This was written for Lan for the Dancing Dove's Christmas fan fiction exchange. She wanted something with slash. I obliged. If you don't like slash, don't read ahead. Constructive Criticism is welcome, and all flames doubly so. They provide me endless hours of amusement.
Special thanks to Rosie eisoR for beta-ing for me. You are a goddess, dahling.
Plug: If you're looking for an awesome place for intelligent Tammy discussion, The Dancing Dove is the place to be.
Duties
The soldier wasn't quite sure why anyone expected anything else. They were stuck out there for weeks on end, with no one else to look at, no one else to turn to. It was freezing that far north; with nights so cold you would wake up to find the sheep dead, their own breath having frozen their throats shut.
You drilled together, lived together, ate, slept, bathed and died together. Your training emphasized the love between soldiers – these were your comrades. The deepest bonds of trust were forged between a warrior and his companions in arms.
No one understood like those in your squad, not even other squads at the same fort. Your squad experienced every bit of Hell with you, every joyful triumph over the enemy, every pain at loosing a friend. And every step of the way, disciplining and encouraging during training, calling out orders, fighting beside them on the battle field, serving latrine duty, the Captain had been there with them. With his men.
He was gray and grizzled, and of the bluest blood. A Knight of the old order, through and through. His rank and age allowed him an easier post this war – one on the coast, where his bones and his old scars wouldn't have ached so much, causing him to limp and swear when the wind blew towards the south.
His steely hair was thick and full and cropped close to his head – standard, precise, as everything about him was. He was broad shouldered and retained his height, always carrying himself proudly, shoulders back, head high, spine straight. A symbol, everything a good soldier, a good commander, a good warrior should be.
And his men loved him for it.
Perhaps this was why this soldier felt comfortable going to him now, with these shameful thoughts – the Captain always understood his men. He knew everything they were going through, because he had been through it himself.
As the soldier strode through the halls, no one, not even his closest friends on his squad could have told he was nervous. The young knight walked with his usual step, brisk, with sharp, military corners. He always seemed to be on the parade ground.
Only the barest hesitation marked him as nervous as his fist raised to knock gently on the door. Thump, thump, wait for the command.
"Enter." The rich voice was slightly hoarse from years of roaring orders.
Two steps forward, salute. Wait, for the command.
"At ease." Left foot moves. Right hand drops. Behind the back, clasp the hands, chest out, back straight.
"What can I help you with?" A shocking voice, for such an intense man, really. Soft and low, but without any rumble.
He swallowed slightly, and slowly explained the problem. The soldier was stuttering by the end. He never stuttered. "So, sir, I was thinking you would know what to do, what was wrong with me. It can't be normal, being in love with a… fellow soldier."
The Captain sat back, his eyes grave, but thoughtful. Finally, "Sit, boy, and let me see if I can explain it to you. You say you're in love with another of the soldiers?"
He nodded. "Someone in the unit." He elaborated, catching the captain's eyes with his own hopefully.
"It's not unheard of, though most men never mention it, for fear. You've nothing to worry about. Let me see if I can explain it."
He took a long draw from his hip flask, before continuing.
"What is love, but a deep, abiding respect? A terrible admiration, a desire and ability to be with someone constantly, and the willingness to give yourself so that they can go on? And trust. Absolute trust. It takes all these things to be in love with someone. And the training you undergo instills these feelings in you about those you serve the Crown with. If you didn't feel this way about those you fight beside, we'd all be dead men. Do you understand?"
The soldier nodded, but obviously his eyes were troubled. The Captain always knew when his men kept something from him. He raised his thin eyebrows, his deep brown eyes locking with the soldier's own, and he found what he was withholding spilling from his lips, poured forth with an interesting mix of passion and restraint.
"Sir, it's just as physical as emotional."
The Captain smiled, like a father would to a son, and for the first time, the soldier felt annoyance with him. It was not the smile he wanted to see. It was almost patronizing, and above all else he hated to be patronized.
"Soldiers do that. They fall in love with one another. There's nothing sexual about it – or at least, there won't be, once we've had a bit of leave time. You'll be able to... err…" He cleared his throat, looking slightly phased at having to lower himself to say this, "relieve your troubles. Then it will return to how it is supposed to feel – completely platonic. And you'll feel better, son."
The soldier nodded, though not completely convinced. It didn't feel like something that would just go away – he knew himself, and he knew when he would have to work at something. It was like the sword had been for him – it would take practice to correct himself, and he would never be a natural.
But he would make himself the perfect knight, just like the Captain. His Captain. Seeing something in the soldier's eyes, the captain nodded a dismissal.
"Thank you, sir, for your time." He stood.
"Good day, Cavall."
Wyldon swallowed and smiled, slightly nervously, saluting the Captain as he'd taught him to – crisp, and clean.
"Good day, Sir."