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Erhardt is no older than eighteen when he realizes he is in love with Olberic Eisenberg.
He’s managed to topple the other man while training—a similar feat to toppling a mountain, one with booming laughter and a smile that makes him forget why Erhardt’s become a knight in the first place. The training sword rests under his neck, wooden and dulled with age. Were it steel, Erhardt wonders if it’d be easy. If he could focus on anything but Olberic’s warm hand upon his back.
Erhardt wonders if the last thing he’d deserve to see would be Olberic’s smile.
“Impressive,” Olberic says, none the wiser to the inner turmoil his brother-in-arms bears. “Not many can notch a victory such as yours.”
Erhardt blinks. “...Aye. ‘Twas no easy venture.”
Olberic pushes the sword aside, sighing in content, a smile upon his lips. “You should take pride in that. Your strength is improving.”
Were it steel against his throat, he would bear a less kind expression. Blood would stain his lips and teeth, dirt tousled in hair Erhardt desires to run his fingers through. He would spit out curses that only a traitor would be worthy of hearing. His final memories would be naught but a scowl, unsaid words in his eyes before the gods claimed him.
Hah, gods. A funny game they play, making Erhardt want to throw the past four years away for a faint glimmer of hope. There are no guarantees in love. No promises that sacred words will be uttered against your lips in turn. No chances it won’t be taken away. It has happened before, and Erhardt knows that it could happen again.
Despite Werner’s words hissing in his skull like an angry hornet, Erhardt has to stop himself from asking Olberic to run away with him. They’re young. They have years before they become kingsguard. They can find a new life ahead of them that won’t tie them to their blades. It all sounds impossible, a mere fantasy. One he shouldn’t lose himself in, as the reality before him leaves a bitter tinge.
Erhardt wonders what would happen if he said it now. He loves him, Olberic. Leave Hornburg with him. Find somewhere else in the Highlands for us to live, where neither of us will be afraid. Olberic will ask what they have to fear, and Erhardt will share the story of how Werner used a young boy torn by fire and loss to act as his blade. Olberic would keep him safe, and Erhardt would find something of happiness.
Instead, all Erhardt says is, “I suppose.”
He doesn't notice the way Olberic looks at him, how his eyes follow the way Erhardt's hair sails in the breeze. Erhardt knows if he looks for too long, the rest of his resolve will waver. If he speaks now, if Werner knows, it will compromise his safety. The man is better off alive, even if he'll grow to detest the man he's gazing fondly at.
"What are you looking at?" Erhardt knows.
Olberic blinks. It's almost as if the same thing is on his mind. "The sky is rather clear today."
Wind tickles the back of Erhardt's neck. It's anything from refreshing; the sweat on his skin chills Erhardt to his bones. The sun feels too warm. It feels as though it shines right through him, his subterfuge transparent for Olberic to see. He waits for the other man to comment. To realize every word that's died on his tongue, and how it makes Erhardt feel as though he is a coward.
"It is." Erhardt forces himself to move. He hates how terribly he misses Olberic’s hand on his back.
"I wonder how many days we shall have such as this." Erhardt stills. "Once we are kingsguard, I surmise we shall not be able to spar as we please."
Erhardt forces himself to swallow. He feels cold. "Let us enjoy these days while they last, then."
The act of lying is never easy, nor enjoyable. Erhardt figured as the years swept by, he'd settle into the role. He wouldn't forge bonds. He wouldn't let others know anything more than his name. He wouldn't have learned about the lightning scars on Olberic’s arm. He wouldn't have listened to stories about his parents and filled his mind with the ridiculous notion of meeting them one day.
They would like him, Olberic had said one day.
Erhardt knows damn well they wouldn't.
"I believe we have earned the right to enjoy the remainder of our day as we please," Olberic says. "What say you, Erhardt? We can stop by the local tavern and enjoy its fare."
Erhardt isn't sure what is worse: the agony in his chest, or the fear he holds for what tomorrow may bring. He should reject the offer. He should retire to the barracks. He should will himself to not be in love with Olberic Eisenberg, but not even Brand himself could undo what's come to pass.
