Chapter 9: Swordplay

Part of Emrys had hoped that Archimedes's return would be the end of his pitiful crush on Aesind. In the past, he's been fairly monogamous. He tried having an open relationship once and found that his jealousy was a serious issue. Emrys simply doesn't like to share with strangers.

Aesind is a flirt. He showers Archimedes with compliments constantly, openly admiring the godkin at every opportunity. And Archimedes is no different. His verbal affection is subtler, but his hands are always on or near Aesind. They watch each other with obvious appreciation and admiration.

The two of them frequently disappear from plain sight no fewer than ten times in the two days of Archimedes's partner-mandated rest. Emrys can guess at what they're up to.

Unavailability is the number one way to get Emrys to lose interest. He'll pursue someone, sure, but he won't chase or beg for attention. Aesind is the definition of unavailable. He may be entertaining suitors, but they've been specifically selected and put forward by their people according to courtship protocols. Emrys's presence is by complete chance. His parents had no part in his being here. Neither did his clan.

Emrys is not an option. Aesind has Archimedes. Aesind is unavailable to him.

Obviously, he's lost interest.

The current round of suitors depart only a day after Archimedes's return. The couple have almost a week before the next set are due to arrive. Based on what Emrys hears, none of the remaining suitors made much of an impression, good or bad, on Archimedes.

"At least they weren't horrible to his face," Emrys remarks to Aesind one sunny afternoon as they chat about it.

With the suitors gone, they're free to relax together out in the open. Today, they're sitting on the patio with plates of snacks and cool glasses of lemonade. A deck of well-worn playing cards sits nearby, shuffled and ready for their next game.

"A small consolation," Aesind replies, nose wrinkling. He crosses his arms. "I can only imagine how horrible the next lot will be."

"Maybe they'll get their acts together and be better."

Aesind gives Emrys a dry look. "You really think they will?"

"I've only seen two sets come and go, but surely there's someone out there who isn't going to be a total failure." Emrys pops a roasted almond into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "One of these gentlemen will be worth your time."

"I hope so," Aesind says with a sigh. "But I fear we're running out of options."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I've said. There are only so many eligible gentlemen to offer. Plenty, yes, but we've been at it for over a year. They've only gotten worse over time."

Emrys's brows draw down low. "What happens then? If there's no one else for the nobles to put forward?"

"I don't really know," Aesind mutters, running a finger through the cold puddle beneath his half-empty glass. "We consider the ones we've already met, I suppose."

"Why don't you two travel? Attend balls, parties, that sort of thing?" Emrys gestures to himself. "That's how we do it. We meet people at events and go from there."

Aesind's smile is thin. "Ordinarily, we would. But with the ghoul issues and everything being so tense everywhere, there's little time for it. Besides, Archimedes doesn't like parties, and the people at those parties wouldn't look twice at me. I'm beneath them."

"You're Archimedes's mate," Emrys says, offended on Aesind's behalf. "You're not any less noble than they are."

"I am," he replies simply. "I was a commoner before Archimedes chose me. A mere human with a small gift for magic but no notable lineage or connections." He shrugs. "The fact that I'm now a certified magician means little to that type. It matters more that I come from neither money nor prestige."

"Fuck ‘em," Emrys says vehemently. "You're nobler than all of them combined. I certainly respect you more than any of those people."

The wan, tired smile on Aesind's face curves further into something more genuine and alive. "That really does mean a lot to me, Emrys. Thank you."

"Don't thank me," Emrys says, softening in spite of himself. "I'm only telling you the truth."

Aesind's smile widens further. "I know. That's why I'm grateful."

Emrys's traitorous heart flutters.

It would be easier to lose interest if Aesind would stop looking at him like that. And he would probably stop if Emrys would quit finding ways to make Aesind smile at him like that. And he will quit it.

As Emrys beats his attraction down with a stick, Aesind perks up and waves.

"Sweetheart!" he calls cheerily. "Come join us."

Perfect. Archimedes's claim will be on display, and Emrys will use it to keep himself under control. He will get rid of these feelings.

When they're together, Aesind and Archimedes often fall into routines. Even when Emrys (or Ash, on occasion) is present, they have a natural ebb and flow between themselves. They're a perfect pair. Their obvious, palpable love for each other is the perfect dissuasion from feeling anything more than friendship toward Aesind.

"Good afternoon, you two," Archimedes greets, gracing them both with a smile as he takes one of the two remaining seats at the table. It places him on Emrys's right and Aesind's left. "How has the day been treating you?"

"It's been very good for me," Aesind says with a wicked grin at Emrys.

Emrys rolls his eyes. "Aesind has been challenging me to every card game he knows."

"Ah," Archimedes says widely. "You've been losing, have you?"

