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quietly writes Some Bullshit
Not every old noble family has been able to make it through the centuries of Fodlan with the same prestige their founders held. The same can be said for Faerghus, having existed for an even shorter amount of time in comparison. House Fraldarius, the Shield of the Holy Kingdom, now Shield for all of Fodlan, is one of those few which has managed to do just fine, thanks to a long history linked closely with that of its royal family.
That much is obvious even without Claude's hunger for knowledge, historical or otherwise, as he looks upon the ancestral Fraldarius home. It's a miniature castle in its own right, a fortress which speaks to Faerghus' long rough history not only with the wars within its own borders but also the proximity of Fraldarius lands to Sreng. Certainly the Gautier family has the majority of responsibility to that tense and hostile border... but it would be remiss of their close neighbors to be unprepared.
Despite age, despite conflict, the building and its surrounding lands still stand in fine condition: sturdy stone walls, shining windows, and sensible gardening. It's sort of refreshing from Claude's point of view, honestly. After lots of traveling in his new duties as King of Almyra, he's seen far too many noble estates lean towards rather senseless gardening. That's just a fact no matter the land, from Almyra to Faerghus to Fodlan as a whole. Nobles really do like to show off just what frivolities they can afford even in their dirt.
Yet in Fraldarius lands, on the very property of the Duke, he can see how every plant is native and grown with purpose. Hardy herbs flourish along the paths leading up to the manor, intermingling in beautifully planned ways. Claude would never say he's ever been any kind of gardener, but he has a keen eye. He can see the way plants lower to the ground shelter the roots, and other plants desperately use their taller kin to reach sunlight sooner. Plants for cooking, plants for medicine- he can faintly recognize all of them flouring on Fraldarius land, which is no mean feat in what was once Faerghus.
All of it makes Claude smile. He's reminded of Felix- so loathe for the pomp and circumstance that one would associate with dukedom, preferring the practical, watching over his people more than his own ego (although there's still more than enough of that).
Yet it's not Felix who he's here to see. Instead, it's the older man waiting at the steps for him, and who gives a bow at the perfect angle when Claude steps forward. "It is an honor for you to set foot on our lands, His Majesty, King Khalid of Almyra."
Claude grins, easy and relaxed. Hell, he might even be a little pleased, hearing his name pronounced correctly by Fodlan nobility. "It's an honor to be welcomed here, Duke Fraldarius. Although I will say, after speaking with Dimitri and Sylvain so often, I can't help but think of you in much more casual address."
Straightening, Rodrigue smiles to him with an easy politeness. It's here that he mainly differs from his son, Claude sees, because in every other aspect they're completely alike. Even those steel blue eyes, different than Felix's crisp amber, are more of a secondary thing compared to his mannerisms.
That deep blue hair? The sharp lines of his face, both genetic and earned through a hard life? Honestly, Claude would even go so far as to say the soft waves of Rodrigue Fraldarius's hair remind him of Felix. It's rare, but... sometimes his lover permits him to pull those long strands back in a braid so that, come morning, come the strands loosening underneath his fingers, they fall into similar waves. It makes Claude's heart ache a little in fond longing.
"If that is what you would prefer, then by all means. It is thanks to your assistance during the war that we were able to win, and that is without considering how His Majesty holds you in such close regard." Oh, yes, he definitely has a better way with words than Felix does. More generous, too. Rodrigue gestures to his home, turning with the smooth movement. "I understand that you wish to speak to me in regards to some personal matters. Why don't we discuss it over tea? I've had some prepared for this occasion, so I hope it is to your liking."
"Such a considerate host!" Claude laughs, even though he knows it's only etiquette. "Then I'll gladly indulge in your generosity, thank you."
The Fraldarius innards are a little more grand than their stoic outer shell, with fine rugs softening hard stone floors while suits of armor proudly line the halls. High on the walls hang fine artwork, and tapestries that detail the proud history of the Fraldarius name. Claude knows most of it, of course, although not all. When it comes to nobility and family history, well, some things stay in the family. That's slowly been changing on a personal level, at least. Dimitri feels no need to hide anything from Claude, so long as he can provide it, and Felix is unsurprisingly similar in that regard.