"...aye," he manages, tone even. "We've worked up quite the appetite."
Erhardt wishes he wasn't such a coward.
At twenty-one, Erhardt wonders if he should try again, the confession dry on his tongue like the brittle leaves that crunch beneath his and Olberic’s boots.
The evening air is cool, its breeze gentle as it carries the scent of earth and pine. Thin wispy clouds lazily sail through the orange and pink sky, the tops of the trees brushing against them as they sway. Birds chirp softly nearby, the only other sound present as Olberic begins to build a fire at their campsite. It’s a necessity for warmth, to cook their dinner over. Erhardt’s never spoken of his distaste—more so a fear, but he cannot admit a weakness, not now—of it. He’s of the belief if he speaks of one secret, others will spill forth until there are no more left to keep.
His gaze flickers to Olberic, who he finds brighter and more illuminating than the setting sun. Olberic bears a relaxed expression as he works on arranging the firewood. His warm skin and dark hair almost seem to shine. Could Erhardt reach out to touch him, to whisper soft words of love against his cheeks, perhaps there would be no need for fire. Between kisses and touches, he’d pull Olberic into the safety of their tent, forging a warmth of their own. It would carry them deep into the night, its embers lingering well past sunrise.
There would be nothing to be afraid of. Olberic’s far stronger than he is. Would ever be. The truth of the Black Brotherhood and Werner would be a far off memory, distant as the stars. Erhardt can’t say what would come after, but it is a future far less terrifying. It could be his; Erhardt feels as though his fingers brush across its fringe each time his heart beats for Olberic.
Perhaps one day, it will be something he can hold.
“It is fortunate the weather stayed kind,” Olberic muses as he looks up at the sky. “We may not be traveling far for provisions, but I prefer the conditions to remain favorable.”
Erhardt can’t tell if it’s a stroke of fate or terrible luck that he’s been paired with Olberic to gather supplies. He’s been granted ample opportunity to tell the man he loves him—or stick a blade in his back.
“It has been some time since I have been able to appreciate nature this way.” The crackling of fire begins to fill the space between them. Erhardt feels his skin prickle in response. “Mayhap we can admire the stars before we rest.”
…Terrible luck, Erhardt decides. His heart feels ready to burst at its seams.
“I didn’t take you much of a stargazer, Olberic.” Erhardt hopes the way he sounds isn’t telling. How he’d give up so much and more for a moment of his love.
A laugh leaves him in a low, familiar rumble. “You make it sound more romantic than it is, Erhardt.”
He snorts. “Pray forgive me. I do not know many knights who enjoy the stars.”
“Surely it is not uncommon,” Olberic says as he takes a drink of water from his canteen. He hands it to Erhardt after. “Here. I have not seen you have much today. You did not fill yours enough at the last village we came across.”
Erhardt stares at the canteen as if it is a foreign object.
“I am hardly bothered by sharing, if such matters concern you.” Olberic dares to smile at him. “You are my friend. I would hate to see you unwell.”
It’s not a title he deserves—nor one earned, even. Erhardt knows he’s doing nothing more than stringing Olberic along with each day that passes. If Erhardt believes he isn’t worthy of friendship, the idea of them as lovers is laughable. This small gesture should be reserved for another, and as much Erhardt wishes to punish himself for dishonesty, he cannot afford to. The moment Olberic asks if he is alright, there lies a chance all the lies will burn away in the fire before them.
“You have my thanks,” are the words that escape from the tempest in his mind. “You are far too kind.”
“Such simple actions hardly require gratitude, but I will gladly accept yours.” He hands Erhardt some rations next, expression soft. Olberic’s smile reaches his eyes. “You must eat as well.”
“...Yes, mother,” he grumbles this time, taking them without argument.
Olberic’s boisterous laugh fills the air. It’s bright enough to bring the sun forth, despite the fact stars have begun to dot the sky.
