boy. “That
would’ve been a perfect time to bring it in.”
Eliwood avoided meeting Hector’s gaze, instead choosing to regard the castle
grounds with a furrowed brow. He abstained from comment.
“Hey, come on, Eliwood,” Hector corralled the prince, stepping closer as his
sense of worry built with the redhead’s lengthening silence. “You don’t have to
keep the act up when it’s just us.”
Eliwood finally sighed, hissing out: “An act? Do you really think this an act,
Hector?”
Hector grumbled in response, a frustrated groan escaping his pressed lips.
“Come on, man! You said we were good.”
“I said no such thing!” Eliwood snapped back. “And I don’t see why we should
be. No apology, no –”
“An apology?” Hector scoffed, growing indignant. “For what? Winning?”
“This is what I mean!” Eliwood pressed on. “Just when I think you’re going to
give us lesser creatures,” he spat the words out with no small amount of self-
loathing, “a chance, you do this!”
“Since when have I been too much for you?” Hector demanded. “This is the first
I’m hearing of it. Besides, I asked you if we were good and you gave me a very
definite nod. Are you going back on your word? Not a good show for a gentleman
knight of Pherae.”
Eliwood’s cheeks reddened as Hector’s jab struck his pride. “No good being a
gentleman if you’re fighting a brute,” he rebuked.
Hector began to laugh, a roaring bugle-call that pierced ears both near and
distant. “Is that what this is about?” he demanded, feeling the younger prince
slump even further as Hector closed in on Eliwood’s emotions like a wolf-pack.
“Are you just mad you got beat by a big slow axe?”
“No,” Eliwood blurted defensively, accelerating his step out of annoyance, “I’m
mad you’re so pleased with yourself about it. You’re always so pleased about
it.”
At this Hector felt a flash of anger in his heart as he realised Eliwood’s hurt
may be more than he first assumed. He kept pace with the redhead and reached
out for his crimson sleeve, wrapping strong fingers around the lordling’s
forearm. “Now look here-”
Eliwood thrashed with a grunt, Hector’s hand jerking back in surprise as the
boy shot out of his range and whirled around to confront him.
“You don’t understand,” Eliwood burst out. “We were fine, I was happy again,
until you-” Eliwood lost his proverbial spine in the middle of this rebuke and
he calmed himself back to speech. “It just always has to be about you, doesn’t
it?”
“What, do I have to tiptoe around you now when we spar? Wait on you with a
handkerchief?” Hector began to pace around the Pheraen, his usual intensity
manifesting in his movements instinctively. Eliwood struggled to keep pace in
turning to face him. “You know, you lost that fight fair and square, Eliwood.
I’ve beaten you before and after this I’m gonna make sure to beat you again. So
just spit it out. Why are you so angry?”
“Because I should have won!” Eliwood shouted, his eyes all but pleading with
Hector’s. “I had every advantage. I’m more accurate, I’m faster, you’re just
learning the axe and you’re supposed to be at a disadvantage with it.” The boy
had hot tears brimming in his eyes now as Hector’s anger deflated. Eliwood
realised his strident emotion and spun, hiding his face out of embarrassment
but only succeeding in invoking a stronger fluster. “How am I supposed to be a
strong leader if I can’t even beat you at your worst?”
Hector hesitated in approaching his distraught friend, but ultimately attempted
to place a hand on the boy’s shoulder awkwardly. “Are… are you okay, Eliwood?”
Hector asked dumbly as the crimson boy held back tears.
“Yes!” he replied fervently, spinning back around. “In fact – let’s go get our
weapons, Hector!”
“Eliwood, that’s too much. You’re upset. I-”
“No! I’m challenging you. You’re gonna lose this time-”
“Will you just shut up and let me apologise?”
“You can apologise by getting your axe!”
This last statement by Eliwood shocked Hector, who was now wavering somewhere
between helplessness and worry as he glimpsed the Pheraen’s brow now glistening
with strained sweat. “Do you mean that? Is that what it’s gonna take?” the
Ostian asked tentatively.
“Yes. On my word,” Eliwood returned. “You give me one more chance to-” his face
scrunched briefly in pain. “One more chance to beat you, and I’ll smile and
laugh at all the right moments.”
Hector considered pointing out Eliwood’s physical discomfort, but thought
better of it, knowing it would only enrage the prince further. Instead, he gave
in to the panting boy’s demand and turned on his heel, spinning around to make
his way back towards the armoury.
