Fealty
"You're the only one who knows how much I hate this," Edgar says, boot-clad feet up on his desk, swirling his wine around in his glass. "Asides from Sabin. But who knows where the hell he's gone to by now, and he only knew the half of it."
Locke is sitting across from him, slumped in a iron-wrought chair, swirling patterns and insignias of Figaro pressing against his spine. He lifts his glass to his lips to sip the wine, nodding. "I can only imagine," he mutters into the glass.
"You're probably the only one who really knows me," Edgar says, "at this point."
The two of them sit in silence for a few moments; Locke shifts in his seat to cross his legs, stares down into the burgundy pool of the liquid in his glass.
"It'll get better," Locke murmurs. "Gestahl's coming round."
"Supposedly," Edgar says, raising his eyebrows in sarcasm. "But what about that Esper—"
"Might be a rumor," Locke says, though the nervous cadence in his voice reveals a poorly-hidden doubt. "Been gone for years. I wouldn't worry. Empire's got nothing to build on."
"But that could change everything," Edgar says. "We've got all the advances—Figaro is on the cusp of all the latest technology, we've got feeds coming in from Narshe. We're controlling the coal mining economy." He pauses to roll his eyes, and Locke knows it's because Edgar hates facts and figures; hates the bookkeeping and the delegation, knows that Edgar only wants to be in the basement of his castle with metal and grease, learning machines and their parts, building, creating; apart from this world's surface with its sand and sun and politics and war.
"I wouldn't worry about magic, Edgar," Locke says. "Been gone for ages. No use getting knotted up about it."
"But there's the possibility—" Edgar pauses, takes a swig of his wine, sets the glass down on the desk. "Have you picked anything up? In Vector. I know they're doing experiments. The Magitek?"
"That's Kefka's unit," Locke says. "Don't know nothing about that. It's under wraps. Even I can't get into that."
"And Doma," Edgar says, looking at the ceiling. "Doma's not allied at all. I know the Empires going to make a move soon. They've got to. They've got us, after all, even though—"
He looks at Locke then, and Locke knows the secrets that lie between them, secrets of allegiance, dangerous lies and games. Figaro, the supposed Empire ally; Figaro, waiting at the chance for betrayal, the bait and switch for power.
"But when it all comes down to it," Locke says, "What will you do? What are we going to do, you, with Figaro's army, with Doma—Doma doesn't even know you're not actually aligned with the Empire—the Returners are a weak force, what are you going to do?"
Edgar picks up his wine glass, stares into it. He looks at Locke, the brown eyes questioning him, looks back into the red.
"I'm going to leave and find my brother," Edgar says.
xxxx
Machines are methodical; mechanics have a method. "It's an automatic crossbow," Edgar says, trying to contain a smile, showing Locke his new creation.
"It's nice," Locke says, smiling, admiring the crosshatches of gears and pulleys. "Do you remember the last dynasty?"
Edgar's eyes travel up from his invention to meet Locke's. "I remember," Edgar says. "When I was a child… tales of airship fleets, dragoons and knights." And he falls silent, knowing his machinery is a brilliant betrayal of the past.
"I remember too," Locke says, though his memories hold to something else. "My grandma told me stories," he says. "About magic."
xxxx
They are in the desert, at least a half-mile from the castle, sitting in the sand, disguised. It's been like this for a while now; Locke visits and Edgar leaves, shrouded in fabrics and cloaks, his hair pulled up, disguised as ragged servant. He knows now to tell the gate guards someone will be leaving, tell them, as King, to let the servants pass. And then the game begins, as disguise, as Locke helping him, wrapping him in fabric, so that they can be alone, so Edgar can speak, free, as the young man he is.
It's these times when Locke speaks as well, when they can put aside the politics and talk about his journeys, his treasures found and lost; its one of these times—moons ago, now—when Locke tells him about Rachel after Edgar asks what happened to the ring and Locke grasps, clumsy, at one of the baubles hanging from his neck. Grasps, and shows the ring there, pulled from the muddle of other trinkets where it lies amongst things singular and meaningless, tells Edgar why he's here, what happened.
"At least you've had love," Edgar says one night. "At least you've had a real woman, and not some gold-digging whore."
Locke nods, looks up at Edgar from where his eyes had been locked to his own fingers, tracing swirls into the sand. "You've got to have somebody," Locke says.