Erhardt wonders if love will always feel this cruel.
A clash of steel rings out under a cloudless sky.
Olberic stands at Erhardt’s shoulder, a battle-worn grimace decorating his features. His blade pushes back another mercenary before decorating his flesh with ichor. Some hair hangs loose before his eyes. Dirt stains his tunic and armor. Those warm, gentle eyes Erhardt’s grown to love are fixed on the horizon before them, watching for another wave of soldiers.
Olberic’s been smiling less. Erhardt believes he’s to blame.
He knows these men. Their armor, the way they fight, why they’re here. It’s a guise to make the Black Brotherhood seem as though they fall under King Alfred’s banner. They come in like an angry tide with a desire to bring Hornburg underneath its waves. The men are no more than fodder. It is something they know, and something Erhardt attempts to stomach as his blade swiftly claims another life.
Erhardt wonders if Olberic will ever smile again, when all is said and done.
Twenty-three is far too young to find dissatisfaction with life. With what you’ve done. Erhardt is aware his hands and name are stained with a mark he shall be unable to erase, when the time comes. Kingslayer, the people will say. It will replace his last name. What’s left of his identity will be burned away in the fire that claimed Grynd. That sweet, kind boy his parents loved—what will be left of him?
Erhardt doesn’t know if that answer is worth pursuing.
A battle cry leaves his grit teeth as he cuts down another soldier. He’s grown used to how it feels—the blood on his face and clothes. It’s an uncomfortable, wet warmth, nearly reminiscent of how sweat would cause his tunic to cling to his back after rigorous hours of drills.
To have those days back would be a dream, but not one Erhardt deserves.
The man he believes leading this army charges towards him next, a burning question in his eyes: Why must he insist upon a fool’s errand? Why does the Unbending Blade still draw breath?
He answers with a swing of his blade, swift and sharp. Because he must. Because it would be better for Olberic to hate him than to breathe his final breath for the kingdom he loves. If Olberic was ever to fall, it should be for honor, and honor is something Erhardt lost the moment he became Werner’s puppet.
A parry. The man stares at him with anger and shame. This is a game he can only play for so long. Werner will know. Werner will come marching with a fire beyond Erhardt’s greatest fears. He will make Erhardt watch as Olberic is consumed by the flames; they will travel up his body like insects upon a corpse.
Erhardt pushes the man back, golden hair streaming behind him. His next movement comes in a flash, snapping the strings of another man who Werner can control no longer. His pulse thrums in his ears, chest ragged with heavy breaths as his blood-tipped blade rests at his side. Whatever remains of the army dissipates like fog, tinged with copper as the smell of warm iron hangs low in the air.
It is something he is used to.
“We must check on the other fronts,” Olberic’s voice is quiet. “We were fortunate to have remained mostly unscathed. This attack was sudden.”
Two men stand before a sea of carnage, its waters still. The soles of Erhardt’s boots are stained with dirt and blood. Beneath his gloves lie knuckles alabaster white from gripping his sword to the point it leaves a dull ache in his hand. The sun above is oppressive in its heat. He is feeling too much. He is feeling too little. All Erhardt knows is that he and Olberic still draw breath, and he holds the desire to feel it mingle with his own.
Damn it all, he thinks, dropping his blade to the ground. He’ll say it now, he has to, it hurts the longer the words sit in his chest.
“Erhardt?” Olberic turns to face him. Worried eyes scan him. “Are you injured?”
Without much thought, Erhardt’s hand reaches forward. The fabric of his gloves caresses Olberic’s cheek, thumb brushing a lock of hair from his eyes. He can hear the hitch of Olberic’s breath; his lips part slightly in a way that dares to drive Erhardt mad.
He could kiss him here, right on this field, tasting blood and sweat. He could breathe confession against his lips, hands traveling across his body with no destination in mind. He could tell Olberic he’s loved this man for five years. He could speak of his fantasy, of an idyllic life lived out in the Highlands. A life where their swords do not define them. A life where they are happy.
