Chapter Text
It was a quiet night, and the crack of a stray twig underfoot was loud. Two people were present in that small moonlit clearing in the gardens of Croix Castle, and two people froze; one suddenly aware of the other, the other cursing a very sudden and stupidly avoidable loss of stealth.
Riftan had meant to leave. He’d only meant to make sure she was safe, and when he realised he was intruding on something private he turned to go at once, and then—that damned twig. At the traitorous snap, he spun back around, and Maximilian Croix spun around too, eyes wide and searching. She spotted him a beat later, and Riftan knew it was too late to run. Though it would appear the lady was not entirely opposed to the idea.
Maybe he should have let her go then, off into the night to think whatever she wished of him lurking in the greenery instead of approaching her like the self-assured knight he was supposed to be. But loathe as he was to admit that he cared what anyone thought of him, he cared what she thought. Begrudgingly. Riftan Calypse carried with him a most maddening dilemma.
He longed for Maximilian Croix as dearly as anything, but he longed to be free of her too. Free of this hyper-awareness at least: of crimson hair and mournful eyes, gentle footsteps and an even gentler voice. He wanted to be free of this girl who’d unknowingly managed to brand her entire being into every corner and crevice of his mind when he was just a boy. It ached back then, wanting but knowing he could never have. Then he grew up, and so did she. Now it burned. He wanted to hate her for it. He couldn’t.
That was why he was here in the first place, why he couldn’t let her go.
Riftan watched as Maximilian turned to run. Time slowed, and the urge to call out after her stuck in his throat like dry meat; and then all at once he was crossing the clearing after and his too-big hand closed over her too-small wrist, stopping them both in their tracks.
“Please—” he managed to spit out. The word felt foreign on his tongue. “Don’t leave. I just—” Maximilian turned back, hair flying, eyes wide, and Riftan lost hold of his voice.
She was so beautiful. And she looked so afraid.
A wave of shame flew through him, extinguishing all too soon the novel feel of her in his grasp. A discomfiting shroud sprung up in his chest. Riftan struggled to push it down; this gnawing bitterness that reminded him far too often of his pitiful beginnings and told him to never hope to touch her life.
Never look up.
Maximilian’s gaze dropped. So did his, landing on the wrist still in his grasp. He hurriedly released her, and she immediately took a step back. But she didn’t run away. An unbearably awkward silence engulfed the two of them instead, and Riftan noted with a terrible pang the way her hands trembled as she fidgeted her paper, the way her eyes were fixed to the ground.
Oh, how he’d longed for those eyes to look at him, just once, with a smile and a spark of gentle affection in them. How he’d longed to hold her small hands in his own, and bring them to his lips, and watch as she blushed rose pink…
How cruel reality appeared, destroying his delusions so thoroughly.
Riftan swallowed his disappointment. He had no right to it, he knew that. The Maximilian Croix standing before him was no magical hallucination, no figment of his imagination. It was better like this. She was real—flesh and blood and bone and a mind of her own—and she was here.
Never look up.
His stepfather’s warning rang faintly in his ears. He’d always listened before, because he’d seen what it could do. Every day he’d watched as his mother wasted away on a hill, waiting for a man who would never come. He’d watched his stepfather live with the resignation of having a wife who barely spared him a glance in favour of an empty horizon. Clear as day, he could remember his stepfather coming home one night after his mother’s death; drunk, sobbing, voice broken and more emphatic than he’d ever heard before.
“Looking up will make you nothing but wretched.”
Riftan had listened alright, and those words had governed his ways and fuelled his inferiority until it felt as though they’d been etched onto his skull. It had always been burdensome, always been a weighty thing to carry, but the weight had never much mattered before.
Now he stood in a garden with Maximilian Croix, and an echo of his pitiful stepfather would have him turn away.
He didn’t want to do that.
If wanting and dreaming of a future with her made him wretched, so be it. A moment of madness, possibly, but Riftan let it take hold of him; the dreams and then the reality of it, and the shroud in his chest grew just a little lighter. As he was now: a respectable but lowly knight, he was not the most suitable of suitors, but perhaps…perhaps Maximilian Croix was not as far out of his reach as he’d originally thought.