“Oh, a-and Hector?”
The taller boy turned back around, only to be shocked by what he saw.
“C-could you please… get… my sword… too…”
Eliwood, deathly pale and gasping for air, stumbled forward, his eyelids
fluttering to a close as the young man collapsed to the ground, hitting the
grass with a whisper and a dull thud.
After a moment of stunned silence, Hector called his friend’s name as he let
fall what he was carrying and darted to the collapsed youth’s side, quickly
dropping down next to Eliwood and casting a panicked glance over his immobile
form. Instinct kicked in, and immediately Hector’s arms gingerly reached out
and took the boy’s torso, delicately rotating Eliwood’s slumped form onto his
back and elevating the torso against his knee. Hector all but tore his right
glove off, casting the cloth aside and holding the back of his hand directly
shy of Eliwood’s parted lips. He waited, and hoped.
It was there. Shallow, stale, and inconstant, but there was breath. Taking a
half-second to express relief, Hector then went to the topmost button on
Eliwood’s red jacket, undoing the thing to best leave the airways unrestricted.
It was as he pried open this small difference that he caught side of red
underneath. A deeper shade, wettened and stark.
“Oh, hell.” Hector’s voice was layered with dread as he began to fumble with
the other buttons, undoing the garment in increments and flinging the thing
open. The cloth parted to reveal that the vast majority of Eliwood’s shirt was
caked in still-moist blood, his entire torso covered in a deep crimson puddle
of the stuff. Renewed panic began to grip Hector, as the lordling pushed back
the subconscious thought that there was no more to be done.
Refusing this fatal conclusion, Hector evaluated his options. The castle had
grown further away than he’d thought, and its stone walls held the promise of a
great deal of panicked guards and flustered nobles long before Eliwood would
get the treatment he so obviously needed. No, it was as Hector turned to face
the closer barracks than he began to see the more appealing option – the
thought of direct action and immediate treatment pacifying his racing mind.
Hector summoned all his strength as he took the unconscious lord’s form and
draped it, arms first, over his shoulder. He struggled to his feet, Eliwood’s
added weight craning his form to a laboured stoop, but gritted his teeth and –
with fear and frustration reigning in his heart – began to walk, step by solid
step, down the way to the barracks.
--
Within the sanctum of his classroom, Marcus taught his knights the virtues of
theory. A far cry from the philosophy of the morning’s tactics ‘lesson’, which
had in fact been an artistic exercise typical of Pheraen leadership, in these
sessions unattended by barons and heads of state did only the cruel logic of
the battlefield rule.
“The truth is,” he proselytised, “whether they intend to or not, each nation-
state of significant military force has come to have a formation around which
their strategy is formed. Bern has the wyvern scourge, Ostia the armour
phalanx. These strategies take advantage of the unique strengths and
specialities that occur naturally out of training in this environment. As such,
it becomes our duty to refine our renowned cavalry forces into a similarly
feared fixture of battle. Yes, Corporal?”
The grey-plated knight who had risen out of his seat to put forth a question
stood at attention. “Sir! What about informal forces? Why should irregular
soldiers be dignified by a formal response?”
Marcus nodded at the question. “You’re talking about Sacae, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“It’s not a far-fetched idea. Lord Lundgren of Caelin nearly called on Lycia
for a military response after Marquess Hausen’s daughter Madelyn fell in love
with a Sacaen chief,” Marcus elaborated. “She chose to abdicate her position,
but a great many lords bayed for blood regardless.” The veteran knight thought
calmly. “You’re right in that often, irregular forces would use strategies
unaccounted for by formal armies. For instance, that many nomadic bowmen on
horseback would fell Bern’s wyvern forces with great efficiency. The
implications of that for us are-”
Marcus was interrupted by the deep wooden crash of the classroom’s dual doors
being flung open, the hinges guiding their bulk into colliding against the
frame from which they opened. There, standing in the doorway, heaving and
haggard-looking, was the blue-clad form of Hector, prince of Ostia – and
suspended on his back, covered in blood and unmoving, was Pherae’s heir and
hope.
All eyes took this sight in, silent realisation dawning across the collected
knights. A single drop of blood fell from Eliwood’s dangling hand onto the
stone tiles below.
“Sir Marcus,” Hector breathed. “Please.”
