This is a story being told as a series of 100 or 200 word drabbles and it is being written for the LJ community ff_fortnightly. Whenever I have enough drabbles to make short chapters, I'll post them here. Reviews always welcomed. Enjoy!! ^^
This first set of drabbles takes place during 696 and 697 O.V.
An Apartment of Our Own
"The captain will still be sponsored on Azelas gil," Vossler said to their king. "My family's insufficient funds for Basch are to be pooled with mine."
Feigned words of frugality masked Vossler's true intent. Raminas asked Basch if he found this suitable.
"I do," Basch replied.
They moved to larger quarters: a quiet palace apartment with a private bath of their own.
Vossler always brooded on Azelas land. In the field he sought to maintain his command. But on that first afternoon, Vossler sprawled naked on the larger bed, flesh warm and red from a long bath. That was the first time Basch saw Vossler fully at home.
"I don't care if we're alone. No lips, no tongue."
"Of course."
"Keep your hair long."
"I always do."
"The larger bed is mine."
"Mine also."
"Basch. Do not think that—" Vossler sat, making space on the bed. "We share quarters because this is all my father's estate can afford."
From Vossler, those words were akin to "I do" spoken before witnesses.
"And I appreciate your family's generosity."
"You need not tell them that."
"Of course."
The hour before supper, Basch lay, thighs oiled, Vossler pressed against the curve of Basch's spine.
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Dreams of a Grand Estate
Vossler was a man who measured his worth in acres of land, lākh of gil, number of sons. Basch never faulted him for it: Vossler was who an Azelas was bred to be.
For them, the worth of their land was measured by merchants' safe passage across Dalmasca's deserts. Their gil, a monthly stipend. Their sons, young men who swore the Order's oath. Basch guided those of common blood; Vossler led bastards sent from noblemen's houses, swords across their backs, bags of gil in hand.
One winter during the Festival of Lights, Vossler proclaimed over a bottle of wine that he would ask his father to arrange a marriage. "Even one for you," he declared as off-dry vintage sloshed over the rim of his glass. "The hero of the common people might fetch a greater dowry than I."
"Just think," he said, words slurred, head settling into Basch's lap. "With the princely sum you'd receive from a merchant family—one who thinks themselves gentry—and I with a Nabradian bride, we could bring water up from the Nebra and make verdant this barren patch of desert. A grand estate we would build, you and I."
The following morning, Vossler sobered.
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Choosing One's Freedoms
Although Vossler spoke of arranging marriages only once, Basch considered the idea's merit.
Basch thought of hard rides across the Highwaste, sandstorms in the Westersands, persistent pain in Vossler's shoulder, discomfort in his lower back.
And he thought of the night spent at the Azelas estate: the tense air as Vossler hurled drunken insults at his eldest brother. Norvid had only voiced plans to increase the yield of their family's vineyards. Sour grapes, Basch thought. Non-inheriting sons left to rot if they fail to find fortunes of their own.
But Basch knew Vossler saw women as a burden of societal necessity. Vossler fucked women only because he thought he must; he never enjoyed their touch, their lips, the sway of their hips, the pleasing curve of their thighs.
The barmaid brought their ale, Vossler ignored her. "If we take five men through the western passage—"
Basch thanked Geena with a warm smile.
"Basch, she's a gil girl, cock rot. Listen, we take five men—"
"She's Yugri's daughter."
"Worse. Yugri aspires to corner the market on spellstones. His daughter would expect too much. She'd make you a pauper."
"I'm already held in bond by nobleman's estate."
"A much greater freedom, Basch."
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Water of the Nebra
Time entrenches routine habits just like water carves paths through the soil. Riverbanks tell the river where to flow until the next flood. Vossler always falls asleep pressed against Basch's back, he usually rises before Basch wakes.
They lie in each other's arms, the morning light and the breeze from the window on them. If Vossler is awake, he does not acknowledge this, his head on Basch's shoulder, body curled somehow small like a child. Basch breathes a slow stream of air on the man's forehead, leaves a small kiss. He rubs Vossler's arm, looks out to the rising sun.
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