"I don't", Edgar responds. "I'm not Edgar, I'm the King. I can fuck them all, but I can't let them know me. Could you imagine—one slip of the tongue, too much wine—who knows what secrets I would share. Nobody can be trusted with Figaro intelligence… Locke."
And Locke listens, his fingers stilling in the cold sand.
"You've got freedom," Edgar says. "But I gave my freedom to my brother, in sacrifice—" he pauses, looking up at the still and silent stars. "Because I'm weak, because I have compassion, I cared about him… and now…" his eyes travel back to Locke's. "I'm stuck here. I just don't know what to do."
"Sorry I told you so many stories," Locke says, staring at his boots. "It's not all fun out there. It's not all glitz and glamour. I got nobody too, since Rachel. You know that's why I joined the Returners. You know that's why I pledged to help."
"But at least you've seen the world."
"I've seen a continentor two…"
"That's more than I've known… just facts and names, documents and requests for fealty… the Empire, down my throat… I'm just sick of acting. Wonder what he's doing," Edgar says, and Locke knows he's thinking of Sabin, of his brother, free of ties. "Wonder where he is."
"Could be anywhere," Locke says. "Just got to hope one day you'll find him. Keep sending out the letters, the pigeons…"
"I know." Edgar says. He looks at Locke. "I know."
They are silent for a moment before Edgar leans forward, kisses Locke clumsily on the lips, hasty, unsure, but closed-mouthed and gentle, testing. Locke doesn't move, just watches him, waits for him to sit back, dig fingers awkwardly into the sand.
"Sorry," Edgar says, "I just…"
"It's okay," Locke says quietly. "It's okay."
Edgar is lifting handfuls of sand, letting it spill through his fingers, and Locke's hand moves to rise beneath Edgar's, catching the sand, watching it as it slides through the two tiers of fingers, Edgar's bronzed darker from genes bred under Figaro sun, Locke's paler, smoother. Locke spins the sand through his fingers and the both of them watch, caught in a moment, until Locke finally speaks.
"It's okay," he says again. "Look… like this." He leans forward and kisses Edgar, opening his mouth, letting his tongue slip between Edgar's hesitant lips, feels Edgar's tongue join his, warm and wet, gentle. Locke raises his hand and rivulets of sand tumble down Edgar's cloak as Locke rests the hand on Edgar's shoulder, tensing, pulling him closer. Edgar's eyes are closed and he fumbles for a second, his fingers touching Locke's chin, cheek, sliding up into his hair, the soft white-blond strands falling out from under his bandana. It's Edgar who breaks the kiss, breathless, flushed.
"Sorry," Edgar says again, but Locke's eyes are boring into his, the only wet light in the landscape of black sky and dry, silent sand. "Not quite becoming of a king".
Locke laughs a little. "No need to apologize. Just letting you know for next time."
They rise then, Edgar first, awkward, trying to ignore the implications of Locke's statement swirling dizzy through his head like a storm, dusting sand from his heavy clothing, Locke following, quick and lithe on his feet to stand.
"We should be heading back," Edgar says, and looks off into the distance, at the dark parapets of Figaro castle jutting up into the flat, empty landscape. "If anyone comes to check on me, there'll be hell to pay."
Locke smirks, crosses his arms. "Can't a king get lost in his own kingdom?"
"The King is already lost," Edgar says, and his voice is quiet and sad, carrying the weight of his legacy.
xxxx
"So you're with the Returners," Edgar says. "Pledging to be an informant against the Empire, pledging to keep Figaro's secrets on pain of death?"
"Yes, your Majesty." Locke bows, then drops to a knee, head down. "Locke Cole, at your service, pledging loyalty to the Returners and Figaro against the Empire on pain of death, m'lord."
There is silence as Edgar eyes him, crossing his arms, watching the slow but tense rise and fall of Locke's shoulders as he breathes, waiting for a response.
"You look as if you've not a clue what you are doing, Mr. Cole."
Locke looks up at Edgar, nervousness in his eyes as they meet Edgar's and then break contact, Locke blanching at a loss for words. "Uhh…"
"It's quite alright." Edgar motions for Locke to rise, and he does, tentatively, waiting loyal and eager for what comes next. Edgar steps closer, leans down to mutter in the shorter man's ear.
"I've no idea what I'm doing, either." He pulls back, smiles. Locke is shocked, attempting to process how a King could say such a thing, and then he returns the smile, and soon the two are laughing, out loud, alone, together.