“Olberic, I—” His heart is lodged in his throat. Blood rushes in his ears. Speak, godsdammit, speak.
Erhardt’s knees nearly buckle as Olberic returns the gesture. Though it does nothing more than mat his hair with blood, he feels though he has received a blessing. It’s enough to dull any pain, wave away exhaustion, renew his soul with a passion he did not know existed. They stand barely inches apart. Words of love sit on his tongue, unable to be swallowed.
“I am…” When Olberic speaks first, Erhardt wonders if this is truly about to happen. His tone is gentle, “...I am relieved you are unharmed.” Perhaps it is the desire of a wanting man, but Erhardt swears Olberic is reluctant when pulling away his hand. “We… we should seek the others.”
Erhardt feels as though he has swallowed sand. If there are bodies to bury, they are his sins to carry. They are burdens Olberic would not wish to hold at his side. It is here Erhardt remembers what he is here for, and no fanciful declarations of the heart will change that. Olberic will not love him back, simply because Erhardt believes he will never deserve it.
Erhardt’s hand drops to his side. He picks up his sword and sheaths it.
“Let us be on our way, then.”
At twenty-six, Erhardt tries to numb his heart.
He is still in love with Olberic Eisenberg. He has tried not to be. He has told himself the hollow ache in his chest will not be worth a damn thing. There is only so much time until the final tie is severed. Despite each truth he’s told himself, Erhardt finds himself traveling at Olberic’s side.
They’ve been tasked with reconnaissance, a job both men have done before. On parchment, it is simple: they ensure the nearby village is well and provide aid, supplies if needed. It’s small, on the outskirts of Hornburg. No more needed than two soldiers to ensure it will remain on his feet.
Erhardt could wonder where this treatment was for Grynd. He decides it’s not worth his time. Perhaps King Alfred is making up for his inaction from years ago. Perhaps his homeland was so inconsequential that he will be the only one to continue to care for it. Whatever the answer may be, Erhardt is too tired to care. He has already made his decision.
He is to be a Kingslayer. There lies no other choice.
Why, he doesn’t know, is that he insists upon torturing himself in this manner.
"It is good to see the people are well,” he hears Olberic say. “It is fortunate not many were injured.”
They’ve retired to the village’s inn for the night—a small and modest building with only a few rooms to its name. A traveling apothecary who’s aiding the villagers as well rests in one. Another traveler lies in the other. He and Olberic are settled in a room stationed with one bed, a small hearth built into one of its walls. It’s not cold enough to light it, and it is the one thing Erhardt finds himself grateful for.
What does he fear more? The fire? Olberic’s reaction for what is to come? The future? Who will Erhardt be, when he is not a twin blade? Will it be a man worth saving? Will he have a life to live, or will he become empty as he tells himself his heart has come to be?
Erhardt doesn’t know what to think anymore.
“It is,” he quietly says. “I’d hate to see innocents harmed.”
“A poor knight that would make, had you thought otherwise.” Olberic surveys their quarters. “They are good people. They have given us food and lodgings for no coin.”
Erhardt is not the good knight Olberic believes him to be. He attempts to swallow that thought, yet it sticks to the back of his throat.
“You offered up leaves anyway,” he snorts.
“I was being polite,” Olberic retorts, though it’s said with a smile. “We should repay such kindness, more so after facing strife.”
He allows himself to wonder if Olberic had heard of Grynd, of how his beloved King took no action, if he would ask why. What was the reason his village is no more than a distant memory? Would he share in his hatred? No, no—Olberic is too honorable. Erhardt wouldn’t wish for him to be so bitter. Olberic’s good nature—his good heart , his dear heart—is the reason he’s fallen for him so deeply.
Maybe it’s not wrong for him to feel this way. If Erhardt can see it fit as punishment, he will combat it less. He will accept the fact he will always love Olberic, even if he will never have him. It is penance for what he has done. What he will do.
One day, that is something Erhardt hopes to teach himself.
