Glory For a Fallen King
By: Amber Michelle

For a 70-prompt challenge with weighed and measured; the theme was 22 - You said "it's just like a full moon." Also my first fic for the fandom, and as such I hate it with the passion of a thousand fiery suns. It's somewhat influenced by her Percival fic, too, and the similarity is something I'm very dissatisfied with, though I didn't notice that until the editing stage. So, many thanks and a ton of credit goes to her for inspiration of certain elements of the story.

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The Alliance Army was up at dawn, stretching from the edge of the foothills to the river up from the western sea, a forest of canvas tents, fires, and picket lines, and Percival watched it awaken while he fed his mount, Tancred, chunks of carrot, piece by piece, each dull orange and long enough to span his palm. Porridge and crisping salt pork scented the air, dirt and green lingering underneath, the grasses wet and dew-laden, trampled. The sky lightened in the east, gray instead of navy, a match for the cold wind swishing past his ears and chilling the back of his neck. He watched a carrot disappear past the horse's blunt teeth, felt the velvety brush of his lips.

Aquleia was two dozen leagues away over the next plain. Months ago, weeks ago, he wouldn't have thought he'd be unlucky enough to face a clash with Douglas on the battlefield. The Great General had spoken of retirement and his old age, but the force of his axe still had the power to knock Percival back in a friendly spar, and he knew its power when driven by deadly intent. If he fell, Prince Mildain would be left short one vassal; if Douglas fell, his heart not behind his axe-- it would be worse: not just a fragile prince left behind, but a slip of a daughter as well.

That was the trouble with marriage, family, and their resulting obligations: women left widowed, children left fatherless. Percival had just passed his twenty-second summer, and he knew his father by reputation, by legend - and by memory, only as a faded image in his favorite storybook. He inherited a sword and a name, and he took care of the rest. A woman would not be so lucky.

The sun was two lengths above the eastern mountains when the day's march began. A small band of twenty followed Percival, a length of ten or twelve horses between their line and the Lycian troops; he spotted the green glint of Cecilia's hair farther up near the head of the column, perhaps talking with Roy, or her female pupil, whose name escaped him. Etrurian colors spotted the ranks behind her: the purple and white of the Mage Corps, green and gold for House Reglay, burnished bronze for the remnants of the general army in their employ.

The Western Isle force wore plain brown, and he could not find them among Roy's troops, though he knew they were there—somewhere.

It was much later, once they'd forded at the bend of the river and he waited with his men in the shade of a copse of pines that Percival saw the wavy golden hair of his prince back near the river, walking among the Western Isle force with his dun horse in tow. He left command to his second and led Tancred through the tall, sunlit grass, watched the prince speak with Lalum and her escort, whose hair looked nothing if not silver-plated and slightly tarnished, though her axe was sharp enough. Yellow flowers waved their heads in the breeze, bees hummed away from his approach, shaken from the stalks; the rebels clustered where the grass straggled into rocks and dirt before a shallow decline to the bank. Beyond them the river was crowded with horses and fogged with spray, and the din of their crossing drowned all but the prince's laugh.

Percival's toe caught on a rock hidden in the grass, kicked it up, and announced his approach with a storm of white butterflies and the rattling harness of his horse when he jerked back and shook his head.

Enter the knight, he heard his prince say, voice devolving into laughter, and while Percival steadied his horse, someone clapped - the girl, who followed the prince as he led his mount over. "Just like a fairytale," Mildain said, his lips pursing to hide a smile when Percival lifted an eyebrow and snapped his own reins around his wrist.

Lalum skipped to a stop between them. "An unhappy fairytale, though." She put her hands on her hips. "Does he always look so angry?"

"It is said General Percival was born frowning instead of crying." Mildain switched his lead to the other hand behind his back when Tancred snapped at his horse and led her out of range with a tug. "The legend seems to be true."

If it were anyone else teasing him, Percival would have responded in kind. "You know the stories better than I, Master Bard. Where did this one come from?"

The prince smiled, a more subdued curve of his lips. "No need for such formality," Mildain said, tilting his head from the nuzzling nose of his horse. "Call me Elphin."