"I did win one," Emrys says.

"Spit," Aesind puts in. He picks up the deck of cards and gives them a swift riffle shuffle. "Even with that injured arm, you're pretty fast."

Emrys grins and wiggles his fingers. "Reflexes like a cat."

"Impressive," Archimedes says, holding a hand out for the deck. "Aesind is a master at card games. It's a feat to beat him at all, so a single victory is quite the significant thing."

"You don't need to make me feel better about losing."

"I'm serious." Long fingers cut the deck and bridge them together in a series of fluid, graceful movements. "It isn't as though he let you win. Did you, love?"

Aesind laughs. "Absolutely not."

"See?" Archimedes makes a gesture with his hand and pops a single card out the top of the deck, catching it in the opposite hand. "You won by your own skill. An admirable feat." He flips the card around to show Emrys the king of hearts. "Against a superior opponent, even a minor victory is worth the pride."

Emrys watches him fiddle with the deck with wide eyes. "How did you do that?"

"Hm? This?" He repeats the trick again, this time revealing the four of diamonds. "I know a few tricks, though they're not very useful."

"Archimedes has many hidden talents," Aesind whispers loudly across the table.

"I simply had a lot of solitary time on my hands growing up," Archimedes says at a normal volume. "A good environment for learning silly tricks to entertain myself."

He performs another complex shuffle before laying the deck down again. Emrys stares at it for a moment. Silly trick, maybe, but it's an impressive one.

"What's your hidden talent, Emrys?" Aesind asks, canting forward with interest. "Surely you have one."

They've both shown off. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad for him to do the same. An exchange of skills is friendly enough.

Emrys makes a show of shrugging. He picks up one of the small, sharp knives on the table and regards his reflection in its surface.

"Nothing, really," he says, fighting a smile.

He swaps the knife to his left hand, since his right is out of commission. The knife spins once between his thumb and forefinger, a blurring whirl that glints in the sunlight.

"Throw something at me."

Archimedes's brows arch. "What?"

Emrys juts his chin out toward Aesind, spinning the knife again and no longer hiding his grin. "Throw something."

Aesind narrows his eyes. He surveys the table, then picks up a fat strawberry.

"That's going to stain," Emrys warns.

With a curious smirk, Aesind tosses it into the air toward Emrys.

Nothing for it, then.

As the berry falls, Emrys strikes. The knife flashes as a bright streak in the air. Juice bursts in all directions, speckling the table and all three of them with dots of red.

The pieces begin to fall. Emrys lashes out again, skewering both perfect halves of the strawberry on the point of the knife.

"How's that?" Emrys asks, depositing the sliced berry on Aesind's plate, knife and all.

Aesind examines the halves with a delighted laugh. "It's right on the center! Sweetheart, look!"

"I see," Archimedes says, dabbing at his stained shirt with the corner of a napkin.

Emrys grimaces. "Sorry."

"You did warn him," he replies dryly.

"An interesting talent," Aesind says around one of the strawberry halves, "though a touch messy."

"I can juggle as well," Emrys says. He pats his braced shoulder. "I think Illala would have my head if I tried it right now, though."

"Most likely," Archimedes remarks, picking up the other half. "I presume you can do something similar with a sword?"

"Oh, now that would be impressive," Aesind says, sitting up straighter. His eyes sparkle. "Do you suppose you could show us a bit of that?"

Emrys tests his shoulder. Bound up, it still aches like a particularly nasty bruise with a firm thumb against it. The ambient searing pains he dealt with in the early days of his healing are long gone. This pain is easy to ignore in comparison. So long as he doesn't do too much and only uses his left hand, it should be fine.

"Sure," Emrys replies.

Before he can get another word out, Aesind bolts to his feet and declares, "I'll go up and get it for you, then."

"Would you bring mine down as well?" Archimedes asks, craning his neck backwards as Aesind marches away. He gets a vague affirmative gesture in reply and turns back to Emrys. "We shouldn't spar, but I'm interested in comparing our forms."

Emrys sighs, "A shame. You'd be an interesting opponent."

"Is that so?"

"Your height and reach," Emrys says, pointing.

Archimedes tilts his head. "Is your brother Aryn not also tall?"

"Not as tall as you are. Besides, he uses a two-handed broadsword. If I recall correctly, you use a curved sword and a tall shield." Emrys brings both hands together and swings them as though holding a sword's hilt. "It's a different technique entirely. Defeating someone holding a shield requires different tactics to someone using brute strength and a massive blade."

"That does make sense. Although, you are an archer, aren't you?"

"It's my personal best," Emrys says with a nod. He grimaces. "It was, at least. I'm not sure I'll be able to shoot anymore."

