These days, he feels lighter, happier. With the coins they've gathered, they were able to buy materials to help fix up the houses ravaged by the previous storms, make nets to set- up in lakes and rivers, and purchase more medicine. All the hard work they've been doing had bore fruit.
Humming contentedly, he continues his needlework on the handkerchief. Quentin got lucky that he got to buy some high quality fabric and twine from a travelling merchant a week ago. The textile is soft but sturdy. It has been a while since he touched or even used a needle, but he's enjoying himself nonetheless. He remembers how his mother would teach him how to knit while they happily chatted about anything, really. Quentin finds it as a respite from the usual ration planning and deliveries.
He embroidered their names on the handkerchief, a cursive, "Roman & Quentin".
Quentin slides his finger on his suitor's name, a pull of longing.
He sighs, finishing up his work, and cutting any excess threads. He folds it neatly and hides it inside the drawer in his room.
Servants and stablehands greet him on the way to their dining room, a quaint little part of their manor that anyone can come in as they please even if there's no food on the table. Quentin fills his plate with roast fish and a small piece of bread, and gets a bowl of vegetable soup.
"My lord," It's Ser Royce, he could tell that he's troubled with the way his left hand clenches on the grip of the sword on his hip. A tick that he has always noticed on his guard captain.
He taps the chair right next to him, "The soup is well- seasoned to our liking. Let's talk while we eat."
The older man shakes his head, content enough in standing by his side, "I've eaten with few of my men a while ago."
"Go ahead," Quentin says while dipping a piece of bread in the soup, "What have you got for me?"
"There are men that have taken shelter in our barracks."
"In our barracks? To think that they'd be more comfortable in a tavern in town with a warm meal and fine wine."
"We have insisted that they do just that but they wanted our 'services'."
His forehead creases in worry than in anger, "Did they fight with our men?"
"A scuffle broke. Our guards suffered some bruises but so did they. Nothing a few drinks can't fix." Ser Royce bristles but he could see a shine of pride in his eyes.
"Whose men are they?" His stomach drops at the thought of more fighting. There's no sense in battle. It only makes matters worse.
The captain shakes his head, "Your cousin's. Lord Edwin."
A flash of burnt locks of hair and tall oaks around him as he tries to find his way home. When his feet could no longer walk, he prays to the gods for guidance. His fingers were already numb and dark from the cold when he found his way home.
"Edson.." he parrots, "Are you sure?"
"Yes." Ser Royce replies, "I could never be wrong with the vulture sigil on their breastplates."
The half- eaten meal in front of him no longer looks enticing. Despite it, he drinks the soup, and finishes the fish and bread.
"Did they say when Edwin will arrive?"
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A small group wearing black and maroon enters their gates looking like a funeral procession. But the boisterous laughter from them says otherwise. He could easily spot his cousin with his dark brown hair that sticks to his face, pale complexion, crooked smile with crooked teeth, and fancy armor that looks too big for him.
This is really happening... again.
He meets Edwin as he gets off his horse. His cousin pushes his decorative sword on his chest, "Make sure to clean the muck off my blade."
He tries not to make a face. Did he drag his sword on the mud to show off? Edson's not even skilled with any sort of weapon.
"I'm glad you're well, cousin." He says. He hands the sword to Warren and whispers, "Please tell the smith to polish it. I'll be sure to pay him handsomely. Thank you, Warren."
His page casts a reluctant stare at the both of them but then wordlessly leaves.
He wonders how word got out that he earned quite a bit of sum. Usually, Edwin visits when he knows that Quentin has been fruitful with his endeavors. He would come by and spend it on his pleasures, like Edwin owns everything he has worked for.
"By the way," Quentin's cheek meets Edson's gauntlet, a pain he truly never gets used to, "a little birdy told me that your men roughed up mine. Is that how you treat your guests? Better yet, your kin?"
"I'm not sure who started it but I could ask you the same." He finds his voice, hoarse yet firm.
Edwin tuts, "I don't know where this little act of yours is coming from but I see now why uncle never favored you. Wasting all the coins your parents gave you just to travel the realm and dance, then spread your legs every time you had a chance. You're lucky my father was kind enough to give your parents gold to pay for every little rubble here unlike the measly coin you acquired at that circus."
What would father do?
What would father do?
Agree with Edwin.
There's a sting in his eyes, blurring his vision. But even with it, he could see the leer on Edwin's face.
"You know that I am a merciful person, I don't hold grudges." He puts a hand on Quentin's shoulder, patting him heavily, "Stop acting like some privileged child."
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Devin likes Edwin. With him here, he can drink and eat whatever he wants. He knows that his brother can't deny Edwin for whatever reason. Instead of Quentin giving all the meat, sweets and wine to the townspeople and soldiers, Edwin brings it all out and Edwin and he get to eat everything.
Well, not everything. Edwin's men get their share too.
Devin takes a swig on his wine cup. It's sweet and refreshing. And very adult. They say that wine enhances the flavor of specific dishes. But he really doesn't understand if it makes the fruit slices he ate show their hidden tang or give a twist to the roast meat bathed in gravy. Probably his fault since he's stuffed his mouth with everything and he's just downing all of it with wine.
Warren shakes his head at him, he must have slobbered all over himself. He looks down and sees gravy and sauce painted his tunic. But, he downs another cup of wine, he'll worry about him later. Now, he can just have fun and do everything he wants.
He wipes the grease and gravy on his mouth with his sleeves, feeling a bit sober. He sees the servers looking scared and cautious as they pour more wine to each men asking for more. Warren looks annoyed at everything but Devin knows that that's how his face has always been.
He has not seen his brother in the festivities. His brother, he thinks, should be more like Edwin. He's fun and spends everything on what he wants. Unlike Quentin who is such a skinflint. He only ever brings out their gold and silver when someone's in need.
A servant grimaces at him but holds up his flagon to pour more wine in his cup.
Devin gladly accepts.
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"I just want to get over this as quickly as possible."
That's what his lord told him. Tired and defeated.
Warren has seen this multiple times. Edwin visits and wrecks everything then Quentin is left to pick up the pieces. It's a vicious cycle.
"He's done this a lot of time in the past." he says, "He'll make a fuss if we don't entertain him and get me in trouble with his allies. They'll drown us in debt or make a scene."
Warren remembers a particular one with his lord clutching his bleeding thigh, and Lord Edwin standing above him with a dagger coated in red. He could still hear it. "This is what you get for not working hard enough." Their guards were outnumbered even he could not help him.
They all keep yapping on about how everyone is equal. Yet he could see and experience that it is not so.
"What if we ask Lord Reinhart for help?"
His lord stares at him, considering it. But grew embarrassed and looks elsewhere.
"I don't want to."
"But, my lord, he could stop this madness!"
"He doesn't have to."
"This is not about pride! This is for your safety and the good of this House."
Quentin turns to him, eyes glossy and lips trembling, "I know it isn't." he swallows, "But I don't want him to think that I'm taking advantage of what he feels for me."