"Of course—Elphin." The alias did not leap from Percival's tongue as Mildain did, or my prince. It did not have the ring of master, nor did it inspire the same expression, a lidding of the eyes and a not-quite smile.

"I'll ride with the general a while," the prince told Lalum, turning his head to address her. The sheen of his hair was pale sunlit silk. "Tell Echidna I'll join you later."

The sound of the river-crossing faded once they'd walked a while past the copse of trees. His men didn't react to Elphin's presence aside from his second, who knew to keep his mouth shut, though his eyes widened and he dropped his canteen. The harp was in a case slung over one shoulder to thump against his back beneath the blue cloak, and when the wind tossed his braid it slapped against the hard leather like a drumstick. Percival wanted to untie the end, let the curls flow and drift on the current of the air.

At first they spoke of nothing - the distance to Aquleia, the speed at which the army marched; the unseasonal warmth that beaded Percival's brow with sweat and made Elphin hunch under the hand of the sun, though he should not be required to bend to anything, be it a worldly monarch or the myth of god beyond the blue sky.

Percival swung into his saddle when the prince did, nudged Tancred forward. He raised his arm, motioned with his hand to his second - move up. "How many others know?"

"I told Klein." Elphin sat with his back straight, his shoulders squared, looked upon the remains of his kingdom. "Cecilia guessed, and aside from your second, I don't think anyone here knows my face. What is his name?"

"Robert." Lycian mercenaries walked in a loose formation to their left; Percival watched a group from the Western Isles to their right, and he was paid no notice, though Elphin smiled at the commander and lifted his hand in greeting. "He would have met you at your birthday gala. The others are from the Central Army - part of Arcard's attempt to undermine our support," Percival said. He was close enough to reach over and touch the prince - his arm, his knee, his pale hand. "You didn't finish telling me of your own circumstances. I won't be distracted with politics this time - out with it."

"Is that an order?" Elphin chuckled when Percival's face flushed. "Why don't I tell you a story instead."

Percival glanced over, lowered his voice. "Unless this story involves your mysterious disappearance--"

"It's a plainsman tale," Elphin said, blue eyes sliding to watch him. "The Benevolent Ghost, as I believe it is known in Sacae." Percival snorted, and the prince raised his eyebrows. "Have you heard it before, General?"

He composed his expression, turning eyes forward. "I cannot say I have."

Elphin's cloak fluttered in the breeze, and the hair framing his face drifted back, caught the sun. "I trust you will withhold judgment until I've finished."

Percival inclined his head. "Of course."

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Two days passed. On the evening of the third, sun setting, Percival looked to the west and recognized the formation of the hills and the trees jutting up against them; he'd ridden a path through that forest many times with the prince at his side. An imperial villa lay beyond some thirty minutes' ride down a meandering dirt path through the pines, at the edge of a town and within sight of the blue and gray horizon of the ocean. He'd followed the prince past the wrought iron gate as squire, as knight, as general, sat with him beneath the low-slanting eaves to watch the night-blooming flowers at dusk and discuss matters not revolving around court. They'd read old scrolls by candlelight in the small library, bare feet on the cold terracotta tiles. They toasted to his knighthood in that garden, seated beneath an arch overrun with jasmine, and he remembered Mildain lamenting his own inability to wield a sword. He remembered telling the prince that was nonsense. His knights existed to hold those weapons for him, to spill blood so he would not have to - to obey his every command, no matter how unreasonable, wrong or right.

Just after the gala for Mildain's twentieth birthday—that was the last time they made the trip, because the prince was tired of parties in his honor and the near-constant flow of gifts, notes, visitors to his rooms. Just the two of us, he'd said, his golden head resting on Percival's shoulder. Won't you indulge me?

Always.

Another day passed before they encountered each other again. Aquleia was in sight once they stopped for the evening, though several leagues away across a deforested plain; the city lights glittered to the north like a sea of yellow stars scattered on the plain and hovering above the ocean, where ships sat in harbor. The perimeter guard was doubled at Cecilia's suggestion, and the troops were encouraged to retire early and keep their fires small, though there was no use in hiding them; the city must know of their approach by now. Douglas would be in charge of the city's defenses, and would not be slack in the execution of his duty. The walls would be manned by archers and infantry with javelins. Percival had seen to it weeks ago, maybe as long as a month.