“We could stay another day, perhaps.” Erhardt isn’t sure what suggesting this will do for himself. “Provide our aid further.”
“I do not see any reason to object.” Olberic sets his boots to the side. He turns back to Erhardt with a smile, “A fine suggestion, that.”
It will be agonizing enough to share the bed for one night. Even with what he’s told himself, how this is naught but punishment, he’s inviting heartache once more. It’s a taste of what he desires, but never will have. Olberic will be resting at his side, his warmth doing more than the realm’s finest blankets could hope to accomplish. He’s dreamt of what it would be like, to sleep in his arms. It’s possibly more wonderful than whatever he’s imagined.
The first time Erhardt thought of such things, they were still young men. They had happened to share a tent, and his gaze had wandered to Olberic for a brief moment as he changed into his nightwear. He hadn’t meant to, and yet—his arms, his shoulders —the temptation to touch them was maddening. He’d spent the night lost in the throes of pining, of how he’d prefer to curl around Olberic than sleep on those damned bedrolls. The next morning came in the blink of an eye, leaving Erhardt more restless than before.
It seems this night will be a repeat performance. The stage is one seemingly tiny inn bed, trapping the men in its confines. The first actor is Erhardt, a lone man with a burdened heart and a heavy past. Enter stage left comes Olberic Eisenberg, the perfect, yet foolish knight. The performance carries out without intermission, its ending unknown. There is no audience, no onlookers to the tragedy that is to unfold—or perhaps that is unfair to say. Erhardt is an audience of one, body and mind detached as he watches himself carry out actions he no longer feels is correct.
“You did not eat much at dinner,” he hears Olberic say. The air has never felt so stifling.
“Not terribly hungry, I’m afraid.” Erhardt fears if he attempts for another bite, he’ll cough up the little food he’s managed. “Perhaps my appetite shall return in the morning.”
Olberic gives a small sound in reply. He seems as though he is in thought. “If you are certain. You have seemed… distant, as of late. I just wished to ensure you are in good health.”
“You are imagining things.” There’s dark circles under his eyes, his hair and skin dull. It looks as though sleep hasn’t graced him in days.
“That matters not if I hold concern for you.” It’s not fair. Olberic shouldn’t be this damned nice to him. Erhardt wants to tell him to stop, to direct it to someone worthy, but he can’t help to soak up each word. “I know you are stubborn, and yet…” He dares to chuckle. “I suppose I am no better. All I ask is that you rest tonight.”
Erhardt swallows what’s left of his heart. He looks over to Olberic, eyebrows arched. “How am I to accomplish that feat when you snore like a damned bear?” It doesn’t need to be mentioned that loves the sound more than he should.
Olberic looks at him for a moment in bewilderment. It’s not long until he bursts out laughing, shaking his head after. It’s the most alive he’s looked in some time. The last time the man laughed in this manner, nearly in a fit of giggles, he’d gone through a tavern’s worth of ale. He rests a hand on Erhardt’s shoulder to steady himself, shaking his head after.
“My apologies, then.” Olberic’s teasing him. “I was unaware I was causing such poor sleep for you.”
Erhardt snorts. “Bastard,” he mumbles, not bothering to shrug his hand off.
They’ve always teased another with ease. Like a married couple, they could be, fellow soldiers have claimed. It’s always been laughed off, dismissed with a simple wave of the hand, a change of conversation following. Yet with Erhardt, the thought’s lingered. A life as Olberic’s husband, settled in a modest village in the Highlands. A life of peace and domestic bliss, of lazy kisses to send them to sleep and to wake them from slumber. A life where Erhardt can pretend he is more than the blade he swings, and one day believe it.
These thoughts persist in Erhardt’s mind as they finish preparing for bed. Olberic’s back is pressed to his own as they settle. The warmth feels more maddening than before. After brief wishes of good nights and rest are exchanged, the room falls silent—save for the aforementioned snores that begin to leave Olberic.
