Chapter Text
His dinner had long been abandoned in favor of Radahn; it was cold, the vegetables limp and soggy, and the bread he had barely touched had already begun to grow stale in the 30 minutes since their food had been served. Still, Malenia nudged it in his direction when he returned to his place at the table, her slightly hazy eyes squinting down at him when he refused to eat more than a bite.
Miquella pushed the food around on the plate, ignoring Godwyn's pitying look. "I've just lost my appetite." He heard Malenia tsk beside him. "I'll eat more later," he looked up at her with the pleading look that always seemed to get him what he wanted. "I promise."
As slowly as possible, so as to not seem too angsty, or rushed, or anything too pitiful and desperate, Miquella excused himself from the table. His feet carried him out the dining hall and down what felt like a neverending maze of impossibly long grey hallways until he finally scurried into the sanctuary of his rooms: blessedly quiet and bereft of servants, despite the usual retinue that would be present at that time of night to help him prepare for bed. He wondered for a moment why no one had come, but quickly resigned himself to simply throwing his small body into his absurdly large bed and letting his sniffles turn into sobs, muffled into his pillow. “It isn’t fair,” he mumbled into the silence of the room, rolling onto his back with a weary sigh.
Of course this would happen to him. Of all people, the boy with the alter ego who personifies love- his love, would never be able to actually find it. Of course he would be alone. It was never really in question, Miquella supposed. It was how he was. Eternally young, loved by all maybe, if his parents were to be believed. But never coveted. No one would want him, in any meaningful, personal way.
And certainly not Radahn. Perhaps it was the childish side of him that turned his kind words and laugh and soft eyes into some sort of romantic interest. It had been foolish to even dream of, and he had dreamed of it. That silly sweet dream that kept him locked in St. Trina’s realm for hours past breakfast, and then had him a stuttering and blushing mess the next time Miquella saw him. But it didn’t mean anything to anyone but him.
Miquella groaned. He sounded like a child who’d had his favorite toy taken away. Though in a way, he supposed that maybe he was.
The sun had fully set, though he only noticed because a shiver ran through him from the cold that permeated the room. He stood from his bed, flipping his pillow over to hide the tear stains from his sight, and peered into the fireplace. It was empty besides a slight dusting of ash, and Miquella frowned deeply. How in the world did the servants start the fires, anyway? He knew enough to know he needed to put fresh logs in, and to light them, somehow. But he had been rather forbidden from practicing any sort of incantations that created fire, and his Mother had just sent Messmer and his Fire Knights away.
How he was meant to light it, he didn’t know. Not that he knew how to build a real fire anyway. Malenia told him it was difficult, once.
His would probably go out. Or not catch at all. He sat before the bare fireplace and rolled a log about in front of it, instead. He still felt dreadfully cold.
The log stopped entertaining him shortly thereafter, and he returned to his bed, bringing a book from his extensive collection with him. He piled his blankets on, all his sheets, comforters, and throws wrapped about him not unlike a cocoon. The candles at his bedside hadn’t burnt out at least, so he lifted one from the nightstand and—ignoring the way it shook in its holder as his hand trembled from the chill—held the light up to the book so he could read.
It was an old, old fairytale that his father would read and reread to him at his behest. There was a princess who wished desperately for a better world, and her ever gallant knight who fought for her to make it possible. It had always been the natural conclusion to Miquella that he was the princess, and Radahn his knight, of course. It had been the perfect fantasy for years after Radahn had first stolen his attention.
Radagon had never finished telling the tale when Miquella had been small, though: he told him it was a sad story, and that Miquella would never have anything to be sad about. That he needn’t learn about such things. That they were a distraction.
When he was old enough to read on his own, it was the first book he picked. Tucked away on the bookshelf in its unassuming, drab brown leather cover. The princess and her knight died in the end. Killed by the people they thought they were fighting for.
He didn’t read the ending again.
It was a light, easy read for Miquella, the words so ingrained in his memory that he hardly needed to skim the text before him. But it was a comfort, to imagine a life like that with Radahn by his side, rather than let his mind dwell on where he was that night, out with Rykard and those women their father had sneered at the mere mention of.
When he neared the end of the story, the part where the princess was making a grand speech at the gates of the royal palace, Miquella snapped the book shut with a sigh. He dropped it onto the bed beside him and carefully placed the candlestick back on the nightstand, staring into the flame for a moment, before an idea struck him.