Hell, maybe Felix feels moreso. "Perhaps you'll do better with the knowledge than I ever will," he'd said some months ago, depositing old books onto the table in front of Claude with little fanfare but careful handling. Claude had smiled at the time, teased Felix's demeanor a little, pleased for the new knowledge at his fingertips, but he'd been worried a little, too. Worried at the bags under Felix's eyes, the hooded nature of his gaze, and he'd thought to himself....
Colored glass curves into a brilliant dome in the center of the room Rodrigue brings him to before he has time to finish that thought, and Claude takes a moment to marvel. He suspects this is one of the few real indulgences in the Fraldarius estate, with everything else focused on service more than anything. Then again, perhaps it is a service this way as well. However practical and duty-focused the Fraldarius lineage may be, other nobility must still be entertained occasionally. Sometimes, like now, even royalty. Those in such stations might protest if they're expected to drink or dine in anything besides a show of duke luxury. (Claude thinks of Lorenz, even if his old friend has gotten better over the years.)
Yet even in such artistic extravagance, Fraldarius practicality shines through. Claude's keen eye catches the way the metal framework is never large enough to allow a body through, in the event someone tries to break in from above. While it's still a weakness, a little detail like that helps make it not as much of one.
Beneath the filtered blue sunlight, a table has been prepared, and Rodrigue politely pulls out a seat for him first. No servants are about; that seems to suit the older man just fine. Once they're both in their chairs, Rodrigue beings to pour the tea as well. Claude takes in a deep breath through his nose and exhales through a smile. "Leicester Cortania, isn't it?"
There's no way he could ever forget that distinct smell- nutty, warm, and sweet. It was one of the things that used to comfort him when he was adjusting to life in the Leicester Alliance, still a stranger even in his mother's land. While a gentler sort of tea, there's no small amount of depth to it. To no surprise, the spices in it carry a hint of Claude's homeland, and the smell alone makes him nostalgic. Almyra was very often unkind to him, true...
Then again, perhaps his memories of the people he's had this tea with have helped make it such a fond taste for him more than the flavor itself.
"That's correct," Rodrigue confirms, pouring his own cup. "My son has taken to keeping stocks of it on hand, along with a couple of other varities. Not that he has outright told me as such, of course... It's merely something I've noticed, ever since he began to keep regular correspondence with you. That's the sort of thing I suppose he'll always keep close to his chest."
That makes Claude laugh again. "Yeah, that certainly is Felix." Claude has noticed that new habit himself, warmer than any drink could ever make him even as he thinks of it. Felix is clumsy in his softness, too used to the spines he's grown for his own protection, but he does try. For all that he'd dismiss himself as only a swordsman, Felix is observant when he cares to be... and there's something to be said of the feeling which blossoms in Claude's chest when he thinks of being important enough for Felix to care. For Felix to try, even in his uncertainty.
Both of them take a minute to enjoy the tea, both because it's honestly just that good, and also because Faerghus etiquette demands at least that much. Yet soon enough, Rodrigue is looking to him with a slight tilt of his head. "Now then, His Majesty, King Khalid. What did you have to speak to me about?"
Well, if it's Rodrigue, right in the heart of Fraldarius territory.... Of course. He remembers. Claude smiles over the rim of his cup. "I was hoping to receive your blessing on the matter of marrying your son," he says plainly. "I would ask permission, as is Faerghus tradition when it comes to these matters, but, well..." He winks, still playful even now. "I think we both know that it's not really a matter of asking anyone else's permission but Felix's."
Rodrigue knows it, too. His soft sigh, partially exasperation, partially a parent's fondness for their child, tells it all. Yet the way he looks at Claude is different: solemn, quiet, considering. "If he marries you, the Fraldarius lineage may be in danger of dying out," he says simply- the concern every noble family feels they must consider at some point. "Our crest must live on where it can."
"Have you talked with your son about this?" Claude asks, still grinning a little. He knows very well the kinds of opinions Felix has on crests, both from his own experiences and observations along with knowing people like Sylvain and Mercedes. "I can certainly imagine what words he would have to say in regards to that. Besides, your son is strong in ways beyond his crest. You know that. I can't speak for Felix - which is probably for the better, with his tongue-"
Even Rodrigue has to smile slightly at that, looking down into his cup.