Riftan knew she was scared of him. He knew what he looked like. Big and mean and other. Determination was catching though, and a plan was slowly taking shape: to chip away at the frightening figure she undoubtedly saw before her now, and piece by piece, replace it with himself. Perhaps then she would consider him.
A measly shred of hope had brought him this far, and now it was long buried optimism rising up and urging him forward.
Why not try?
He glanced down at Maximilian, frozen in place and unsure of what to say. His hands felt leaden, his body too large. How was it possible to feel so ungainly and yet be standing perfectly still? Never in his life had he been so acutely aware of his own limbs, not even when they had been ripped apart by a half-dragon. Or rather, he hadn’t really needed to think about them then. Now though, it was a completely different story.
A quiet breeze came rustling through the trees, showering them both in soft moonlight. Riftan’s gaze latched onto the gentle sway of her curls. How many times had they drifted across his mind’s eye in the dead of night? How many times had he imagined twining that hair around his fingers? Lord, what he wouldn’t give just to touch—
“Please don’t leave,” he said again, voice soft and imploring as he could manage. Maximilian watched him carefully, a little curiously, hands twisting. “I just want to speak with you.”
Maximilian’s hands twisted some more. “Sp-speak?”
Her eyes widened, the word leaving of its own volition.
Riftan nodded. “Yes. I know this isn’t proper, and I’ve intruded, I apologise for that,” he said.
She blinked at him. What a strange turn of events.
He looked so painfully stern that she wondered for a moment if she hadn’t just imagined his words, imagined that pleading glimpse. Maybe she had, but why would she imagine this?
The night had started quietly despite the large number of guests now gathered for tomorrow’s celebrations. It was late and quiet enough to assume she’d be alone. Maximilian hadn’t wanted to retreat to her room; couldn’t bear the thought of hearing her shaky voice bouncing off its stifling walls. She regretted that now.
Her face burned embarrassingly hot, and she was probably gaping at him like a simpleton. To think that this man—this stranger who always looked at her so fiercely—had found her stuttering to herself in the middle of the night? She wanted the ground to swallow her whole.
What would the Duke say? What would he do? It would not do to have her shame spread among the castle guests: that the sickly daughter of the Duke was not sickly at all, but a stutterer! Grim thoughts rose up and bred more grim thoughts til Maximilian’s head was near drowning in them. Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no—
“I know the timing isn’t exactly appropriate,” Riftan’s voice broke through the quiet again, “but if you would allow me, I would like to introduce myself to you.”
He shifted a little on his feet, waiting for an answer.
Her honest bewilderment at his request was as plain on her face as anything. But it was not derision or disgust or even her earlier fear facing him now, so Riftan let it carry him. It was invigorating, to see something other than fear or sorrow colour those grey eyes. Maximilian nodded eventually, and he gave a short bow, relief hidden in the duck of his head.
Not the most audacious of beginnings, but a beginning nonetheless.
“My name is Riftan Calypse,” he said, “Vice-Commander of the Remdragon Knights.” He paused, testing his next words before speaking them. Closed off interactions and curt pleasantries for courtesy’s sake had always been his forte, so it was strange saying it was a pleasure to meet her, but he told her so, and he meant it.
Maximilian hesitated. Riftan held his silence, and watched closely as a myriad of emotions flickered over her face before settling into something a little like resignation. Perhaps it was unfair, betting on her manners and noble sensibilities to push a response, but he was waiting on tenterhooks as it was.
“A pl-pleasure,” she returned, curtsying. “I-I am M-Maximilian Cr-Croix.”
“Lady Maximilian,” Riftan repeated quietly. She wouldn’t hold eye contact, and Riftan could tell this conversation, short and one-sided as it was, was coming to a close. “I’ve kept you too long,” he said, though he didn’t want to, “I’ll take my leave. I hope”—she was looking at him again, and he almost lost his nerve—“I hope we meet again.”