Erhardt finds he has to bite on his lip to muffle the pitiful, pathetic sob that attempts to break forth. Could he find the words, the courage, anything at all, he wouldn’t be in this situation. Olberic would be his shelter, his arms a bastion. Worn hands would sail through golden hair, lips imparting gentle comforts and kisses. Heartache would be swept away with words alone. If he could just shake the man awake, if he could just—if he could just— !
Almost, does Erhardt’s hand reach out, the tips of his fingers inches away from Olberic’s shoulder. What stops him—the fear, the uncertainty, that his words would be well-received. Olberic could easily claim he wishes to do nothing with Erhardt. (But he’s too honorable, his mind tries to rationalize, so why are you afraid?) An admittance could be his downfall. He’d return to Werner a failure, whatever punishment given is far less cruel than losing the man he’s loved for many a year.
He lies uncertain of which option terrifies him further.
Erhardt ends up crying himself to sleep.
Hornburg’s fate lies on the tip of Erhardt’s blade. It’s pointed towards the throat of the king, his final words hanging low in the air. They will go unanswered. If Erhardt dares to speak, he may falter at the last moment. He has come this far, hurt this many people, come to the very end of the role he’s been crafted for. He cannot turn back now. There is no one or nothing to turn to.
“Will you kill Olberic as well?” The king asks. His voice is low against the sounds of battle.
Erhardt swallows thickly and looks the other way. He has been told to, but he knows he cannot. He could never. It is better to have Olberic’s ire than to make his grave.
“As your king,” Erhardt can feel bile rise in his throat, “I apologize for having failed you. To be on the end of an executioner’s blade… ‘Twas a fate… I did not imagine.”
Erhardt grips his blade hard enough to stop his hand from shaking.
“I’ve no right to make demands, but… spare Olberic. Spare the rest of my men,” he says. “Leave some memory of Hornburg for the future.”
A smoke filled horizon slinks across Erhardt’s vision. Thick clouds obfuscate a sun that will never shine on Hornburg ever again. It will be lost to the annals of history, its fall no more than words upon a page. The when, the why, the who—they will die with Erhardt. Wherever he shall run after this, it will be where no one knows his name. At the very least, Erhardt figures, he is capable of honoring one request.
He will not wet his blade with Olberic’s blood.
Eons feel as though they pass until Olberic’s voice calls out to him. He can hear concern, worry, fear something has fallen his comrade. In a moment, such words will be gone with the wind. Olberic will hate him, and Erhardt can pretend he’s content with such a fate. Olberic will run from this place. He will find safety. He’ll find someone worthy of every smile and act of kindness he’s given. Kingslayers do not deserve men like Olberic Eisenberg.
“Erhardt?” He cannot force himself to look the other way.
He knows that if he does, Erhardt will drop his blade. He will leave the king with air in his lungs, helpless to watch his guard flee before him. Or perhaps that is wishful thinking, believing Olberic would still desire his company. Even were Erhardt to confess everything—of Grynd, of Werner, his feelings, he’s loved the man since he was eighteen—there lies a chance he wouldn’t listen.
(He’s twenty-eight now, Erhardt bitterly reminds himself, lying on the edge of a decade of cowardice.)
It is pointless to fantasize. Erhardt believes he knows better, but truly, is it something the man can claim? Were there any truth to this, he would have forced himself to fall out of love. He would have cut his heart out and left it in the sun to rot.
It is pointless to fantasize, but Erhardt cannot help himself.
The words spill out of him like a river. The confusion and sadness does not leave Olberic’s face. Anger mixes in once Werner’s name is uttered. They do not kill the king, but they flee Hornburg in the chaos that spreads through it like a plague. They find somewhere to recover. Olberic holds him as Erhardt lets out a decade’s worth of tears into his shoulder. Werner does not find them.
Years pass. Erhardt has told Olberic everything. They spend their nights close, his head tucked into the crook of Olberic’s neck. He is able to hear the crackling of the hearth without feeling nauseous. Perhaps they even marry, even if the ceremony is small, with only a priest to bless their union. Erhardt looks at the ring every night before he sleeps, his husband’s snoring the last thing he hears.
