even more of that backstory fic
Jun. 16th, 2026 07:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceif you recall how I said I have no chill, that lack of chill continues. I wrote a third part of that backstory fic about my paladin Dalton and the prince-turned-thief that he fell in love with, this time set in the first few months after Dalton crash-lands in Kristoff's life. it's also up on AO3 if that's easier.
There is a council of Kristoff’s guards. For once, Dalton is invited.
They sit in a circle around the fire. It’s a few hours before dawn, and Mother Night has them fully in her grasp. Shadows dance across grim faces as one of the Father's clerics heals the defensive wound on Kristoff’s forearm where the assassin nearly managed to stab him in his sleep. Dalton is still liberally splattered with drying blood, although at least he seems to have wiped it off his face.
“Killed an assassin with a fucking tent pole,” says Rakela Bonehand, breaking the silence with her usual cheer. She slaps Dalton hard on the back, nearly knocking him to the ground with the force of her enthusiasm for all that she’s half his height. Dalton almost smiles. “Good job, lad. You got there faster than any of us.”
“Of course he did,” Zotra says sourly. Steam spills from her nostrils despite the late spring warmth. “He’s the prince’s shadow. Or did you know the assassin was coming?”
“Captain,” Kristoff warns. “He saved my life.”
At least his hands have stopped trembling. It was a near miss. Kristoff had woken at the last moment to a shadow looming above him, a knife in hand. He had barely gotten his arm up in time to block her. If the assassin had poisoned her blade, he’d be dead. He had cried for help, and Dalton came tearing through the door what felt like a fraction of a second later. Kristoff hadn’t seen the fight in the dark, but it didn’t last long. Before he managed to grab his sword and get off his cot, it was done.
Kristoff thought himself a fair hand with a weapon, but killing a trained assassin with a tent pole? Ridiculous. He’d dragged Dalton into the firelight outside the tent, certain he was wounded, but there wasn’t a scratch on him. Dalton has stayed very close ever since. Even if he hadn't been invited to the meeting, Dalton might have crashed it.
(In truth, Kristoff didn’t really want to be out of Dalton’s sight.)
Dalton says, “I couldn’t sleep. If one of you wants to cast a truth spell, I’ll be happy to tell you I had nothing to do with it.”
“That’d be an unnecessary waste of resources,” Kristoff says. “I believe you.”
Dalton eyes Zotra. “The question is where were the rest of you?”
Zotra surges to her feet. “Don’t you dare--”
“Dalton,” Kristoff says, reaching out to clasp his shoulder. When Dalton subsides, he nods to Zotra. Reluctantly, she sits. “Captain. We can’t afford to be at each other’s throats. Yes, there was a lapse in security, but becoming paranoid won’t help.”
“I don’t know how they found us in the first place,” frets the court mage. “We should have been hidden from scrying. We’ll have to move again.”
“I’ve already got folks pulling up tents,” Rakela says. “You just worry about finding us a new spot. When we get there, we’ll increase guard rotations at night. Our prince will be safe as can be, at least until he pulls some damn fool stunt when he’s out thieving.”
“I never pull damn fool stunts,” Kristoff says. The entire council makes collective sounds of derision. Dalton stays stone-faced, but Kristoff sees his sidelong dubious look. “Well, I don’t!”
“You thought he was safe before,” Dalton says.
Zotra grimaces. Rakela gives Dalton another thump between the shoulder blades. “I’ll put the fear of the Father into the guards, don’t you fret. And me and Zotra will keep close. We’ll put better wards up. We’ll move more often. This won’t happen again.”
“How close will you be keeping?” Dalton asks.
“We’ll put our tents to either side of his,” Zotra says. “Leave it, boy. This isn’t your concern.”
A furrow appears between Dalton’s brow before easing. He nods and abruptly stands. “I’ll go help break up camp, then.”
That was easy. Too easy. The council continues for a while, discussing new guard rotations and the next place they should move, but Kristoff’s mind wanders between the memory of the assassin kneeling above him and the glint of trouble in Dalton’s eye when Zotra told him to leave it alone.
Eventually, the council breaks up as they all return to their duties. Kristoff rises, brushing dirt off his weathered clothes, and discovers a spray of blood on his stomach. He can’t tell if it’s his own.
“Your highness,” Zotra says. Her scaled hands are folded in her lap, fingers clasped tightly together. “A moment of your time.”