"-but the crest isn't as important to the Fraldarius name as its values, as its existence and dedication to the people of Fodlan. As long as Felix makes sure that is passed down with the Fraldarius name, well, I think you would have nothing to worry about. If you have an objection still, then, by all means, I'll hear it." Placing his cup down, Claude laces his fingers together and leans forward. "I am serious about taking him as my queen, after all, or my consort, or whatever title he wants to carry. Don't doubt that." While his tone stays light, friendly, Claude lets his seriousness show through his eyes for just a moment.
There's no answer for a moment. Not right away. Rodrigue just... looks at him, quiet and considering, not quite as sharp as his son but in a manner that feels vaguely reminiscent of it. "For the sake of propriety, of doing what is proper for the land... I could raise a few more objections. Yet... I suppose they would not be sincere." His cup barely makes a sound as he goes to rest it against its plate again, a literally quiet sign of his experience and age. "You know, for a long time... My son was isolated. I believe you know that."
"Isolated, but always the one people ended up around," Claude muses, remembering those days. Felix wears his spines well, but he cares about people too much to ignore them entirely. More often than not, that lets others see the soft side of him- whether it's awkward or sweet. "Yes, I remember some of it during our school days...."
Felix might have been in a different house, yes, but that didn't mean Claude paid no attention to him back then. In some ways, it had only been practical. All the major players of Fodlan and its then separated countries had to be accounted for, and the heir to the Fraldarius name was someone it would be silly to completely ignore. Even without that, well, he still interacted with others of the Golden Deer. Claude can still remember a cheerful conversation with Leonie about the swordsman, how she described how he appeared stubborn yet was quite flexible when it came to expanding his mind and admitting defeat.
Funny, to be someone so aloof and yet with so many who were drawn to him. Claude used to think of him as a cat in that regard. He still does.
"I used to think he would have difficulty finding a wife who would tolerate his harsh mannerisms," Rodrigue admits, tilting his cup to watch the tea swirl in place. "He is a good man, and I am proud to have raised him with the kind of values that a duke should have: bravery, perseverance, morals to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Yet I worried none would see that, past his abrasive personality." Those steel blue eyes of his search out Claude again, across the table. "After so much... I worried that he would find no one who would make him happy. So much has happened... In a more peaceful world, one I could force into being with my own hands, I hoped he might find such a life alongside that of his duty."
It's a father's dream, one born from the constant fighting and bloodshed that has troubled Faerghus and Fodlan for decades now. Claude can understand it well, even with no children of his yet brought into this world or taken under his wing. "I would give that to him gladly," he says, voice just a little soft- less persuasion for Rodrigue, and more thinking of Felix.
Felix, bright eyed and pleased at his side, hands under Claude's as he holds a bow and improves his skill. Felix, worn and soft alongside him in bed, finally having had his spines peeled away for the exhausted softness underneath. Felix, looking at him when he thinks Claude isn't, gentle and in love and trying not to hide it so much. Wanting not to hide it.
The words, or perhaps the tone, are enough for Rodrigue. Staring at Claude for a minute, his face finally softens into a quiet but genuine smile as he takes a sip of his tea again. More than that, there's something melancholy clinging to the edges as well. "I suppose that your desire to speak to me, following the proper etiquette of a proposal, is proof on its own how sincere you are of taking my son's hand. As you are a king, the initiative does normally go to yourself."
Claude has to laugh at that. "Honestly, I'm late on the draw compared to him! He insists on doing things the Almyran way, during the tournament coming up. I can't deny that my people always enjoy a demonstration of skill and strength, and no one will doubt he's a warrior worthy for the king when he inevitably makes his way through the brackets." His eyes glitter in amusement. "Especially since Almyra tradition often asks the suitor being able to defeat their intended in combat. Believe me when I say Felix has more than let it be known he intends to gladly put me down in the dirt so that he can slide a ring onto my finger. Really, it's pretty funny. He said-"
And Claude stops.
