Kurt tried to swallow his laugh but couldn't and it barked out of him.
"Someone's got her to sit for a portrait?!"
"That's what I heard," the servant replied, managing with a far greater degree of success to hide his disbelief at the statement.
Many artists had painted De Sardet over the years. There was something of a gallery in her mother's apartments which showcased them all. And they were all dreadful. Kurt particularly liked the one where her mother had asked the artist to paint De Sardet's left side – the one with her birthmark – but in which the artist had simply had his model turn so that said mark was not visible. The result was an image of a thick, twisted neck in an uncomfortable pose – a position which had resulted in De Sardet finding it difficult to turn her hair during training for weeks.
Kurt decided to make his way up to see her. He'd made his peace with her having outgrown him back when he was still a lieutenant, but he had her to thank for his appointment and he was keen to greet her before the voyage. And make sure she'd packed a sword worth swinging.
He made his way across the larger palace courtyard, accompanied by the sound of conspiratorial, excited voices all wondering over Constantin's whereabouts.
He almost missed her in the end.
"Hey! Greenblood!"
"Kurt!" She sounded surprised, but overwhelmingly pleased to see him. He threw her the sword he'd brought for her.
"And so the day has finally come! My royal fledglings are leaving the nest!" Kurt pretended to bow as they circled one another, muscle memory unrepressed by the years apart. The sparring dance was familiar, automatic.
"Accompanied by their most loyal and tenacious master-of-arms," she grinned, warm and honest.
"As loyal as your gold," he corrected, though he found as he said it that it stung him a little.
"Enough with the cold mercenary – I know you like us," she teased. Then, unexpected, added, "You're still hiding your men in the shadows of the unsuspecting greats of this world, I see…"
She nodded to the contingent of Coin Guard men who were making ready across the way. It was Kurt's turn to quip back, "Hey! Our blades are the only thing keeping you dainties alive!"
"Ha!" she smirked, "Kurt, I'm not in need of your protection! I'm no longer a child, you know."
And for the first time, he believed her. Dressed in a doublet and smart riding breeches, she looked every inch the legate – every inch the noblewoman. He felt something rise in his chest – an ache that tasted too strongly of obsolescence.
But they were still circling, still dancing. And he could still lead.
"Is that so," both of his hands came to his hilt and she matched his stance, "Then fight with honour!"
Solid ground. Familiar ground.
He had missed her.