“DISMISSED! Everyone confined to quarters!” Marcus barked as instantly thirty
knights jumped to their feet, gathered their materials in a panicked rush, and
made for the exit. “Anyone who chatters about this is on latrine duty for a
week!” He roared after the knights as he strode down to meet Hector.
“He’s alive. Breathing.” Hector summarised as Marcus went behind Hector to best
examine the unconscious lord.
“By the Saint,” Marcus growled, “that’s a lot of blood.”
Hector felt rare and panicked tears threaten to sting his eyes.
“Corporal!” Marcus called out to the knight-in-training who had asked him the
question earlier. The knight snapped to attention as he filtered out of the
room with the rest of his gawking classmates. “Get me our special guest, now.”
“Y-yes sir!” the man skipped the customary bow and took off down the hallway,
splitting out from the rest of the men returning to quarters.
“Now, I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Was this you?” Marcus regarded Hector
sternly as the two men set about the task of gently removing the unconscious
prince from Hector’s shoulders and laying him out on one of the great oaken
tables that, just a moment earlier, had been littered by books and ink.
“No!” Hector replied. “We had an argument, and he just collapsed. I decided to
bring him here.”
“You made the right call,” Marcus breathed as he performed much the same checks
Hector did – that he was breathing, that his airways were unrestricted, and his
head firmly supported. He then grimly checked Eliwood’s wrist for a pulse, and
nodded. “Good. No need for compressions.”
“Is he going to be okay?” Hector asked.
“He is now,” Marcus grinned as he turned to witness the entry of the woman he
had sent for. The woman was one Hector had not seen in his visits to Castle
Pherae – he would have remembered her. Despite the wrinkles of a woman in her
mid-fifties, she had a tall and confident stride, a strut which propelled
forward a strong-postured woman. Greying purple hair poured over her shoulder
in long, sublime loops. She wore no armour, instead being adorned in the
moonlight and pearl dress wear of the magical academia. Her keen, hawkish eyes
regarded the scene curiously as she gaited towards the three men – Hector
couldn’t help but notice the bolting insignia of the Etrurian Valkyries
embroidered on the left shoulder of her shawl. It looked aged and frayed, a
memento of a relationship long past.
“Hector, this is Niime, our guest scholar-in-residence and current tutor to our
magical mounted units. Niime, this is-”
“Hector of Ostia,” she said, throwing out a brief wave even as she didn’t
regard the young man for a moment longer. “What’s happened here?”
“He just collapsed,” Hector pointed out. “I don’t know what could have done
it.”
“It was that fool Gruster that treated him this morning, right?” Niime mused as
she flexed her thin medic’s fingers and began to swiftly undo Eliwood’s once-
white shirt. “Did the simpleton forget to apply a vulnerary?”
“No, he did,” Marcus answered, “and it was plenty strong. It should have held.
Unless-”
The Druid pulled back the proverbial curtain, peeling the moist reddened fabric
away to reveal the wound – the line stuck out among the crimson flesh, dark and
angry.
“Unless Eliwood scrubbed it off,” she completed.
“Oh, Gods…” Hector groaned, recalling his own false boast about not needing a
vulnerary. Eliwood’s extended absence in changing the dressing now made sense,
as did his heightened sensitivity to pain and surprise.
“That’s one reason to wear red,” Niime snapped him back to attention. “Alright,
no time to lose. Get the shirt off.”
Guilt would have to wait, Hector decided. Marcus lifted Eliwood’s body for
Hector to grab the soaked cloth – grimacing as it weeped blood when he gripped
it – and pull it free from the boy’s torso. The woman had produced a tome, one
Hector did not recognise; different from the usual spellbooks of fire and
lighting, this one had bindings of cerulean blue.
A cold breeze suddenly swept through the room, sending a chill through Hector’s
system as the woman tempered and invoked the innate arcane magic of the volume.
A ball of creative energy materialised at the Valkyrie’s fingertips; Hector
watched as the forces played and mingled, a crackling of electricity as the
spell completed. Cold air accumulated around the sphere and excited it, at
which point Niime collapsed the spell – instantly the ball of ice that had
begun to form in the air inverted, and in its place was a shimmering,
glistening pool of the purest water Hector had seen ever seen.