Understatement. But piece-by-piece wooing plans probably called for understatements when one party happened to be a mean looking knight and the other a sheltered noble lady. At least in the beginning. Maximilian gave Riftan another bewildered nod, and that was as good a response he was going to get.
They held gazes for another long moment, grey caught up in near-black. Riftan bowed shortly. “Goodnight Lady Maximilian,” he said, cradling her name in his too-rough, too-serious voice as gently as he could.
Riftan didn’t quite know how he managed to find his way back to his room. Maximilian had been at the forefront of his thoughts since he’d arrived at Croix Duchy, and she was at the forefront of his thoughts now. It was daft in hindsight, to think seeing her might make her hold on his thoughts lessen. It only made his imaginings feel less out of reach; made him feel greedier than he knew himself capable of being.
His walk was entirely consumed by her—by crimson hair and grey eyes. The way they glinted in the moonlight. By the time he’d closed the door to his room, his thoughts and feelings were well and truly jumbled. He did not like feeling jumbled, or scattered or conflicted or anything of the sort.
He was a knight. His problems came from external sources, and those were easily dealt with when you had an acerbic tongue and withering glares and more experience playing executioner than might be wise at your disposal.
But this…unmooring was not a problem to be solved with Riftan’s usual tactics.
He’d meant to leave before that stick gave him away. He’d meant to disappear back into the night. Let her go. Keep his hopes resolutely buried. Be satisfied with a glimpse. Instead…
He ran a hand tiredly through his hair and got himself ready for bed, the encounter playing over in his head. He didn’t regret the path he’d set himself on, only found himself huffing a humourless laugh at feeling quite suddenly out of his depth.
What did he know about wooing anyone? About courting a Duke’s daughter? Absolutely nothing. When celebratory occasions like this demanded his presence, he had enough good sense and manners to get by, and that had always been enough. Truthfully, he’d always scorned puffed up nobles and their stupid roundabout ways. But Maximilian Croix was also a noble, was she not? Not a stupid, puffed up noble, but a noble nonetheless.
He sighed heavily, sinking back into the pillows.
Perhaps—Riftan thought just before he nodded off—some research was in order.
Maximilian woke up the next morning with unease sitting heavy in her gut. She had never cared much for banquets. It wasn’t often that she was encouraged to attend, and she certainly had no qualms about that. Unfortunately her absence would be questioned at a gathering of this importance. No escaping this time. She distracted herself from the dread by hiding away in the library. Croix Castle boasted a large and rarely inhabited one, and it was there that she tucked herself away from last minute preparations and wandering guests.
Time marched on though, as it was wont to do, and as the sun crept lower and lower, painting the castle with warm, golden light, the dread resurfaced with a vengeance. Maximilian gave up on her book at that point, her focus wandering too frequently to bother salvaging.
She smoothed out the skirt of her dress nervously, fingers running over fine fabric. It was nothing like her normal wear; this dress was perfectly lovely and elegant and fashionable. It was ill-fitting too, but not enough for anyone to bother with. Someone would be along to fetch her and put her in an even finer dress soon enough, and then she’d be faced with the banquet. That and her father’s suffocating watch. Inevitably, she would stutter, and then she would be punished for it.
Such was Maximilian’s lot in life.
The library door creaked open then, the sound echoing through the shelves, and Maximilian sat up straighter, waiting for a beckoning call. She hoped it was a maid come to fetch her. She did not want to listen to her nanny’s admonishments today.
“Oh, you’re much too thin, how do you expect to find a husband?—You mustn’t stutter and anger his grace—Now, now, Miss, what did you expect?”
Maximilian straightened her dress and stood up. She’d much prefer silent indifference. She waited a moment more, but the beckoning call didn’t come, only the vague sounds of books being shuffled through. A guest then, she reasoned, and the thud of boots on the other side of the room soon confirmed her suspicions.