If no one would come check on him for the evening, which truly did seem to be the case, after what he could only assume had been hours of total privacy: he would go for a walk. Only around the parapet, where the guard patrol was, he assured himself. He was left wondering for just a moment where Messmer’s kindly knight friend had gone, if she didn’t leave with his brother’s army. She’d told him, rather tearfully at that, that Marika had forbidden her from it. But not too long after Miquella’s eldest brother had disappeared from his life, she had too.
It had been weeks since he’d seen her last. She always had a snack and story at the ready if she came across Miquella and Malenia, and he missed her already. He’d dawdled long enough though, and if he waited much longer he might fall asleep.
It was no small task to heave the blankets off of his body; his arms shook from the effort when he tried to shove them off all at once. The temperature immediately had him racing for his wardrobe, tossing on the warmest, coziest robe he could find. His thickest cloak followed, a fleecy red thing with delicate golden filigree embroidered on the edges. It had been a gift from Radahn, for his birthday one year, Radahn citing how the boy needed to stop stealing his cloak when it was only a middling temperature out. Miquella pulled it tight around himself, as he slipped into a decidedly atrocious pair of brown slippers.
Not the daintiest look. Nor the most put together. But at least he wouldn’t freeze to death. And maybe the hood of the cloak would keep at least a few of the guards from realizing who he was and putting an end to his adventure prematurely.
The corridor that his chambers laid in was still empty, which wasn’t entirely surprising, given everyone likely thought Miquella asleep, but not so much as an errant guard or servant was almost unheard of. The guard rotation seemed lighter than usual everywhere, in fact. Not that it was very much Miquella’s business to be worried about such a thing. Maybe luck was on his side for the evening, at least in that regard. It made scurrying his way down the halls of the palace and out into one of the gardens that connected to the perimeter of the castle much easier.
A few more guards dotted the parapet, but most spared him little more than a glance. Only one had stopped him in earnest, sputtering out an apology when Miquella had lifted his hood to show the man who he was.
The night was delightfully bright, stars twinkling starkly above him, the moon framed between them all like a pretty celestial picture. The city streets also managed to be quiet for once, a fact which was greatly appreciated by Miquella. It gave him plenty of space to be alone with his thoughts for the entirety of his walk.
—
He ended where he began, in the gardens. Miquella sat alone in a quiet corner, drinking in his surroundings, hands folded together neatly in his lap. Trina whispered into the back of his mind that it was too late for them to be awake, that Miquella should sleep, but he just felt that it would be better to stay, that it might help him- and eventually, after Trina had quieted, it did. Radahn snuck through the gardens as quiet as he could possibly manage for one of his size, eyes darting about.
Miquella noticed that Radahn seemed sober enough, which was good. There was no woman with him, and no Rykard either.
So with no small amount of bravery, Miquella cleared his throat and shyly waved when Radahn spun on his heel to face the noise. “Miquella? Why in the Heavens are you out of bed at such an hour? We must get you to your chambers,” Radahn began to fuss over him, Miquella’s futile attempt to push him away serving to only cause Radahn to redouble his efforts. Miquella squirmed enough he managed to slide down the other side of the bench, and pull his knees up to his chest.
“I’m not tired,” he lied, eyes cast down to Radahn’s hands, still outstretched toward him. He didn’t seem convinced and Miquella turned his gaze out into the garden, the sea of golden flowers giving him some comfort. “Did you enjoy your night? What Father mentioned sounded…exciting.”
Radahn snorted from next to him, but stayed silent for a moment. He moved closer, so his leg was nearly brushing against the hem of Miquella’s robes and cloak. “No,” finally came the answer, and Miquella whipped his head up to look at him. “Nights out with Rykard are an…obligation, more than anything. I spend many evenings such as these considering any possible out I may find.” Radahn’s gaze was fixed upon the stars, and he sighed in a wistful way Miquella hadn’t heard out of him before. “Maybe I enjoyed it once.” A pause, and Radahn dragged his gaze away from the night sky to look at Miquella. “But not now.”
He wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t even know what Radahn had meant by the words. He would not overthink it, though. He could not. They were brothers. Bound by blood. Not some tightly woven string of fate that would keep them together forever.
They were not the Princess and her Knight.