With great delicacy the Druid lowered this mystical bubble onto Eliwood, the
liquid going across his body with ease and grace – flowing like oil and leaving
not even a trace of the red ichor where it passed across the skin. When its
work was done Eliwood’s pale skin was unblemished, and at Niime’s coaxing the
spell rose back into the air, hovered tentatively over the floor – and then
coalesced suddenly into a hard brick of ice that hit the floor and landed
intact.
Hector loomed over his friend. “What next?” he breathed, still on edge.
“Relax, Prince Hector,” Marcus said. “We know when the situation is urgent.”
The violet-haired woman had swapped the tome for a staff, the short-handled
wand of mending with its bulbous lapis core flashing as she ran the object over
the threatening gash. There was a moment of no reaction as the internals of the
wound closed – but then the skin knitted considerably, visibly coming together
save for a red streak that had been through days of healing in just a few
moments. Eliwood sucked in air, the boy’s lungs and heart cycling with renewed
vigour even if he did not regain consciousness.
“And that’ll do it,” Niime stated, an air of triumph in her note. “Rest of it
will heal naturally. Maybe a scar, who knows. What do we tell those in the
castle?”
“Leave that to me,” Marcus growled. “I’ll set Elbert straight.” He caught sight
of Hector’s concerned look. “And your brother too, lad. Don’t worry.”
“If I may, sir… what will you tell him?” Hector asked reservedly.
“The truth!” Marcus said as he regarded the peacefully sleeping boy on the
table. “That your quick thinking just may have saved his life.” Marcus started
out the door, but as he went leaned down and picked up the hunk of ice. “This
is going to water the flowers,” he said with a chuckle.
The thought of that allowed Hector his first relieved smile. Eliwood would
appreciate that.
“I reckon we’re done here,” Niime confirmed, hooking the staff back onto her
belt. “You can come check on him later – but clear out, he’s my patient now.”
The bold Hector moved, positioning himself between Niime and the unconscious
Eliwood. She looked at the Ostian when he did this, examining his eyes as if
seeing him for the first time. Her fingers pushed her thick spectacles back up
to the bridge of her nose.
“You wanna stay with him, blueberry?” She asked.
Hector nodded.
She sighed. “Alright, come on then. Keep his head up.”
--
It was just under two hours later that, with an uncomfortable cough, Eliwood
regained consciousness in the bed in the barracks sickbay. He heaved and
sputtered, his lungs and throat clearing themselves of residue. The Pheraen
became aware of his hands. His left hand balled and he hacked in its direction,
but his right was depressingly empty – that was, until he felt another hand,
large but gentle, enclose his fingers in its own.
“That’s it, get it all out. You’ll be alright.”
As the shuddering of his diaphragm slowed and then halted, the prince gingerly
turned himself over. His heart filled with relief as he saw the cool blue eyes
and reassuring smile of his best friend.
“Oh, Hector…” Eliwood pined, eyes immediately welling with tears as he lunged
from his bed and wrapped his arms around the Ostian. “Hector! I’m so sorry!”
“Hey, hey!” Hector chuckled, returning the embrace. “You got nothing to
apologise for. And take it easy.”
“But, but!” the lordling’s glassy eyes pleaded with Hector’s. “I said things I
shouldn’t have!”
“So did I, you big sook!” The taller boy laughed. “Worse things, and more of
them!” He scratched the back of his head sheepishly.
Suddenly, Eliwood looked downcast. “I didn’t… I didn’t get anyone in trouble,
did I?”
Hector ran his thumb down Eliwood’s cheek, bringing the gaze of the redhead
back on him. “You gave us a scare and a half,” he confessed, “but I’m just glad
you’re okay.”
The youth tried to laugh, but without strong use of his voice it manifested as
a shuddering giggle that pained it as it soothed him, his eyelids squeezing out
the last of the day’s tears as he closed them shut. And there, in that small
bed in the corner of the spacious sickbay, cool breeze from outside smelling of
home, Eliwood sank into Hector’s touch.
 “Thank you,” Eliwood breathed softly, gazing once again at his benefactor.
“I’m sorry I got so upset.”
Hector pulled him an inch closer to emphasise his point. “As I said, you’ve got
nothing to apologise for.”
There were only centimetres between their faces now, and each breath and glance
had nowhere to escape to – only dancing between the two.
“In fact,” Hector whispered, “it’s time I apologised.”