He remembered the uneven ends of Elphin's nails that afternoon, and found an apothecary among the services pulled along by the supply line to purchase a small pot of scented paste. It was the sort of luxury they had in the capitol, along with lotions, oils, crystal bottles and silk puffs, none of which were suitable for a bard - but if the prince insisted on working with his hands, they would stay healthy.

Elphin sat alone on a crate by a small fire when Percival found him. The tents nearby were lit from within; voices drifted on the night air, muffled by the canvas, and the fire snapped, sparked, played orange and red on Elphin's hair and the strings of his harp. He lifted his head slightly when he heard footsteps, though he did not look up.

"Master Bard," Percival said, and his prince straightened at the greeting.

"Still so formal, General," Elphin said, and his fingers tightened on his harp. "I have not yet mastered the art. You pay me undue honor."

Percival side-stepped between crates to enter the circle around the fire, thinking to draw his eyes. Elphin's gaze remained fixed on the flames, a mirror for their shifting light. "I have a gift - for your service earlier, that is," Percival said, and approached to speak more softly. The murmur of conversation behind him didn't pause. "You must be working harder. I saw the condition of your hands."

Elphin rubbed his fingertips with his thumb, cradled his instrument to his chest. "Yes. I am unused to playing for so many people, so often."

"Ask the dancer for help - it's why she followed you, is it not?"

"She knows who we march to fight on the morrow." Elphin leaned to the side, reached down, and Percival heard the harp case scrape the crate when he lifted it and felt for the clasp. "I sent her to bed with Echidna, or I would not sit here alone."

Percival's fingers twitched to open the case for him; the prince felt for the before he placed his harp inside, slowly, seeing with his fingers. A chill pricked his arms. "Pr-- Elphin, is something--"

"Nothing." Elphin's blue eyes turned down, but they were not directed at what his hands were doing; he appeared to stare at the ground, where broken grooves in the dirt bore testament to the drawing of a map, now swept away by a boot prints. "You have a personal tent, correct?"

Percival watched the light flick in his eyes, on his thick fringe of golden lashes. "Yes..." His hand trembled when he reached out, spread it in Elphin's field of vision. He blinked, his gaze still directed toward the fire. Percival sucked in a deep breath, and it became a hiss through his teeth. "Nothing?" He leaned down, took hold of Elphin's shoulders. "What is the meaning--"

"Quiet." The prince covered Percival's mouth with his hand, and finally turned his face up, a dull glint to his eyes. They looked at his chin, and yet at something far off, unseeable. "Take me there, and I will tell you. I can't, not here--"

A shadow creased the smooth skin between Elphin's brows, and Percival straightened, pulled him to his feet, took the harp case and held it under one arm. "It will be a long walk." They would be seen many times over. Rumors would fly. Bards of Elphin's caliber were valued in Etruria, and not always for their stories.

His prince curled an arm around Percival's elbow, hand grasping the shoulder of his coat, ghostly in the moonlight when they left the entertainers' fire to maneuver between the crates, then along a meandering pathway between tents. He adjusted his step to match, and the prince shuffled over the trampled grass, kicked up puffs of gray dust. He clenched his fist in Percival's sleeve, a tremor in his arm. It seemed every step was a heartbeat, or two, and the camp was deathly silent aside from their breathing, though many canvas walls were lit, and there were shadows crowded around the bigger fires, talking, singing, with the clang of iron cookware or the scraping of sharpening stones as accompaniment. Several hailed Elphin at his approach and accepted his refusal to perform in good nature. The way he hugged Percival's arm and stumbled, they might have thought him drunk.

Percival wanted to ask what possessed him to stay outside when his companions left, what good they were if they did not check on him-- but he could hardly draw a deep enough breath to satisfy his lungs. If he spoke it would be in a breathless whisper, as if he'd run all the way from the capitol with Bern's wyvern riders at his back. He felt light-headed when they reached the dome of his tent and he lifted the flap, led Elphin inside, and guided him to the cot. Percival yanked the blankets in place and helped him sit, leaving the harp case on the pillow. "What is this?" Percival whispered, the sound harsh, sibilant, another chill in the dark.