"You're too early in your recovery to be certain. Illala is the finest doctor in the region, and you've already healed quicker than expected."

Emrys sighs dramatically. "Not quick enough."

An amused smile plays over Archimedes's lips. "Be patient."

Emrys's sour expression pulls a tiny laugh out of Archimedes. It's little more than a snicker or a snort, smothered behind fingertips before it can become much of a noise at all.

It still makes Emrys's heart thud pathetically.

They fall into a companionable silence. The garden's ambient song fills the gap in conversation naturally -- birdsong and buzzing insects and the sway of leaves. Emrys tips his face toward the sun, breathing it all in. The fact that he's here at all is a blessing. The recovery is arduous and far too slow, but it's faster than what he'd manage at home. And this place is so beautiful. The manor, the grounds, the gardens.

The hosts.

Unfortunately for Emrys, Archimedes is as alluring as Aesind is. Different, definitely, with his long limbs and effortless grace. With Aesind, Emrys often feels like he's being let in on a secret. Furtive grins and inside jokes and exaggerated expressions and wide gestures venting emotions too big for his body to hold. With Archimedes, there is a solemn but comfortable serenity. Subtle gestures and glances filled with meaning, whole conversations held without uttering a single word.

Once Aesind sets that sword in Archimedes's hand, Emrys is absolutely done for. They look every bit the devoted knight and besotted prince as they murmur to each other in the bright afternoon sunlight.

Seeing them so obviously enamored with each other is more than enough to strangle Emrys's attraction to them. It smothers his affection until it burns in an appropriately friendly way. They belong to each other, and he is their new friend.

"I've told Archimedes to go easy on you," Aesind declares as he approaches Emrys. He holds out Emrys's sword, still in its sheath. "We can't have him hurting you, after all."

"I'll be fine," Emrys says with an eye roll. He draws his blade and sets the empty sheath on the ground. The sword fits comfortably in his left hand. Its heft is solid and familiar, though a touch heavier than the last time he held it.

"Of course, you will be." Aesind leans closer, voice lowering. "Be careful, alright? I really don't want to see either of you get hurt."

Emrys's very normal, very friendly flame of affection flares right back up to fill his whole chest.

"We won't actually spar," Emrys says, looking toward Archimedes to rescue himself. "Right?"

Emrys's mouth goes dry. The look on Archimedes's face is one of fond affection. He's seen that look before, directed toward Aesind when the pretty man is doing something particularly cute.

Now, it almost seems like it encapsulates Emrys, too.

Almost, until Emrys shakes his swooning internal monologue back to sense.

"Of course," Archimedes says, expression straightening as Aesind refocuses on him. "We're simply comparing forms."

"Well, don't let me get in your way, gentlemen," Aesind replies with a laugh. He waggles his eyebrows at Emrys as he retreats to his chair. "Get to comparing."

As expected, Archimedes's style is very polished. He explains that he learned swordsmanship as part of his formal schooling as a teen.

"It was part of the required curriculum," he says with a casual slash that cuts through the warm breeze. His form is perfect. "I never thought it would be useful, but recently, I'm grateful for it."

Emrys watches him for a few seconds as he moves through his stances. Archimedes is the epitome of dangerous grace. His forms could be printed into a guide, they're so precise.

"Do you have issues with opponents predicting your moves?" Emrys asks as Archimedes comes to rest.

"Not in particular," Archimedes replies, sword dangling in a loose grip. "Although, my opponents tend to be ghouls, and they aren't known well for their strategic thinking."

Emrys huffs. "Fair. But in school, or when you spar, is it an issue?"

"It's been a while since I last sparred with someone, but I was never top of my class." Archimedes raises a brow at Emrys. "You sound like you have a suggestion."

"Of sorts," Emrys says, nodding. He holds his sword arm at his side, keeping his own sword low and away from Archimedes. "If you don't mind?"

"Not at all. You're far more experienced than I am. I would appreciate your insights."

Emrys can't help but grin at that. "Your technique is very good, but you move like you're taking instructions."

"I'm performing the motions as I was taught," Archimedes says, almost petulant if not for his utter calm. He glances at his sword, tipping it so it glints in the light. "Is that not what I'm meant to do?"

"Sure," Emrys agrees with a nod. "But it makes you predictable. If you were to go up against an intelligent opponent, or if someone were controlling the ghouls directly during a fight, you'd have a more difficult time winning."

A frown appears between Archimedes's brows as he considers his blade. "That does make sense." Gray lifts to brown, serious and earnest. "What do you suggest?"

"Aside from actually practicing and adapting your own style, loosen up." Emrys taps Archimedes's shoulder, then his elbow. "You're like a statue. Relax."