They are able to afford lazy mornings. They make each other breakfast, still in nightclothes, one of Olberic’s shirts hanging off kiss-bruised shoulders. A stray cat wanders enough into their home to become a part of it. Erhardt spoils it just a bit too much, passing it scraps under the table while Olberic pretends to never notice.
Neither of them lift their swords ever again.
Erhardt takes a deep breath. He raises his arm, and so ends Hornburg’s legacy.
He trusted him, Olberic yells. They were friends, they were close. There’s nothing but hurt in his eyes, anger bleeding out to match the cut above his brow. Erhardt wishes he could take it back.
He’ll never forget the look on Olberic’s face. It’s engraved into his mind, his soul, his bones. You’re never supposed to hurt the one you love, so it goes. There’s a similar adage that comes to mind, as Erhardt tries to keep face. He loves Olberic, so he should let him go. He’ll never come back, and he can begin to accept he never would’ve had the man in the first place.
Olberic will never come back for him.
Erhardt lets him go.
Thirty-five is an acceptable age to die, Erhardt thinks, as Olberic’s sword lies a hair’s breadth from his neck.
Their swords have said more than words alone, even if Erhardt feels as though he has more to say than ever. Their duel has come to pass, Olberic ready to claim himself the victor. He could end his pain. His suffering. All that he’s carried for many a year. Olberic has said all these things, yet his blade has not budged an inch. Perhaps he’s giving Erhardt a chance to offer his final words. Words that are not of Werner, why he did what he did, so on and so forth.
Erhardt looks up to Olberic. He’s kneeling before him, sword arm steady as ever. The cut he left on the man so long ago is now a scar—a tangible reminder of such a day. Gray streaks adorn his dark hair. For once, Erhardt cannot read his eyes.
If his life is truly forfeit, then Erhardt believes there’s no time like the present to speak. At the very least, he may be able to die with no regrets. Impossible, it may be, given all he’s done. He is a foolish man, carrying a torch for a man whose life he upturned. Olberic still breathes, and Hornburg with him—something Erhardt wishes to believe, if anything else.
He lets out an exhale. He keeps his gaze fixated on Olberic, expression wavering before the words leave his lips.
“I’ve loved you for half my life, Olberic.”
He hears Olberic’s breath hitch. His eyes widen, lips slightly parted. There’s no longer cool steel at his neck; the sword clatters and the sound reverberates throughout the empty den. It’s barely louder than the wild beating of Erhardt’s pulse in his ears.
It’s an understatement to say he’s surprised when Olberic slowly sits him up. His hand rests at Erhardt’s back, the other frozen in place on the ground.
Now that he’s uttered such words, Erhardt finds there’s more on his tongue. “Perhaps even longer, if you’ll allow me to say as such. I had only realized it when I was eighteen. I—” He swallows thickly, “—all the times—the moments in which I wished to tell you—”
Tears begin to cloud his vision. Erhardt can’t say as to when they started. He drops his sword to the side as well, trembling hands cupping Olberic’s cheeks. Time feels as though it’s stopped, and the realm has given way for Erhardt to finally let himself tell the truth.
“I’ve no right to ask for your mercy or forgiveness. I know it has not been earned.” His thumb brushes over his cheekbone. “I… I could not die without letting you know how I felt, Olberic. Even if you grant me my life, and I’m to never see you again, at least…” His breath hitches, painful as a sob bubbles in his throat. “At least—I’m no longer a coward—”
“Erhardt.” Olberic’s voice is soft. “Pray take a breath.”
After he does, Erhardt feels Olberic’s lips on his own.
The hand resting against Erhardt’s back grips into the fabric of his tunic. Fingers weave their way into golden hair as Olberic holds him closer, tighter. Erhardt whines against him, his hands unmoving from Olberic’s jaw. The kiss is messy; it tastes of dirt and sand and blood, but it is theirs.
“Erhardt,” Olberic breathes against his lips, “I could never let you die.”