Elphin led his hands slide over Percival's sleeve, but gripped his hand tightly instead of letting go. "I'm sorry, Percival. I could not speak of it at the fire, you understand."

He knelt at Elphin's feet because he didn't think his legs would hold him upright the way they shook. The moonlight filtered through the canvas only faintly, enough his prince was a shadow against the gray backdrop, and thin, cold hands that rose to rest against his cheeks.

"I am still recovering." Elphin smelled like honey and ambergris, and sweet rose. "The healer said these symptoms may always haunt me - I suppose the poison might have damaged something."

He spoke of it with so little tone Percival choked on his own protests and had to swallow hard several times, holding the prince's hands to his face, feeling wisps of hair tickle his knuckles. "Never. When you return to Etruria we will have another care for you. Or, one of the divine weapons--"

"No." A jagged fingernail pressed the skin near Percival's ear. He thought Elphin leaned forward. "They must not be used for such a selfish purpose. You know that."

"Selfish?" Percival tensed at the volume of his own voice. "You didn't ask to be the victim of an attack--"

"I will be fine with rest." It was the movement of the air that told him Elphin drew away again, the sudden coolness against Percival's forehead, and then his cheeks when the prince pulled his hands away. "I was fine earlier. I will be well in the morning, and you will forget about this. We can't have you trailing after a simple bard all hours of the day - consider this an order."

Rank be damned - Percival would do it anyway. He had followed his prince to dozens of parties and private meetings and managed to remain unseen. "I do not say it often," he said, lowering his gaze to nothing - to the shadow that might have been his companion's lap, or folded hands. "But there are times you can be a cruel master, Prince Mildain."

A short, sharp sigh was his answer.

How often did this happen? Had the blindness struck on this journey - before Percival joined, or after? Who protected Mildain while he walked in darkness? How trustworthy was their healer? The prince was alive, but--

Percival stared into the darkness for a count of ten. Maybe it was twenty. He managed to stand by bracing his weight on the frame of the cot and felt his way to the table with his maps, a book, matches, and the oil lamp. Its flame was a tiny sun that made the tent walls opaque, a dull brass color that made Elphin's braid look a pale brown and his hand a white shadow dancing along the weaving, down, down, playing the highlights like harp strings until he found the cord tying the end and yanked it loose.

Percival retrieved the harp case and left it on the table, removed his sword, his dagger, the pouch hanging from his belt. The pot of salve clattered on the surface, against the silver blades. It was white, plain ceramic, small enough to fit the center of his palm and packed to the neck with waxy, brown butter.

"The sun had just set when my vision faded," Elphin said, half whisper. His hair flowed over his back in thick waves when Percival turned around, spread on the blanket behind him, the circlet and cord dangling from his fingers. "It looked like a beautiful night was approaching."

"Give me your hands," Percival said, crossing the tent floor and kneeling again beside the cot. He dug a nail-full of butter out, tried not to wrinkle his nose at the astringent scent. Elphin's hands were warmer than when they'd touched last, soft and dry except for the tips of the fingers, where he'd had calluses as long as Percival could remember from the plucking of silk strings.

"Tell me what it was like," Elphin said, eyelashes lowering as if to watch. He rested one hand on his knee. "The moon hadn't risen yet. The sky was still gold."

Percival rubbed the salve into Elphin's skin until it was smooth and the nail shined. "I am not very good with words," he said.

Elphin found his cheek again, the touch of his hand feather-light until it drifted downward, rested against the side of Percival's neck. "Tell me anyway. I want to hear your voice."

Heat spread from his hand like magic, and Percival found it difficult to breathe once again. "The moon waxed full tonight," he said, holding Elphin's fingers spread, tracing the bones across the back of his hand. It couldn't have been more than a day since Percival last touched him, but it felt like the first time again - the first time after that long, dark year during which he sought death for himself rather than glory for a fallen king. "It rose against a magenta sky, and the stars seemed to come out in its wake..."