Damn it all. Kristoff stops midstep and turns back to her. “Of course, captain. You know I welcome your counsel even if I don’t always agree with it.”
Zotra snorts. “Pretty words, princeling, but I doubt you’ll hear what I have to say.”
“Try me,” Kristoff says. He can’t object to being called a princeling when Zotra was the head of his father’s guard and saw him grow from infancy. He respects her counsel and follows it in most cases, but she served in Hamlin’s army when they were at open war with Akhiilor. She would raze Akhiilor’s crystal spires to the ground if she could. “I appreciate people who tell me when I’m being an ass.”
“Not an ass, perhaps, but a fool.” Zotra reaches into the pocket of her coat and retrieves a bag of herbs and some rolling paper. There’s almost no herbs left, so she saves them for special occasions like being unnecessarily dramatic. As she uses the stump beside her as a makeshift table, she says, “I have a story for you.”
“I’m listening,” Kristoff says, lowering himself back down to sit on a log.
Zotra grunts. “I knew a man once. A farmer. He was out walking the fields one night, and he came upon a dead wolf and her cubs. Most of the little ones had frozen to death, but there was one pup left. Still a tiny thing, eyes closed, squeaking for its mama. His heart was moved to pity. He brought the pup home and nursed it with sheep’s milk. It’s a miracle the damn thing survived, but it did. Grew up big and strong, too. No mistaking that it was a wolf. It was nearly the size of a horse. But he loved it. That wolf followed him around like any dog, staring up at him with big soft eyes.”
“I see where you’re going with this,” Kristoff says flatly.
“Do you?” Zotra deadpans. She turns her head and lights the rolled cigarette with a puff of fire breath, then takes a drag. “Because he mistook that wolf for any old dog, and one night that creature started killing. Took out most of his flock, and when the farmer tried to stop him, well, that creature killed him too.”
“Dalton’s not an animal,” Kristoff says. “He saved my life.”
“By killing a man,” Zotra says. “Gods only know how many he killed before you found him. These Akhiilorans, they’re good at that. Don’t make a pet of a wolf, your highness. You can’t control him.”
“Enough.” Kristoff stands, brushing himself off. “Your objections are noted. I’ll take them under advisement.”
“No, you won’t,” Zotra says with a bitter laugh. “So be it. I tried.”
Kristoff walks away seething.
***
It’s not until they’ve slogged through what feels like a sea of mud and found the next camp that Kristoff realizes what Dalton has been plotting. He’s been rather quiet all day, keeping his distance, but Kristoff keeps feeling Dalton’s eyes on him and turning to find himself being watched. It’s slightly unnerving, but that’s Dalton for you. Unfortunately, Kristoff’s in high demand today and he can’t slip away to go check on him until evening.
Dalton has a shovel in his hand, as he often does, and is digging another latrine when Kristoff finds him. The rest of the team has gone to find their dinner. He glances up at the scuff of Kristoff’s foot in the dirt and smiles. It warms Kristoff’s heart. Everyone needs something from him, but Dalton simply seems pleased to see him.
“Come have some dinner,” Kristoff says. “I know you haven’t eaten yet.”
With a grunt, Dalton heaves himself and the shovel out of the pit. He’s covered in mud, although thankfully it looks like he changed out of his bloody clothes. Wiping sweat off his brow, Dalton lets himself be pulled to a log and urged to sit. When Kristoff presses a bowl of stew into his hands, Dalton asks suspiciously, “Did you eat, or did you give away your portion again?”
“You fuss too much,” Kristoff says. Dalton’s unimpressed look deepens into an outright glare. Holding up his hands, Kristoff laughs. “I ate all my portion, you mother hen.”
“You don’t always,” Dalton grumbles.
“Neither do you,” Kristoff says. “I felt you slip extra rations into my coat pocket yesterday morning. You make a terrible pickpocket.”
Dalton shrugs unapologetically and falls on the stew like a man who probably dug ditches and helped set up or take down tents all day. Kristoff is glad that Mrs. Leery put extra in the bowl when she realized it was for Dalton, grumbling about skinny boys working too hard. Dalton’s manners would horrify Kristoff’s governess, but then so would the blood under Kristoff’s nails.
When Dalton pauses for a breath, he asks, “Is your tent up yet?”
