Just like my other works, 'Moments' will simply be a test story. It depicts moments of the Prince's life with Ben Finn, and entries may or may not be in chronological order, and may or may not be related to one another. Some may vary entirely from the Fable III storyline. This story will also contain malexmale relationships. If that isn't your cup of tea, kindly hit the 'back' button and find something more suitable to your tastes. To those who don't mind, please enjoy!
More notes will follow.
Disclaimer: Fable I, II, and III, their associated characters, and locations belong to Lionhead Studios. I am in no way making a profit from this writing, other than gaining satisfaction from hopefully improving my skills as a would-be author.
One -
At first glance, the Prince hadn't thought much about the soldier that was Benjamin Finn. The blonde was positively arrogant, somewhat lewd, and far too cocky regarding his abilities with a firearm for Tristan's liking. That shit-eating grin, those soul-searching blue eyes, and that messy mop of blonde hair that desperately needed a brushing all visibly encompassed the complicated man that Ben made up. The bloodstained uniform, the lax personality... Needless to say, he was the epitome of different from the Prince himself. He was everything that the Prince had been raised not to be.
(A few years down the line from the very moment, settled in the warmth of the royal study by the roaring fireplace during a winter's snowstorm, Tristan would pause from the novel that had grasped his attention and tell the said man this very thing. Ben would laugh beneath his breath, a breathy chuckle, still with that messy blonde hair and shit-eating grin and call him a 'spoiled little ponce', and then they would both go back to what they were doing in companionable silence.)
From the first moment that he and Walter had stepped foot from the Hobbe-infested railway, breathing in the repugnant stench of the air, Tristan had decided then and there that he quite disliked Mourningwood. So far, everywhere they had been had held a certain charismatic atmosphere; the Dweller Camp had been jovial and exciting after assuring Brightwall's assistance, and Brightwall itself had been, as Jasper had put it, 'a charming little hamlet' nestled far from the influence of Bowerstone. Mourningwood, however, held about as much charm as the Prince's left sock, and since the said sock now had a lovely hole in it, well... That charm practically totaled to zero.
Walter had been quite excited as they trudged through the muck, going on about the individuals that they would be meeting - who would want to live here? - and how valuable of allies they would be. Despite his honest desire to share in the Knight's genuine excitement of making more allies to assist in overthrowing Logan, Tristan couldn't get over the fact that he was exhausted, covered in Hobbe blood, and in desperate need of a bath and some sleep. Regardless, they had found the Fort, and the brigade that was unfortunate enough to call the place 'home', and with it, Major Swift and Captain Ben Finn.
"Aren't the talkative kind, are you mate?"
The question caused the Prince to stiffen, brows furrowing and jaw tightening as he turned his head to regard the man who had spoken. His look was met with that grin.
"That's hardly a way of a greeting," the brunette responded, shifting where he had been seated near the Fort walls. For only a moment he stared, icy blue eyes locked on soul-searching blue before he looked away. "Captain." Honestly, the Prince wasn't in the mood for idle chit-chat.
The said blonde man gave a shrug of a shoulder, eyes glancing about before taking a step closer and promptly settling himself beside the Prince on the crumbling stone. "The men's words, not mine, although I'm somewhat entitled to agree. You haven't said one word since walking in here. What's a bloke to think?"
For a moment Tristan pondered the older man's question, then mimicked his earlier action and shrugged. "It's none of my concern what you and your brigade think."
Here, Ben 'tsked' under his breath as he wagged a finger in the air. "Ah, you spoiled little ponce, what we think is exactly your concern. You're here for us to follow you, aye? That type of attitude isn't going to win us into your favor."
A frown. "So you would rather favor my brother?"
"I'd rather have nothing to do with any form of royalty. The fact that Walter says that you're a Hero is the only reason I'm sitting with you, and the only reason why I'm not kicking you out to feed the Hollowmen."
Ben's words were said bluntly, and they stung, but the Prince did his best to not let it show. He'd been met with enough hostility and distrust simply for being Logan's brother to almost be used to it, but… He wasn't. Idly he wondered if he ever would. Releasing a sigh, Tristan tilted his head back and regarded the Captain with a look.
"Thanks," he muttered, pretending to not hear the childish petulance in his own tone, "But I can promise you that I am nothing like my brother."
Ben, in all his sarcastic glory, had the decency to grin that grin. Oh, how the Prince was beginning to loathe that look. "I know," he responded casually, "I can tell, mate, I'm just messing. Logan wouldn't be bothered to come pay us a little visit, the bloody git, not that I want him to. He can bugger off and rot." With those words, that grin slowly faded into a far more somber expression, his gaze focusing on the ground in front of them. "We've been here for months, fighting the legions of the damned. Swiftie and I, we've… Well, we've had to bury a lot of good men."
There was a tone in Ben's voice that Tristan found he didn't like. It didn't suit him. Despite the fact that they were practically strangers, he could recognize and sympathize with the feeling of loss. Loss was an emotion he understood quite well. Ben went on.
"When we were first stationed here, it was only for a few weeks, or so our order said. Clear out the Hollowmen, secure the area, all that mess…" Already the Prince could see where this was going. The said young man's blue gaze traveled up from a mossy spot on the ground to stare intently at the blonde's face, noting the stubble upon his chin, the furrow in his brow when talking about something so unpleasant, and the scowl that marred his lips. "It was all a bloody lie, we think. That or they forgot about us. We haven't received any orders to pull out of Mourningwood yet, and I'm beginning to think we aren't going to. So, I bet you can understand my uncertainty of you being here, mate."
Tristan shifted uncomfortably, reminded once again that while he had been living in the lap of luxury, there were people out here, like Swift, like Ben, like Sabine and the Dwellers, like Samuel and the citizens of Brightwall, who struggled every day beneath the oppression that was the King of Albion. It made him sick.
"I'm sorry. Words… Words are hollow, I know, and I'm aware that my apology may mean very little, but I am sorry. It isn't easy, losing someone dear to you…" Not now, his mind whispered bitterly, determined to shut down that thought before it even started, not right now. Later. Later. Inhaling slowly, Tristan held onto that breath, lifting his eyes to watch Walter and Swift across the camp, watch as they spoke and joked with one another as old friends do. The soldiers milled around them, some resting, some preparing weapons for nightfall, some training… Come dawn tomorrow, Tristan wondered how many of the 'Swift Brigade' would be left.
"I also know that my coming here and asking for your help probably means very little. If I were in your shoes, I would react the same. I had no idea what was going on outside of the castle walls." Goodness, but his father would be ashamed. Come to think of it, the Prince was certain that his father would have quite liked Ben. "But I promise, come tonight, you'll see that I mean what I say. I'll fight this 'legion of the damned' by the side of your brigade, and then we can discuss joining together to stop Logan."
It was Ben's turn to shift, although he couldn't tell if it was due to the tender topic or the discomfort from sitting on the cold stone rubble for so long. The Captain hummed beneath his breath, seeming to mull it over before nodding. "Aye, you little ponce," he teased, that somber expression once more replaced by that grin, and oddly enough Tristan was relieved to see it. "I suppose we will."
Well, after a few years of writing nothing (which I apologize for), I'm back. Fable is, and always will be, a deep love of mine, and after moving states, attending college, getting engaged to the love of my life (who happens to be my lovely beta), and planning a wedding, I'm hoping to get back into the field of writing.
(If anyone has any suggestions of little 'moments', please feel free to send them my way! Fodder is always welcome.)
Please read, review, and enjoy!