Claude stops, because he can remember what Felix said. He can remember the sharp and forcefully careless roll of his shoulders, and the way those amber eyes so different from Rodrigue's had refused to make eye contact. He can remember the words, still clear as day in his mind. Of course I'll do it the Almyran way. The Faerghus alternative is you asking a rock permission to marry me.
A rock.
A gravestone.
"Ah." Claude understands now. "I'm dreaming, aren't I?" he asks the former Duke, Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius of Faerghus, dead for years now.
The melancholy clings. "That is certainly one way to describe it." Rodrigue bows his head, tea now abandoned. "Let it be said that most of my regrets have been put to rest. This was only the remaining one... and I feel secure, now, in what I can say."
Blue begins to wash out the room, the details, the man sitting across from him.
"You have my blessings. Give him a happy life, King Claude von Riegan of Almyra."
Claude wakes up, Faerghus' chill still clinging to his skin before he realizes that it's the sweat of his body. Soon enough, it's replaced by warmer breezes, Almyran heat making cool nights that are still hotter than some of Faerghus' days. There's a dream clinging to his mind in sharp relief, like rubbing the side of a pencil along paper to reveal old messages, and it leaves him twitchy, restless.
Apparently, he's not the only one feeling this way. His bed is empty despite someone having snuck into it before he ever went to sleep. He finds Felix not too far off, arms crossed, moonlight reflected in his eyes as he looks out the window to this land so far from his own home. But he doesn't stiffen when Claude comes to join him, leaning comfortably against his shoulder.
"Nervous for the tournament tomorrow?" he asks lightly, conversationally, to his Fodlan guest, to the man aiming to be his fiance. To this Duke Fraldarius, still alive and well and warm against his skin.
Felix scoffs, and even leans against him in turn. "Do I look nervous? I don't plan on losing. Not with what I am aiming to win."
Chuckling, Claude begins to nudge him back to the bed Felix technically isn't supposed to be sleeping in , but rules are meant to be, even at the best of times, bent a little bit. "Well..." Tucking them both to bed, he grins at his lover. "I have a feeling your chances are pretty good."
He can't say if ghosts can visit a man or not, if even blessings are real or not beyond those of a crest... but dreams like that can only be a good sign.
With how the promise he'd made, to himself if to no other, he won't let it be anything else.
That much is obvious even without Claude's hunger for knowledge, historical or otherwise, as he looks upon the ancestral Fraldarius home. It's a miniature castle in its own right, a fortress which speaks to Faerghus' long rough history not only with the wars within its own borders but also the proximity of Fraldarius lands to Sreng. Certainly the Gautier family has the majority of responsibility to that tense and hostile border... but it would be remiss of their close neighbors to be unprepared.
Despite age, despite conflict, the building and its surrounding lands still stand in fine condition: sturdy stone walls, shining windows, and sensible gardening. It's sort of refreshing from Claude's point of view, honestly. After lots of traveling in his new duties as King of Almyra, he's seen far too many noble estates lean towards rather senseless gardening. That's just a fact no matter the land, from Almyra to Faerghus to Fodlan as a whole. Nobles really do like to show off just what frivolities they can afford even in their dirt.
Yet in Fraldarius lands, on the very property of the Duke, he can see how every plant is native and grown with purpose. Hardy herbs flourish along the paths leading up to the manor, intermingling in beautifully planned ways. Claude would never say he's ever been any kind of gardener, but he has a keen eye. He can see the way plants lower to the ground shelter the roots, and other plants desperately use their taller kin to reach sunlight sooner. Plants for cooking, plants for medicine- he can faintly recognize all of them flouring on Fraldarius land, which is no mean feat in what was once Faerghus.
All of it makes Claude smile. He's reminded of Felix- so loathe for the pomp and circumstance that one would associate with dukedom, preferring the practical, watching over his people more than his own ego (although there's still more than enough of that).
Yet it's not Felix who he's here to see. Instead, it's the older man waiting at the steps for him, and who gives a bow at the perfect angle when Claude steps forward. "It is an honor for you to set foot on our lands, His Majesty, King Khalid of Almyra."