“Squarely between Zotra and Rakela’s,” Kristoff says. “I didn’t see yours.”
“Well,” Dalton says as he stirs the remains of his stew. “I was thinking I’d sleep in yours tonight.”
Startled, Kristoff instinctively falls back on his court training. “I beg your pardon?”
“By the door,” Dalton says. “I’m not asking to share your cot.”
The mental image of Dalton in his bed strikes Kristoff hard for reasons he can’t (won't) put his finger on. No time to ponder it. He pushes it away. “And why are you sleeping in my tent?”
“Assassins,” Dalton says. “You could have died.”
“Ah,” Kristoff says. He takes Dalton in and finds the quiet signs of strain: a tightness around his eyes and mouth, the slightest unsteadiness in his hands as he stirs, the way he’s gripping his spoon too tight.
“I can sleep outside in front of the tent if you want, but that won’t help if they don’t actually use the door,” Dalton says.
“Guarding me isn’t your job,” Kristoff says.
“You don’t pay me,” Dalton agrees. “But I am… I was a paladin. Killing people is what we're for.”
Kristoff lays a hand on his wrist, and the slight jittering of Dalton's hand goes still. “You're meant for more than that.”
“Protecting people,” Dalton says, like an uncertain pupil trying to guess the right answer.
“Better, but no,” Kristoff says. He withdraws his hand. “I think people, paladins included, are meant to live. To be safe and happy.”
“You're an idealist,” Dalton says. “No wonder people keep trying to kill you.”
“So my advisors tell me,” Kristoff says. “Where will you sleep if I tell you no?”
Dalton considers. “Nearby. Didn’t you have guards by your bedroom door in the castle while you slept?”
“By the door, yes, but not inside,” Kristoff says.
“Strange,” Dalton says. “Queen Selene doesn’t sleep, being an elf and all, but she always rests with her two guards nearby for all that she’s a demigod.”
“She’s also at war with several countries at the same time,” Kristoff says.
“There’s that,” Dalton agrees. “Should I have asked to stay in your tent more politely?”
“Probably,” Kristoff says, amused.
“It would have sounded more polite if I had said it in elvish,” Dalton says. “All right, then. Can I sleep in your tent tonight? Or near the door?”
Kristoff can only imagine Zotra’s reaction if she saw Dalton’s bedroll stationed directly outside the door to his tent. “Will you sleep at all if I say no, or will you be pacing the camp and trying to fill in the gaps in our guard rotation?”
“Worrying about me isn’t your job,” Dalton counters. “Would you feel safer with someone there?”
Yes, damn it all, Kristoff would. He can’t shake the memory of waking with the assassin above him, knife raised, or the moment of absolute certainty that he was going to die. He can’t imagine lying down tonight, closing his eyes, and finding any kind of peace with the noise of the camp and the woods around him. Rarely did anyone ask about his feelings of safety or otherwise. He was the rock. He was the people’s thief. He was the leader. Of course he would be fine.
Into his silence, Dalton says, “You could ask your guards to sleep nearer to you if you’d like. Zotra and Rakela would agree. It doesn’t have to be me, but it would be better if someone was close by in case this happens again. If Algot managed this once--”
“Yes,” Kristoff says. “When you’re finished here, bring your bedroll to my tent. I’ll make room for you.”
And he’ll deal with the consequences. Zotra won’t be happy. There will be rumors abounding that Dalton’s sharing his bed. He finds that he doesn’t actually care.
The tension in Dalton eases. He leans back in his makeshift seat and nods, turning back to what’s left of his (now cold) stew. “Thank you.”
Kristoff says, “Let’s hope we’re both being overly paranoid.”
“Is there such a thing?” Dalton asks.
What a sad question. Kristoff tells him, “We won’t always be hunted like this, my friend. Someday you’ll know peace.”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with it.” Dalton scrapes up the last of his stew and stands with the bowl. “I should take this to Mrs. Leery and get back to work. I’ll come to your tent once the ditch is dug.”
And so Kristoff goes to deal with Rakela and Zotra.
His two captains are together in Zotra’s tent, their heads bent together as they page through intelligence gathered from their spies in the capital. Rakela is giving Zotra a sidelong glance from under her eyelashes as Kristoff steps into the tent, her generous mouth curved into a fond smile as Zotra reads on, oblivious as ever. