The closer they get to the border, the worse Aimeric's nightmares become.
They're strange, mangled things, half memory, half delusion. He hardly ever remembers their plot after waking, but the emotional aftertaste stays with him throughout the day – fear and guilt and loneliness. If he is lucky, he wakes in the morning and Jord is already gone. If he isn't, he finds himself still wrapped up in his lover's embrace – warm and safe and horribly alone. Because Jord is not truly his to have.
He tries to put them together – the dreams and the memories, the stark distillations of why he is here and what he is doing – build them into something more than a tattered old shield, like the one you can find in a forgotten back corner of the armory. He had been so sure at first, so determined. But then Jord came and descended a cavalry of emotions on Aimeric's inexperienced lines.
Aimeric will never forgive him for it.
He sometimes catches Jord looking at him, watching him with a worried expression, like he can tell that something is wrong. Bloody hell, has it ever been right? And Aimeric wants to scream at him: don't you understand? You're so much better than all of this. He doesn't deserve a word from you. Why, why are you here?
It would be so much easier without Jord.
It would be so much easier if Jord did not love him at all.
No one speaks to him directly at Ravenel. But Aimeric catches eyes on himself a few times – cutting, inquisitive gazes: on your honor, boy?
On my honor. He had sworn it.
He had sworn to be loyal and true, to bring glory to his family, to defend the South from humiliation and despotism He had sworn it. He had stood in front of his father and the Regent, a sword with the family crest engraved into its handle in hand, and promised to be the man they believed he could be. It will not be easy, the Regent had told him softly. It never fucking is.
Aimeric is his father's fourth son, second youngest child. He is not set to inherit much of anything. His political worth tends toward zero and, unlike a daughter, he cannot even be sold to the highest bidder to produce sons for another family's line. His academic and military competence is acceptable but not brilliant. His father and eldest brother had always treated him accordingly.
Nothing has ever been easy.
Being at Ravenel is almost reassuring. Aimeric understands his place here. The eyes of all those men, of the Southern lords, remind him of home and drive away the nightmares for a night or two. His dreams are lighter here, filled with bright yellows and forest-greens. Or at least they should be.
He dreams of his little sister, her golden hair – so much like their mother's, or so Lady Guion's portrait tells him – streaming behind her in a light, summer breeze. She laughs and waves at him, kicks up her long skirts to wade into a shallow pond. They play tag and hide-and-go seek among the haystacks at the stables and he teaches her how to jump the low garden fence on horseback—
And then wakes to the realization of what will happen to his family if they lose. His father, his brothers, his two sisters. Georgiana is only fourteen. For heaven's sake, even Laurent isn't cruel enough to harm an adolescent girl.
But of course he is.
Aimeric dreams of his childhood friends, of their juvenile antics and pretend battles in the training yard. He dreams of happy, kind-hearted Cade who came up with the best pranks. Of gallant, handsome Antoine who could outride and out-fence all of them and promised to marry Georgiana when they were both old enough. Of passionate, brave Andre, who was a few years older than the rest of them.
Cade, whose father died at Marlas. Antoine, whose brother died at Marlas. Andre, who rode off to war with the Prince's standard in hand the day he turned sixteen—
And never came back.
Southerners were the first to the front, and the first to give their lives for Vere.
But how many people remember that these days? Certainly not His Royal Highness, in all his pretentious arrogance.
Prince Auguste would have remembered, perhaps. But Prince Auguste is dead.
At some point, Aimeric comes to realize that his dreams aren't that much better at Ravenel.
Aimeric's last night in camp, before he is to ride back for Ravenel, leaving this deception behind, is unusually chilly for this time of year. Aimeric lies awake long after Jord has fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep beside him, one arm comfortably folded over Aimeric's waist, completely unaware of the suffocating confusion of his lover's thoughts. Finally, the cramped darkness of the tent becomes too much. He untangles himself slowly from Jord and fumbles around for some clothes.
The night it dimly lit by a quarter moon. The camp is nearly silent; everyone has fallen to sleep long ago. Aimeric makes his way past the sentries who hardly give him a glance and stalks into a patch of sparse wood. The woods here are incredibly sparse, so the moonlight penetrates easily through the crowns, ghosting over fallen leaves and low shrubbery. Cool night air catches at the sleeves of Aimeric's shirt, rippling them and making chills run up his arms. He reaches a broad-trunked tree and stops to stare blankly at its gnarled lower branches. Something about them makes him remember the last dream he had, the one about the Honeyed Wood and the child who had once liked to go there when he felt alone. The boy would climb into one of the trees and write touching, innocent letters, full of joy and trust. Letters that he sent faithfully with every month's post.
It had taken Aimeric nearly a year of no answers to finally give it up.
He would later learn that only his first letter had sent. After, his father had discovered the habit, but not wanting to have a scene on his hands, decided to simply confiscate the letters from the outgoing post. When Aimeric, by then sixteen, had confront him about it, he was told with bitter scorn, don't be a fool, boy. What use has the Regent for your letters?
Except he had not been the Regent back when Aimeric wrote them. He had not been the Regent the day he came to Fortaine. But he had been the king's brother. And Aimeric had just turned twelve.
He still clearly remembers how he had been summoned to his father and told that they were about to receive a very important guest. That Aimeric ought to be on his best behavior. Use that pretty face of yours, boy. Be charming. Do not speak unless spoken to.
He remembers the way the sun had fallen through the high, stained glass windows, spilling across the marble floor, the way his father's lip had curled in an expression Aimeric had been too young to understand then.
But most clearly, he remembers His Highness, the King's brother. And the way he had smiled at Aimeric's clumsy, childish bow – the overwhelming warmth in that expression, the awe-struck desire. He remembers the riding lessons and the Great Hunt, the smell of roasted rabbit and a toast in his honor. The vivid memories of warm eyes and gentle hands and loving words had never left Aimeric – if he closes his eyes, he can almost relive the moments in his head.
Councilor Guion's youngest son had never before or after felt as special as he had during that month that the King's brother had spent at Fortaine.
His father could never understand such a thing. You know nothing about us, he had told his father during their confrontation and had received a strange, half-condescending, half-guilty look in response. He had gotten his letters back, but by then it was too late.
Deep inside, Aimeric knows why it ended. He had not been good enough. If he is perfectly honest, there is nothing romantic in being summoned to court and then asked to perform a dangerous and potentially impossible mission. Standing in the throne room, in that private audience, he had wondered how much had changed over the years. There was something missing from the Regent's eyes when he looked at him – Aimeric had felt it, a sharp pang, a half-realization that it was not like it used to be.
You had been so brave as a boy, the Regent had told him. Be brave once again, Aimi. Stand up for what you know is right.
He had had the sense – or the folly, perhaps – to ask, why did you choose me?
And the Regent had smiled a smile almost as warm as the one Aimeric remembers. I believe in you, I always have. It ought to be you, Aimeric It was always you.
The twelve-year-old boy Aimeric had once been died of love on the spot.
He wants, desperately, to believe it is all true. After all, until then, no man had showed him as much trust and affection as the Regent had. No one had ever believed in him so much, had been willing to put so much trust and responsibility on his shoulders.
Even if things are different now, he owes the Regent loyalty just for that.
Rustling footsteps behind him make Aimeric look around. He squints through the gloom and quickly recognizes the silhouette coming toward him as Jord. His breath catches and something heavy sinks down into his abdomen. Oh, Jord, don't.
"What are you doing all the way out here?"
"Are you spying on me?" It comes out far more defensive than he means it to.
Jord stops, obviously taken aback. "I woke up and you were gone. I was worried."
Aimeric sighs and runs a hand through his hair in resignation. "I couldn't sleep. Thought a walk might do me well."
"Was it another bad dream?" Jord closes the distance between them and pulls Aimeric into his arms without any hesitation.