Claude grins, easy and relaxed. Hell, he might even be a little pleased, hearing his name pronounced correctly by Fodlan nobility. "It's an honor to be welcomed here, Duke Fraldarius. Although I will say, after speaking with Dimitri and Sylvain so often, I can't help but think of you in much more casual address."
Straightening, Rodrigue smiles to him with an easy politeness. It's here that he mainly differs from his son, Claude sees, because in every other aspect they're completely alike. Even those steel blue eyes, different than Felix's crisp amber, are more of a secondary thing compared to his mannerisms.
That deep blue hair? The sharp lines of his face, both genetic and earned through a hard life? Honestly, Claude would even go so far as to say the soft waves of Rodrigue Fraldarius's hair remind him of Felix. It's rare, but... sometimes his lover permits him to pull those long strands back in a braid so that, come morning, come the strands loosening underneath his fingers, they fall into similar waves. It makes Claude's heart ache a little in fond longing.
"If that is what you would prefer, then by all means. It is thanks to your assistance during the war that we were able to win, and that is without considering how His Majesty holds you in such close regard." Oh, yes, he definitely has a better way with words than Felix does. More generous, too. Rodrigue gestures to his home, turning with the smooth movement. "I understand that you wish to speak to me in regards to some personal matters. Why don't we discuss it over tea? I've had some prepared for this occasion, so I hope it is to your liking."
"Such a considerate host!" Claude laughs, even though he knows it's only etiquette. "Then I'll gladly indulge in your generosity, thank you."
The Fraldarius innards are a little more grand than their stoic outer shell, with fine rugs softening hard stone floors while suits of armor proudly line the halls. High on the walls hang fine artwork, and tapestries that detail the proud history of the Fraldarius name. Claude knows most of it, of course, although not all. When it comes to nobility and family history, well, some things stay in the family. That's slowly been changing on a personal level, at least. Dimitri feels no need to hide anything from Claude, so long as he can provide it, and Felix is unsurprisingly similar in that regard.
Hell, maybe Felix feels moreso. "Perhaps you'll do better with the knowledge than I ever will," he'd said some months ago, depositing old books onto the table in front of Claude with little fanfare but careful handling. Claude had smiled at the time, teased Felix's demeanor a little, pleased for the new knowledge at his fingertips, but he'd been worried a little, too. Worried at the bags under Felix's eyes, the hooded nature of his gaze, and he'd thought to himself....
Colored glass curves into a brilliant dome in the center of the room Rodrigue brings him to before he has time to finish that thought, and Claude takes a moment to marvel. He suspects this is one of the few real indulgences in the Fraldarius estate, with everything else focused on service more than anything. Then again, perhaps it is a service this way as well. However practical and duty-focused the Fraldarius lineage may be, other nobility must still be entertained occasionally. Sometimes, like now, even royalty. Those in such stations might protest if they're expected to drink or dine in anything besides a show of duke luxury. (Claude thinks of Lorenz, even if his old friend has gotten better over the years.)
Yet even in such artistic extravagance, Fraldarius practicality shines through. Claude's keen eye catches the way the metal framework is never large enough to allow a body through, in the event someone tries to break in from above. While it's still a weakness, a little detail like that helps make it not as much of one.
Beneath the filtered blue sunlight, a table has been prepared, and Rodrigue politely pulls out a seat for him first. No servants are about; that seems to suit the older man just fine. Once they're both in their chairs, Rodrigue beings to pour the tea as well. Claude takes in a deep breath through his nose and exhales through a smile. "Leicester Cortania, isn't it?"
There's no way he could ever forget that distinct smell- nutty, warm, and sweet. It was one of the things that used to comfort him when he was adjusting to life in the Leicester Alliance, still a stranger even in his mother's land. While a gentler sort of tea, there's no small amount of depth to it. To no surprise, the spices in it carry a hint of Claude's homeland, and the smell alone makes him nostalgic. Almyra was very often unkind to him, true...
Then again, perhaps his memories of the people he's had this tea with have helped make it such a fond taste for him more than the flavor itself.
"That's correct," Rodrigue confirms, pouring his own cup. "My son has taken to keeping stocks of it on hand, along with a couple of other varities. Not that he has outright told me as such, of course... It's merely something I've noticed, ever since he began to keep regular correspondence with you. That's the sort of thing I suppose he'll always keep close to his chest."