Archimedes sighs. He gives Emrys a chagrined half-grimace. "I'm afraid that's easier said than done. I really don't enjoy fighting."

"You're not supposed to."

Both manicured blond brows arch now. "Is that so? You seem to enjoy it."

Emrys shrugs. "I learned by sparring with my younger brothers and my friends. That tends to make it more fun." He steps away again and takes up a fighting stance to parry and slash at an imagined opponent. "Try like this."

Archimedes follows his movements carefully.

"Drop your shoulders. You're too tense."

"Like this?"

"No, like... Here." Emrys gets closer, holds up a hand. "Can I?"

Archimedes hesitates, but he does nod.

"Here," Emrys says, laying a hand to Archimedes's right shoulder. "Relax your stance, drop your shoulders. Stay loose." He backs up again and readies his sword. "If I were to try and hit you like this --" Emrys swings slowly at Archimedes's exposed side -- "how would you block it?"

"With my shield," Archimedes replies. He mimes the motion of raising a shield. "Like so."

"And if you didn't have it?"

"I strap it to my forearm." Archimedes's smile is small but amused. "I always have it."

Emrys barks out a laugh. He gestures to his healing shoulder. "And if you lose the arm?"

"I wouldn't be in any state to keep fighting if that happened," the godkin says, smile growing. "Unlike some, I'm not built to manage such a feat."

With another laugh, Emrys spins his short sword in a circle. "Adrenaline had more to do with that than being built differently, I think."

Emrys strikes again at his invisible opponent. A sharp twang goes through his torso, landing right in the center of his torn shoulder. He grunts and drops his stance, nearly doubling over as the pain radiates through his upper arm and chest.

"Shit, are you alright?" Aesind exclaims, racing over from where he's been watching.

"I'm fine," Emrys says as he straightens. He winces, resisting the urge to stretch his arm out to try and relieve the strain. The last thing his shoulder needs is more stretching. "Just swung too hard."

"Would you like to rest?" Archimedes asks. He hovers nearby, one hand outstretched as though to support Emrys. "Perhaps we should sit for a while."

"No, no. I'm fine." Emrys sighs. He frowns down at his sword. "I probably shouldn't swing this around anymore today, though."

Aesind retrieves the sheath for him, and Emrys slips the sword into it reluctantly. He holds the covered blade a moment longer. Dread creeps in. What if he's never able to fight again after all? What if this injury is the end of his hunting work?

Would he still be worthy of becoming head of his clan if he's unable to defend them?

"It's impressive how you can still do that much when you were so badly hurt so recently," Aesind says. He taps a finger on the hard sheath's material. "Imagine what you'll be capable of in a couple months!"

Emrys gives Aesind a dry, sullen look.

"He's right," Archimedes puts in. His hand lifts, hesitates. It lands feather-light on Emrys's unhurt shoulder for a single pat. "Give it time."

"You have more to offer than just all that muscle," Aesind teases before Emrys can argue. "For today, why not give Archimedes a few more pieces of advice? No reason to quit if you can still stand. Right?"

Emrys's protests die on his tongue. He feels himself softening with fond gratitude. He lets a reluctant half-smile pull at his lips. "Alright, fine."

"Wonderful," Archimedes says. "I certainly could use the practice and your expertise. Now, you mentioned relaxing my posture, but I'm not sure how to manage it in a true fight."

The half-smile morphs into a fuller one, even though Aesind takes his sheathed sword right out of his hands. They're trying to distract him and make him feel better all at once. Aesind's I-know-that-you-know-what-I'm-doing grin and Archimedes's earnest effort are just... Emrys swears internally and rapidly loses the fight against the truth that they're both too fucking cute to resist.

And it would make him a serious asshole to sabotage their efforts.

"It won't happen in a day," Emrys says, letting his empty hands fall to his sides.

"Perhaps a new training schedule is in order." Archimedes shrugs one shoulder, smiling with what seems to be shyness (though that can't be right, can it?). "If you don't mind."

"Gods," Emrys groans, "I would love to exercise regularly again. Yes. Please. A couple times a week would be perfect."

"We have to clear it with Illala," Aesind calls from the shaded table, a fresh glass of lemonade in hand. Emrys's sword leans against his chair. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

"I can convince her," Archimedes leans in to whisper. Mischief sparkles in his usually serious gray eyes. "Promise."

Emrys laughs, hand to his injury as he winces again. The pain can't diminish his amusement. Or his very friendly, very normal gratitude. And nothing else.

"I believe you," Emrys whispers back loudly.

Archimedes purses his lips. He ducks his head, and when he lifts again, he's back to apparent seriousness. "Now, you have advice for me."

"Well, first of all, drop your shoulders again..."