“The—your sword—” Erhardt almost wonders if he’s in a dream.
“I sought answers. Those do not come at the cost of your life. All I ask now is to carry the burden as well.” In all these years they’ve been apart, Olberic is just as honorable as Erhardt remembers. Perhaps too kind to him, if Erhardt’s to give in to the less favorable parts of his mind.
Erhardt shakes his head. “I cannot ask such of you, Olberic. It’s not anything I deserve.”
Olberic frowns, brown furrowed. He moves to wipe one of Erhardt’s tears away, his touch far more gentle than expected. “I have given you half my life as well, Erhardt. Let me offer the other half, and that much more.”
The words are far sweeter than any prayer, warmer than the Sacred Flame. A holy object lies within Erhardt’s grasp, reverent blessings imparted for him and no other. There’s burning at the corners of his eyes once more as Olberic begins to blur before him. He almost doesn’t want to blink, fearing exhaustion and heat has made this a hallucination. That if he does, Olberic will only lie in his dreams, a distant name on his tongue.
Years of fantasies and desires crash down upon him as Olberic brings Erhardt into the crook of his shoulder. The simple act of being held is enough to elicit further sobs from Erhardt as he clings to the back of his tunic. No further words are exchanged, though they are not needed. Nearly two decades of tears pass between them. As they do, one of Olberic’s hands coasts through Erhardt’s hair. His chin rests atop his head; his body is curled around Erhardt’s as if he can shield him from every tragedy he has suffered.
Olberic is holding him.
When their lips meet again, it is far less desperate than before. The kiss is slow, learning how their lips move together, how intoxicating it is to have their breaths mingle. Eight years of parting pour into their affections, coalescing in a single, shared thought: I missed you.
“Erhardt,” comes his voice once more, achingly soft, “my Erhardt. I love you.”
“You truly intend to bring forth more tears, don’t you?” He loves him. Olberic Eisenberg loves him. Erhardt wants to engrave the words into his very being. It’s a phrase he wants to hear for the very rest of his days.
“Pray forgive me,” Olberic manages a light chuckle. “Let me sweep away each one, then. ‘Tis the very least I can do.”
He’s such a romantic, Erhardt wants to tease, waxing poetic in a gentle cadence. Who thought the Unbending Blade soft, his steel giving way to the Blazing Blade’s fire? Perhaps, Erhardt thinks next as Olberic’s lips brush against his cheek, they’re forging something far stronger than each man thought possible. They’re far beyond the Twin Blades of Hornburg—whatever that may be, there is time to discover such wonders.
“I will come back for you, Erhardt.” Olberic takes Erhardt’s hands in his own. Their palms slide together, warm through their gloves, fingers locking together. “...I know you cannot travel to Riverford at our side. Wellspring still requires your aid.”
It’s for the best. Erhardt can’t say what he would feel or think, trapped under Werner’s cruel gaze once again. Maybe there lies courage beneath the surface, if Erhardt reaches down enough. Maybe with Olberic as his shield, he’ll stand tall. Proud. He will no longer define himself a coward.
As for Wellspring, Erhardt wagers that Bale will let him go. That he will be able to call Olberic his home. There’s vigor in his eyes, something the captain will surely notice. Erhardt’s smiled and laughed in the past eight years, but around Olberic, it will be brighter. Genuine. It’ll reach his eyes as the corners of them crinkle, heart light as a feather as it rests in the hands of his beloved.
“I vow to you my return. Not only as a knight of Hornburg—” Olberic bows his head, pressing a kiss to Erhardt’s hand, “—but as your partner, in every sense of the word.”
“Aye,” Erhardt all but whispers, voice fond.
Their foreheads touch together. Erhardt closes his eyes as he breathes in Olberic’s scent. Underneath steel and battle, there lies familiarity. Safety. Something precious and tangible to never let slip through their fingers. Something that is theirs. Something that no one will be able to take from them.
For the first time in eighteen years, Erhardt does not feel fear.