He leaned in, the distance between the boys becoming zero. Their lips touched,
the motion causing both to flood with relief and passion. Hector led the
movement, his subtly moving lips drawing the response forth from Eliwood’s,
whose delicate breathing laid bare his excitement. Hector felt his cheeks
reddening now, and so with a final glancing of loving pressure he withdrew.
“I-I shouldn’t have done that,” he stuttered. “I don’t know why I did it.”
“Hector…”
He turned again to face Eliwood, who now reclined contentedly but tiredly.
There was, Hector realised, neither fright nor uncomfortableness in those eyes
– only mild surprise and, somehow, gratefulness. “You don’t need to apologise
for that,” the injured boy reassured him.
“You’re just saying that.” Hector’s rare nervousness manifested as he scratched
at his neck.
“No, I’m not,” Eliwood answered, truthfully. “Please, stay.”
Minutes, then an hour, were whittled away in silent conversation between the
two lords. Despite Eliwood’s bed being the only occupied one in the infirmary,
their voices were kept to a slight whisper. Every now and again, one of the two
would indulge in a slight kiss, a delicate partaking of the other’s cheek or
lips, each little embrace of the sense an experiment they found to their
liking.
Eventually, the warming orange glow of sunset began to make itself known in the
wide shafts of light let in through the shuttered windows, and Eliwood began to
shiver. Even though last light was yet an hour or two away, the gauzy fabric of
the shirt he had been provided was thin and loose, and the twilight air had
already begun to bite. He tried to minimalise his surface area, but the
relative lack of blood circulating inside his body gave him little in the way
of warmth.
“I’ll get you some thicker blankets,” Hector promised, rising to his feet.
“Th-thanks,” Eliwood exhaled, his teeth beginning to chatter.
Retrieving a thick woollen blanket from a shelf nearby, Hector cast a glance
back at his friend. He had turned onto his side, hugging his own form for any
scrap of heat he could muster. Feeling a flutter of pity and… something else at
the sight, the blue-haired prince sighed and resigned himself to the action. He
spread out the blanket, letting it fall behind him, and approached the bed.
“Mmh- Hector? What are you…?”
“I’m making sure you’re not catching cold.”
“But…”
Hector blushed. “Shh. You just relax and try to warm up.”
Hector climbed onto the bed and positioned himself around Eliwood, settling the
younger boy into the shadow of his frame. Spreading the blanket up and over
them, Hector protectively wrapped his arms around the boy’s front, clasping
them over his chest. They lay like this for some minutes, the smaller prince’s
shuddering breaths beginning to slowly subside as Hector’s heat radiated inward
and brought solace – but not quickly enough, as Hector could still feel him
shivering like a thing possessed.
“Hector…” Eliwood squeezed the words out, “I’m still cold.”
“I’m trying… what can I do?”
“Your hands are warm,” the younger prince murmured in suggestion.
Unclasping his hands, Hector put a palm against Eliwood’s chest, feeling the
boy first flinch and then give into its presence.
“Closer,” Eliwood breathed. There was a shy neediness in his voice.
The Ostian prince smirked, and one of his hands surprised the smaller boy by
creeping in under his shirt. “What about now?”
Eliwood craned his body and neck slightly to meet his friend’s. He said
nothing, only gave Hector a look of fragile passion and leaned, the encouraging
pleading of his kiss inviting him to continue.
Resigning himself to pleasing the boy, one of the Ostian’s hands crept from
Eliwood’s chest and made its way in agonising slowness towards Eliwood’s waist.
The Pheraen all but writhed under the movement, craning his back and twitching
in reaction to the fingers as they traced the skin that led down from the
prince’s stomach. At his waist Hector’s fingers were stopped by the thin – and
cold – fingers of the other boy.
“Are you sure?” Eliwood panted.
“It’ll be alright,” Hector answered in confidence. “Just pretend I’m that
dragon woman.”
“I don’t… want to,” Eliwood whispered. “I’d prefer… you.”
The taller boy gave off a husky laugh. “You’re enjoying this, huh?” His fingers
easily unfastened the buttons that held the prince’s thin trousers, slipping
over the hardened flesh of the young man’s shaft. “I’m surprised you have
enough blood left for that.”