That makes Claude laugh again. "Yeah, that certainly is Felix." Claude has noticed that new habit himself, warmer than any drink could ever make him even as he thinks of it. Felix is clumsy in his softness, too used to the spines he's grown for his own protection, but he does try. For all that he'd dismiss himself as only a swordsman, Felix is observant when he cares to be... and there's something to be said of the feeling which blossoms in Claude's chest when he thinks of being important enough for Felix to care. For Felix to try, even in his uncertainty.
Both of them take a minute to enjoy the tea, both because it's honestly just that good, and also because Faerghus etiquette demands at least that much. Yet soon enough, Rodrigue is looking to him with a slight tilt of his head. "Now then, His Majesty, King Khalid. What did you have to speak to me about?"
Well, if it's Rodrigue, right in the heart of Fraldarius territory.... Of course. He remembers. Claude smiles over the rim of his cup. "I was hoping to receive your blessing on the matter of marrying your son," he says plainly. "I would ask permission, as is Faerghus tradition when it comes to these matters, but, well..." He winks, still playful even now. "I think we both know that it's not really a matter of asking anyone else's permission but Felix's."
Rodrigue knows it, too. His soft sigh, partially exasperation, partially a parent's fondness for their child, tells it all. Yet the way he looks at Claude is different: solemn, quiet, considering. "If he marries you, the Fraldarius lineage may be in danger of dying out," he says simply- the concern every noble family feels they must consider at some point. "Our crest must live on where it can."
"Have you talked with your son about this?" Claude asks, still grinning a little. He knows very well the kinds of opinions Felix has on crests, both from his own experiences and observations along with knowing people like Sylvain and Mercedes. "I can certainly imagine what words he would have to say in regards to that. Besides, your son is strong in ways beyond his crest. You know that. I can't speak for Felix - which is probably for the better, with his tongue-"
Even Rodrigue has to smile slightly at that, looking down into his cup.
"-but the crest isn't as important to the Fraldarius name as its values, as its existence and dedication to the people of Fodlan. As long as Felix makes sure that is passed down with the Fraldarius name, well, I think you would have nothing to worry about. If you have an objection still, then, by all means, I'll hear it." Placing his cup down, Claude laces his fingers together and leans forward. "I am serious about taking him as my queen, after all, or my consort, or whatever title he wants to carry. Don't doubt that." While his tone stays light, friendly, Claude lets his seriousness show through his eyes for just a moment.
There's no answer for a moment. Not right away. Rodrigue just... looks at him, quiet and considering, not quite as sharp as his son but in a manner that feels vaguely reminiscent of it. "For the sake of propriety, of doing what is proper for the land... I could raise a few more objections. Yet... I suppose they would not be sincere." His cup barely makes a sound as he goes to rest it against its plate again, a literally quiet sign of his experience and age. "You know, for a long time... My son was isolated. I believe you know that."
"Isolated, but always the one people ended up around," Claude muses, remembering those days. Felix wears his spines well, but he cares about people too much to ignore them entirely. More often than not, that lets others see the soft side of him- whether it's awkward or sweet. "Yes, I remember some of it during our school days...."
Felix might have been in a different house, yes, but that didn't mean Claude paid no attention to him back then. In some ways, it had only been practical. All the major players of Fodlan and its then separated countries had to be accounted for, and the heir to the Fraldarius name was someone it would be silly to completely ignore. Even without that, well, he still interacted with others of the Golden Deer. Claude can still remember a cheerful conversation with Leonie about the swordsman, how she described how he appeared stubborn yet was quite flexible when it came to expanding his mind and admitting defeat.
Funny, to be someone so aloof and yet with so many who were drawn to him. Claude used to think of him as a cat in that regard. He still does.
"I used to think he would have difficulty finding a wife who would tolerate his harsh mannerisms," Rodrigue admits, tilting his cup to watch the tea swirl in place. "He is a good man, and I am proud to have raised him with the kind of values that a duke should have: bravery, perseverance, morals to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Yet I worried none would see that, past his abrasive personality." Those steel blue eyes of his search out Claude again, across the table. "After so much... I worried that he would find no one who would make him happy. So much has happened... In a more peaceful world, one I could force into being with my own hands, I hoped he might find such a life alongside that of his duty."