But still…Radahn smiled at his expression—presently a mixture of confusion and wonderment, if the thoughts in his head were anything to go by. So he pressed. “What do you enjoy then, Lord brother?” Miquella’s gaze fell back to his lap, hands wrung together like knots. His nerves had nearly made the words catch in his throat.
Radahn seemed to think for a moment, a quiet hum his only answer for what felt like minutes. Eventually though, Miquella’s view of his hands was obstructed, one of Radahn’s own covering the two easily. He held on with a light grip, thumb rubbing rhythmically across a ticklish part of Miquella’s wrist; but he would not complain or pull away for anything. “Caelid and drinking with my men. Caria Manor and hiding away in my room until Ranni would all but force open the door. Being here at the capital and training with the others.” A deep, almost shuddering breath escaped him. “Being here with you.”
Miquella was sure he had misheard. His throat tightened up terribly, and he was certain Radahn could feel his pulse quickening under his skin. There wasn’t- he couldn’t… What did Radahn expect him to say?
“What?” It was all he could manage, and the word came out sounding warbly: like a baby bird had said it. Radahn squeezed his hands gently, the gesture coaxing Miquella into raising his head just enough to make eye contact again.
It was that smile again. Where the corners of his eyes crinkled upwards; the smile Miquella always hoped must’ve been reserved for him. “I believe you heard me, dear brother.”
He knew it now.
A meek nod was his only answer, mouth too dry and throat too tight to respond properly. Radahn only continued to smile and stare, though his expression faltered when Miquella sniffled. His eyes watered, tears threatening to spill out. “Do not think I hadn’t noticed your affections, Miquella. You have been…quite unsubtle. Though I mind it not,” he added almost sheepishly, and the thought of Radahn being nearly as embarrassed about the situation as himself made the tears dry up instantly. They continued to stare at one another; no more words were spoken, but their gazes seemed to say enough.
A twig snapped from somewhere past the rose bushes near the south entrance of the garden, and the pair spun to face the noise, Miquella’s eyes wide, and Radahn’s hand hovering over the handle of a blade sheathed at his side.
No one appeared in their line of sight after several tense moments, and Radahn let out a terse sigh. “Let me walk you back,” he offered softly, hand traveling from blade handle to Miquella’s small thigh. “It is late, and freezing out.” Miquella couldn’t argue with him there: the chill had become almost unbearable since he’d sat down in the garden. He smiled, canines peeking out from his lips and nodded emphatically. With a matching grin, Radahn stood and scooped Miquella up, strong arms locking him into place against his broad chest.
He let out a surprised squeal, hands clinging to the fabric of Radahn’s shirt, then balling into fists and smacking at his chest when Radahn had the audacity to laugh at his very justified reaction.
Their walk back was silent; neither of the pair spoke a word, though Miquella noticed that Radahn tensed before they rounded every corner on the way to his private wing. When they arrived back at the grand double doors leading to his hall, Radahn faltered, pausing just before he reached out to open the latch. “There hasn’t been any sign of a guard nor servant all night. I came to bed not long after you left, and no one had even lit a fire in my room. I don’t think anyone will see us, if that’s what you’re worried about.” And it seems that was the case, as Radahn relaxed instantly at Miquella’s words and swung the door open without another thought.
The expansive hall was predictably quiet and devoid of life, and Miquella took the opportunity to nuzzle into Radahn’s neck, delighting in the mirthful huff of air he expelled through his nose at the affection. The smile on his face was well worth it, too.
As the pair neared the door to Miquella’s chambers, he buried his face even farther into his brother’s neck, squeezing him tightly as though the night would never end if he didn’t let go. Radahn gently—reluctantly—pulled Miquella away and settled him on his feet. They stared at each other for a long moment, before Radahn’s gaze slipped away to the door before them. “Stay?” Miquella hoped his voice didn’t sound too pathetic or wanting.
“Not tonight, little brother,” Radahn sighed, and Miquella knew that would be the end of it. He begrudgingly opened the door and shuffled inside, turning to watch Radahn fidget awkwardly in the hall. “I’ll see you at breakfast, Miquella.”
The empyrean nodded and began to shut the door, peeking out just before he lost sight of the hallway outside. His face was stuck in a smile, and a small laugh escaped him. Tonight had been good. “Good night, Lord brother.”
He hoped tomorrow would be even better.