Eliwood almost seemed to ignore the joke, his eyes now closed and his features
relaxed to ecstasy as Hector began to softly stroke him through his
undergarments. Hector’s other hand had fixated itself on Eliwood’s chest, the
boy occasionally shuddering as it repositioned and warmed a fresh portion of
his torso. Rhythmically, Hector’s fingers rubbed over Eliwood’s shaft,
eliciting a soft gasp every now and then from the besieged prince.
Without warning, the hand entered Eliwood’s underwear, flesh now meeting flesh
as Hector’s strong fingers gently grasped and touched at the sticky, swollen
surface of Eliwood’s hardened shaft. Clasping it delicately, Hector began to
pull and rub as Eliwood’s hand had to go to his own mouth to prevent a cry of
ecstasy. A soft cooing of pleasure still escaped the prince’s lips on occasion
though, as the larger boy kissed up and down his cool neck, breathing silent
blessings upon its softness.
Eliwood began to moan more audibly now, his hands going weak from the
unexpected ripples of demanding, constraining, building pressure that now had
his body shuddering in pleasure. Pulling through two layers of fabric, there
was no room for the movement to deviate – and so slick heat continued to build
around the prince’s member as Hector’s movement accelerated, eliciting more
strong waves of delight to strike Eliwood to his core. Hector’s idle hand flew
to Eliwood’s mouth as he threatened to shriek in pleasure from the joy of it
all, his soft chirpings of joy building in frequency and intensity.
“Hector, I – aaahnn…” he moaned, the sentence nipped in the bud as the friend’s
hand pushed two fingers into Eliwood’s mouth and held back the sounds from the
world. This only furthered Eliwood’s arousal as the boy began to jerk and buck
next to the Ostian, his voice having placated the primal releases of his body.
As Hector stroked, feeling the boy’s member become firm and slicked in the
anticipation of release, he lay a line of kisses down on the boy’s cheek, down
to his neck, and then to his shoulder – where he stopped just shy of the newly-
made scar.
Hector stroked with increased tempo, his pace now a solid, fast intensity –
Eliwood was all but doubled over from the pleasure now, squirming and sticky
and, Hector was happy to realise, hot.
With only a squeaking, shuddering gasp of warning, Eliwood came. He arched his
back as the warm, white fluid of release spilled from his shaft, through
Hector’s fingers, and across his own skin and clothes, the rush of complete
ecstasy taking him. Hector couldn’t help but smile as he then relaxed back into
his sheets, red-faced and panting, heart pounding in his ribcage.
Hector stole another kiss from the boy as he began to mellow, softening again
into a softer, gentler being. “Is that better?” Hector asked. Eliwood only
murmured in silent, appreciative agreement as he began to drift off, seemingly
unbothered by his wetness. Hector smiled softly, regarding the boy curiously,
and after wiping his hands – and as much as he could of Eliwood – with a small
cloth he then stuffed in his pocket, wrapped himself back around the boy’s
sleeping form.
As Hector closed his eyes and began to drift off, he couldn’t help but feel a
loving heartbeat within him. Both boys slept then, each of them silken in
comfort and warmth and each taking in the scent of the other.
--
“And so, Lord Uther, you must agree. The case for Lundgren to take rulership of
Caelin is-”
The stuffy official’s comment was interrupted by a flurry of lighthearted
chuckles from the middle of the dinner table. From the dignified end of this
arrangement, the Lady Eleanora cast a loving glance over at her son, whose
laughter had spilled over from quiet giggling to nearly unrestrained cackling.
“Eliwood, dear,” she inquired. “What’s so funny?”
“It was, ah,” he gasped between heaves. “Nothing, mother. Hector’s joke was
very funny, that’s all.”
“Worth sharing?” Elbert asked warmly, fork still poised in his hand.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Hector said warmly. “It was pretty specific.”
Elbert gave off warm, paternal laughter. “I recall saying similar things to my
lord father. Very well – but keep it down just a while longer, okay? His
lordship is talking.”
“Yes, father!” Eliwood beamed an ebullient smile and went in on his plate for
another forkful.
Uther shot Hector a look somewhere between questioning suspicion and impressed
relief, but then changed it all to an appreciative, approving smile that warmed
the younger brother’s innards. As the man droned on, Hector left his once-
concerned brother’s gaze behind, and turned back to his friend – the way
Eliwood looked at him was magical, eyes full of hope and daring. It was those
eyes, that smile, and the wonderful person that made them shine; these things,
Hector swore, he would protect.
He knew that it was these things, one way or another, that he loved.
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