For You (manxman)

A Subtle Thing

"But this isn't manly at all!" Devin throws his book on the floor, "I don't see how learning to read and write will help me on the battlefield."

"By the stars," Warren sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, "You're a lord. Someday you will be responsible in making sure all your people are well-taken care of. Not every conflict can be resolved with violence."

"Brother already does that! He went to some prestigious school, so he knows everything about leading and shit!" Devin says, his face almost as red as Warren's hair, "I don't want to stay in this small hick of a town where all we can do is farm, farm, farm!"

"Unfortunately for you, this small hick town provides you with everything you need." Warren bites back.

Already angry, Devin stomps out of the room, "Gods from every realm, grant me infinite patience."

The lord to be went to the kitchen and snatches three strawberry cream sandwiches, the cooks keep quiet and say nothing about his sour mood.

He munches away, satisfied that the tangy taste of the strawberry goes well with the sweet cream. Devin hopes his brother doesn't find out or he'll get scolded for ruining his appetite.

Finishing his snacks, he licks at the excess cream on his fingers, and wipes his hands on the back of his trousers.

Now to find Bane.

Finding the sword is the easiest task since it's the only weapon his brother cared to keep. That left Devin with blunt practice swords from the barracks and fallen tree branches from outside their mansion. He often thinks that a would-be-hero like him is hard work.

He carefully makes his way to his brother's study room, he knows all too well that Quentin takes it with him so Devin won't get distracted with his "Lordly" duties. He scoffs, there's nothing "Lordly" about his nose constantly stuck in a book, tending to crops and livestock, and giving all the surplus produce to the townspeople.

Being a lord should be about going to war and conquering lands, earning honor and respect through valor. Only then, he thinks, will everyone respect you.

"Tickles!" he pauses at the sound of his brother's voice. It continues in small giggles.

He takes tentative steps, curious albeit scared that his lord brother might see him. But as a would-be-hero, he must march on into the unknown and face danger. Devin prays that the door is well- oiled, he pushes it gently. He counts it as a small victory when the door made no sound.

Peeking from the small opening, he almost rolls his eyes at what he saw.

His brother is sitting on the chaise, reading, with the big arsehole's head on his lap. He's caressing the hairy oaf on the face with his free hand. The scene only made him gag. A fucking giant acting like a babe to get his dear brother's attention, pathetic.

"I was a member of a travelling company, we..." Devin could hear bits and pieces but he chooses not to listen to the whole conversation. Instead he was looking daggers at Roman.

The knucklehead smiles, and kisses his brother's offered hand. His lord brother must have been furious that his face turned red, and in an act of preserving his dignity, he buries his face inside the book.

Turning his gaze back to the oaf, he abruptly moves away from the door when he saw Roman staring at him with a smug grin. He's saying something to Quentin but he's looking at Devin.

He unconsciously steps back when Roman stalks to the door, "Try not to get in my way, boy."

"Is someone there, Roman?" he hears his brother ask from behind Roman. He's sweating profusely now. He feels his back hit the wall. The cool touch of the wood provides no comfort from the severe look Roman sends his way, if anything, it makes all the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

"I thought I heard something, must be my imagination."

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Royce has always thanked the gods that he has gone through life with but little struggle, excluding his years when he signed up to serve his kingdom. He'd wake up early, train their soldiers, supervise those in patrol, and do a bit of ink and quill from time to time.

But the gods have decided that his life was too mundane. So under their divine decree, they sent the lions of the south to their humble home.

There are only two of them, but it did not make them look less intimidating, sitting on their humungous warhorses, another lags behind theirs with no rider, and each with a lion's head helmet. The shine of the jewels in their armor glitters ostentatiously. The old veteran feels rather conscious, only snow and dirt hang from his protective plate.

His men shuffle their feet, pushing each other to get into position faster. They do so with so much fuss that his ears have turned red not only from the cold. After a while, they lined up properly. Awe written all over their faces.

The onlookers outside their gate whisper ceaselessly like hens in a coop. The guards shove those brave enough to foolishly climb the gates to get a better look.

He advances on. His boots feel heavy, both the snow and mud clung to it like he's sinking, "I am Royce Sullivan, Captain of the Guards of House Fitzgerald. What business do you have with us?"

"I am Gared Bertram , Sentinel of House Reinhart." One of the horsed men took of his helmet, revealing dark lush locks and a handsome face that maidens dream of, "You have one of ours."

"I beg your pardon, but we saw no one here carrying your banner or sigil."

"Our Lord," Gared regards him with a critical eye, "Informed us a week ago that he would visit your lord. We have come here to fetch him."

No one of importance came here. Their lord had no visitor of such rank, there was only that man.

"I apologize," Lord Quentin cuts in with Roman shadowing behind him like a mountain, "I have kept him too long."

Gared and his companion scramble off their horses, almost mirroring the sloppy display of his own men. They are quick to kneel, uncaring of the dirt staining their poleyns and greaves, "My Lord." They said in sync.

It cannot be.

He turns his head just in time to see Roman approach the two armored men.

"You've failed to address the ruler of this House in your haste." He growls, expression livid.

To his surprise and utter horror, they hung their heads low, "Lord Fitzgerald, our sincerest apologies." Royce hears the slight tremor in their voices.

"None of that." Quentin touches Roman's forearm in a silent plea, "They meant no offense."

"It's disrespectful to you." Roman's eyes soften, a proprietorial hand slides to Quentin's waist, followed up by a quick nuzzling on his soft tresses. Lord Fitzgerald visibly relaxes at the intimate contact.

If it was possible, Royce's jaw would have dropped on the ground.

The gods must have really decided to add more thrill to the life of this old man.

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My goodness! It's been so long since my last update.