Aimeric tries to not let his spike of anxiety show, but says nothing.
"I know you have them, you know? The bad dreams. You never talk about them."
There's a note of consternation in Jord's tone that makes Aimeric bristle. "They're just dreams, there's nothing to talk about." He sighs and rests his forehead against Jord's. He hates this, hates how being with Jord makes him weak in the knees. Jord makes him want to do stupid, unreasonable things – he wants to be honest, he wants to run away with his lover and never come back.
Jord is always reasonable and understanding and patient. Jord loves him.
And lately, Aimeric thinks that he might love him too.
That should make him happy. He should be unreasonably, dizzyingly happy. But all he feels is guilt and uncertainly. And an approaching sense of doom.
But he must do this. For this family, for his country. For the Regent.
"I don't remember what they are about anyway," he mumbles after a long pause. "I'm fine. Go back to bed."
Jord smiles softly at him. "I'm not going back without you."
"That's quite foolish."
"No it isn't." They stay quiet for a while. There is nothing in the stillness of the night to take Aimeric's thoughts off of the warmth of Jord's arms and the sound of his breathing against Aimeric's ear. Suddenly, Jord says, "I know you've been trying to hide it, but you're uneasy lately. I want to help you but I don't know what's wrong."
"Of course I'm uneasy. We will likely see battle soon."
Jord pulls away slightly and looks into his face. Aimeric forces himself to meet his eyes. "Are you afraid?"
Aimeric gives a short, bitter laugh. "Hardly." Jord continues to look at him with the same patient expectancy. "Guilty, more like." I need to stop talking. But he can't. He never can with Jord.
"Because of your family?" Jord tangles a hand in his hair, runs it down to the base of his neck, kneads the tension out of the muscles there.
Aimeric looks away. "Yes." He stares over Jord's shoulder at the dark clumps of trees. "I'm going against them. Doesn't that make me a traitor?"
"Your family might still come around. Laurent is the rightful heir. He—"
"Laurent is a horrible person and he will make a horrible king." It comes out vicious, despite the quiet tone. "He humiliates people. He is arrogant and cruel and—"
Jord takes a step back, though his hands stay at Aimeric's waist. "You're wrong about him. He cares very much for this country and he will be faithful to it and its people."
Aimeric scoffs. Jord looks confused.
"If you believe so hotly that the Prince will make a bad ruler, why are you here?" Even in the dark, Aimeric can see the unease in Jord's eyes. It's not suspicion but bafflement and anxiety.
Aimeric sighs and steps forward to give his lover a placating kiss. He rests his forehead against Jord's and manages to meet his eyes. "I'm here because of you." It is not strictly true, but Jord is the only reason Aimeric has any doubts.
Jord's expression brightens painfully. He kisses Aimeric in a rush, his desperate need to be close burningly evident. Aimeric holds on to his shoulders, eyes closed, mind blank for a moment. He wants this. He wants it to last forever. If there was no Laurent, no Regent, no obligations – perhaps it could.
But that is not how the world works. And Jord will never choose him.
Aimeric pulls away slightly. They are still so close that he can feel Jord's breath on his lips. Aimeric does not want to ask, but he must. "Is there anything Laurent could ever do that you wouldn't defend?"
"There isn't anything he would ever do that I couldn't defend."
"That's not what I asked."
The confusion is back in Jord's eyes, now mingled with exasperation. "I'm a soldier, my love. I'm defined by my loyalty. I am no one without it."
Loyalty. Aimeric smiles sadly as though he understands, because in part he does. On my honor.
"I don't want to talk about Laurent," Jord continues in a half-whisper. "Come back to bed."
Aimeric kisses him and nods, acquiescing. "Alright." Jord is right. There is no use to speak of Laurent, to speak of any of this. He knows what he must do, he knows where his loyalties must lie in the end.
He had sworn it on his honor.
And even if Jord could do something to change that, he wouldn't.