It's a father's dream, one born from the constant fighting and bloodshed that has troubled Faerghus and Fodlan for decades now. Claude can understand it well, even with no children of his yet brought into this world or taken under his wing. "I would give that to him gladly," he says, voice just a little soft- less persuasion for Rodrigue, and more thinking of Felix.
Felix, bright eyed and pleased at his side, hands under Claude's as he holds a bow and improves his skill. Felix, worn and soft alongside him in bed, finally having had his spines peeled away for the exhausted softness underneath. Felix, looking at him when he thinks Claude isn't, gentle and in love and trying not to hide it so much. Wanting not to hide it.
The words, or perhaps the tone, are enough for Rodrigue. Staring at Claude for a minute, his face finally softens into a quiet but genuine smile as he takes a sip of his tea again. More than that, there's something melancholy clinging to the edges as well. "I suppose that your desire to speak to me, following the proper etiquette of a proposal, is proof on its own how sincere you are of taking my son's hand. As you are a king, the initiative does normally go to yourself."
Claude has to laugh at that. "Honestly, I'm late on the draw compared to him! He insists on doing things the Almyran way, during the tournament coming up. I can't deny that my people always enjoy a demonstration of skill and strength, and no one will doubt he's a warrior worthy for the king when he inevitably makes his way through the brackets." His eyes glitter in amusement. "Especially since Almyra tradition often asks the suitor being able to defeat their intended in combat. Believe me when I say Felix has more than let it be known he intends to gladly put me down in the dirt so that he can slide a ring onto my finger. Really, it's pretty funny. He said-"
And Claude stops.
Claude stops, because he can remember what Felix said. He can remember the sharp and forcefully careless roll of his shoulders, and the way those amber eyes so different from Rodrigue's had refused to make eye contact. He can remember the words, still clear as day in his mind. Of course I'll do it the Almyran way. The Faerghus alternative is you asking a rock permission to marry me.
A rock.
A gravestone.
"Ah." Claude understands now. "I'm dreaming, aren't I?" he asks the former Duke, Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius of Faerghus, dead for years now.
The melancholy clings. "That is certainly one way to describe it." Rodrigue bows his head, tea now abandoned. "Let it be said that most of my regrets have been put to rest. This was only the remaining one... and I feel secure, now, in what I can say."
Blue begins to wash out the room, the details, the man sitting across from him.
"You have my blessings. Give him a happy life, King Claude von Riegan of Almyra."
Claude wakes up, Faerghus' chill still clinging to his skin before he realizes that it's the sweat of his body. Soon enough, it's replaced by warmer breezes, Almyran heat making cool nights that are still hotter than some of Faerghus' days. There's a dream clinging to his mind in sharp relief, like rubbing the side of a pencil along paper to reveal old messages, and it leaves him twitchy, restless.
Apparently, he's not the only one feeling this way. His bed is empty despite someone having snuck into it before he ever went to sleep. He finds Felix not too far off, arms crossed, moonlight reflected in his eyes as he looks out the window to this land so far from his own home. But he doesn't stiffen when Claude comes to join him, leaning comfortably against his shoulder.
"Nervous for the tournament tomorrow?" he asks lightly, conversationally, to his Fodlan guest, to the man aiming to be his fiance. To this Duke Fraldarius, still alive and well and warm against his skin.
Felix scoffs, and even leans against him in turn. "Do I look nervous? I don't plan on losing. Not with what I am aiming to win."
Chuckling, Claude begins to nudge him back to the bed Felix technically isn't supposed to be sleeping in , but rules are meant to be, even at the best of times, bent a little bit. "Well..." Tucking them both to bed, he grins at his lover. "I have a feeling your chances are pretty good."
He can't say if ghosts can visit a man or not, if even blessings are real or not beyond those of a crest... but dreams like that can only be a good sign.
With how the promise he'd made, to himself if to no other, he won't let it be anything else.