She thumbed the edge of her book idly, thoughts drifting to last night's encounter: a pair of boots, an unfortunate stick, Riftan Calypse and his out of place introduction. The memory of it made her blush, with embarrassment and something else.
The young Vice-Commander had only arrived a couple days ago. Maximilian recalled it vividly. She’d been put in another lovely ill-fitting dress and pushed out into the foyer with her sister and the castle staff to give a brief welcome.
Riftan Calypse stood out the moment he entered. Alongside him were the Remdragon Knights, all varying in build and stature, and all bearing their famed dragon insignia. He was by no means the tallest or the biggest of the group—that’s not to say he wasn’t tall, or big—but there was something about him that drew her attention.
He was striking.
Miserable as she was, Maximilian was still a young lady, and thereby not immune to a fleeting fancy. She studied him openly from halfway behind a column, and for one soundless moment everything else melted away; her sister and the staff, the knights beside him, even herself. He was handsome—that was her first thought—he looked as though he’d been carved from stone, or plucked from a storybook; an archetypal hero, with rich brown skin and dark hair and even darker eyes to match.
He’d looked through the crowd, eyes sweeping steadily over all those gathered. His gaze swept over Maximilian’s face in turn, and it was with shock that she watched it abruptly stop and snap back. The soundless spell broke. Her eyes went wide, and met his for one inexplicably long moment before she broke the contact and shifted further behind the column, pulse in a panic.
He was intimidating—that was her second thought. Something had flashed in his eyes when he looked at her. She couldn’t for the life of her pinpoint what it was, but it discomposed her, and it kept discomposing her whenever they crossed paths since.
Until the garden.
Discomposure was perhaps too neat a word for her general feelings upon his arrival last night. Shock and panic, yes. Near heart-stopping fright, definitely. Mortification beyond belief, most definitely. Her face heated at the very recollection. It had all been a jumbled, unpleasant haze. At least it had been up until she’d heard his plea and apology. Maximilian never got very many of those, and they were certainly never given so earnestly.
Presently, her gaze wandered back outside, to the ever deepening afternoon.
The Remdragon Knights were going to be at the banquet tonight. It was thanks to them that this latest conflict with the Dristan bandits had been won. From what she’d heard, their Vice-Commander had played a vital role. He would be there tonight. With that something in his eye.
After a few more ponderous minutes, Maximilian put her book down and stood up, minding any noise she made as she went. She didn’t want to think about the banquet anymore than she wanted to attend, but the unfortunate truth was that her relatively undisturbed day was fast approaching its end. She knew it, and found she’d prefer to meet it outside this tranquil bubble she’d made for herself. She sighed, smoothed out her skirt one more time, and quietly made her way to the door. Her steps were soft, muffled beneath her dress on the stone floor.
The library was big though, and just as quiet as her.
Riftan heard the rustle of skirts before he heard steps, and he ventured out from behind a bookshelf just in time to catch a glimpse of Maximilian leaving the room, the door closing behind her with a soft thunk .
The impulse to follow came on swiftly, but this was not a moonlit garden, and there were no misunderstandings to avoid. Riftan stood still for a moment, stuck, thoughts running ahead of him. She’d been here, in the library. And he’d been here. And he hadn’t had a clue. The impulsive little devil that’d recently taken up residence in the back of his mind cried out in disbelief.
He shook his head and wandered across the room, over to where Maximilian had been while he’d been busy trying to figure out what on earth courting was supposed to entail. It was almost funny, that she’d taken up permanent residence in his mind and he’d managed to miss her when they were in the same room. He picked up the stray book she’d left behind, flipping it over and running a hand over the worn cover. Had she been alone here all day?
You should have come sooner, whispered the still-rueful little devil.
I should have, thought Riftan.
Curious, he flipped through Maximilian’s book, and found a romance; a knight and his fair lady. His heart gave a silly, involuntary little jump. Riftan felt a bit ridiculous then. This side of life; the one that tempted with promises of warmth and family and idle days had never, ever touched his life. He’d made sure of it.