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Percival woke to a hand shaking his shoulder and someone's voice outside calling his name. The air was hazy, warm, smelled of straw and dust. A thin slash of sunlight entered between the tent flaps, the angle just right to shine into his eyes when he opened them and blinked, dust motes swirling when he expelled a breath. Metal clattered beyond the walls, voices shouted, and then once again, just outside, he heard, General Percival, I really need to talk to you, come on please--

He jolted, and the muscles in his back pulled when he sat up too quickly, sore behind a shoulder blade where a rock had poked through the burlap floor and the double fold of his cloak, and he groaned. "Just a minute," he called, and the voice fell silent.

"Lalum," Elphin said, his voice still deep and lazy with sleep. He squinted against the light, rising on one elbow. "She will have missed me."

Percival watched Elphin's blond hair slither over a shoulder, pool on the cot, slide over the edge. "Of course." He rubbed his eyes. "I'll--" He'd get up, talk to her, reassure her - quietly, though there was no use in trying to hide her visit now.

Elphin gave his shoulder a shove, and Percival's joints cracked when he climbed to his feet, aching, stiff from sleeping on the ground. He ran a hand through his hair and pushed outside. Lalum was a washed out figure in the glare of the morning except for her hair, glowing gold and red. He hadn't realized how small she was; had she even come of age yet? "He's here," he said, and resisted the urge to dig a knuckle into his eye. "Please don't make a fuss."

Her hands went to her hips again, and he wondered if she met everyone with the same pose. "Would you want me to say nothing at all?" Lalum's eyes flicked up, down. Her gossamer scarves looped around her elbows, and the outline of her legs showed against the thin silk of her ballooned pants. "Didn't get much sleep, huh. You're even more sour than before."

Percival stared at her, then looked down at himself. Bare feet, creased trousers, no shirt-- "Just--" He cleared his throat, heat creeping to his face, said, "Just get him a change of clothes, girl," and bent to re-enter his tent.

He heard her giggle and clenched his teeth. Elphin's laughter greeted him inside, and glittering blue eyes a poet might have likened to jewels, but Percival could only stare at them a moment, note how the prince met his gaze, and feel his chest tighten.

"I am an amusing man," Percival said, leaving the entrance, approaching the cot. "So you told me a long time ago." He rolled his neck, rubbed the muscles at his back. "How amusing?"

Elphin covered his mouth with a hand and cleared his throat, seemed to swallow his laughter, though the set of his mouth was too firm, the corners still slightly turned up behind the fingers. "I couldn't have said anything of the sort," he said, slanting his eyes away. "Nor can I have poor Lalum running at your beck and call. I am only a bard, sir knight - not royalty."

Percival gathered the tangle of Elphin's hair with one hand and sat behind him, shoving the pillow over the edge when it got in the way. "This bard will be treated like a prince." It streaked over his lap when he let it go, brushstrokes of sunlight. Percival separated a section and combed his fingers into the waves, starting at the ends and loosening the knots. "No argument."

"Hmm. Stubborn." Elphin inclined his head slightly, perhaps looking at his hands. Maybe he smiled again - Percival's fingers were clumsy, snapped a hair, and his heart beat harder again as if he could see it. He would have given anything to see those lips again, hear this hum of a laugh. "If that is your wish--"

"It is."

A pause. Then a sigh. "You've developed an irritating habit, Percival."

"My apologies." The silk of Elphin's hair slid between Percival's fingers, still scented with roses, and now dusty linen. "Name my penance, and I will see to it."

He heard his second call out camp assignments - three to take the tents down, two to pack them into the supply wagon, two for cooking duty, and they were to be quick about it. The chorus of responses was loud - too loud. It carried on the cool air, and he stared at the golden curls in his hands. They marched on the capitol today. The battle would begin when they were tired, end with exhaustion, but they were too close to wait another night.

"I will tell you later - after the battle," Elphin said, and he reached back to find Percival's hand and grasp it. "You must return in one piece, unless you intend to compound your wrongs."

Always. Percival would never neglect to return to his prince. "As you wish."