Fluttering eyelashes and hopeful smiles only ever made him grimace, and there was warmth enough in ale and aimless conversation around the fire to substitute the supposed lack. Otherwise, talk of ladies and marriage and domesticity did nothing but conjure up a painfully impossible dream.
It was a distraction, that dream, so a younger Riftan had thrown himself into his duties. Thrown himself into hunting monsters and men and the ones that vacillate between the two; carved out a place for himself with the Remdragon Knights. It turned out well, all things considered. He had a home and a purpose, and that kept him content.
Now his dream appeared less impossible, and Riftan wished he were a little less clueless on how to go about things. He was all hardened edges and brutish ways, but he didn’t always want to be. Those books across the room hadn’t been any help. Riftan ran a hand through his hair, sat down in the window alcove and frowned at the rows and rows of books ahead of him.
He ran his thumb over the edge of Maximilian’s book, riffled pages buzzing in the contemplative silence. He paused then, thoughts converging. Converging in the sense that words like truth and fiction and reflection all flashed by him in quick succession to form a garbled, vague, really sort of ridiculous idea. But he was well out of ideas in general. So.
Riftan thought it over, eyeing the book in his hand uncertainly. After a few more seconds deliberation—and all the while feeling just a little foolish—he settled in and flipped to the earlier pages.
He had only been reading a short while when he was disturbed. Evan Triden had come calling for him, his voice jolting Riftan’s focus from the pages of his book a little rudely. Riftan called back and closed the book with a snap, leaving his seat and exiting the shelves to find his Commander waiting near the door.
“There you are,” Triden said in greeting. His eyes dropped to the book in Riftan’s hand. He gestured toward it. “Newfound interest?”
“Newfound curiosity.” Riftan tilted the cover out of sight. “Nothing important,” he fibbed. “Did you need me for something?”
“Thought I ought to collect you for the banquet,” Triden said, and laughed at Riftan’s obvious attempt to reign in a sour expression. “Just in case. Can’t have you turning up like this on the first night, can we?” He gestured at Riftan’s plain state of dress and turned to leave the library. Riftan followed with a stifled sigh.
It’s not that he was the sort who usually needed to be wrangled into his more formal attire (though perhaps on occasion it was almost a near thing); Riftan simply preferred practical clothing, which meant it was oftentimes plain, and plain would not do for the first night of festivities in a place like Croix Castle. Triden was merely taking precautions. Probably. He was probably finding some amusement in frog-marching his surly second in command to his fripperous doom too. Riftan respected him enough to let him.
Triden was rough around the edges, his face weathered and lined by a lifetime of travel and expeditions. He was noble too, but he was a great deal less self-important than the few older noblemen Riftan could compare him to. His was a position earned by merit, not status, and he didn’t judge men by the latter. It had been a revelation of sorts, joining the Remdragon Knights and finding those values echoed and very firmly upheld. A disappointment to find they were a rare bunch.
“I imagine the books aren’t the library’s only draw,” Triden muttered when they came to pass a few of the other castle guests in the hallway. Riftan hummed lowly in agreement. They were always staring and murmuring and staring some more. It was irksome. They were never subtle about it. Triden nudged an elbow into Riftan’s side. “No need to look like murder though, they’re just people.”
“Are they just?”
Triden nudged him harder. Riftan didn’t respond, only tried a little more for his usual indifference when they passed more gawkers. He glanced sideways at Triden after, one eyebrow lifted blandly.
“You toe the line of impertinence, you know.” Triden shook his head, the makings of a smile threatening to break through his reprimand. “I mean to properly introduce you this evening, and it would be easier if you made yourself agreeable.” Riftan’s expression was not agreeable. Triden offered him a commiserating smile and clapped a hand on his shoulder, steering him further down the hall. “Chin up. Grin and bear it my friend.”
At least the banquet was not without one point of anticipation. Maximilian Croix would be there. When—or rather, if she looked at him, would there be anything waiting in the grey? Just for him? Riftan wouldn’t grin, but to find out, he would bear the rest.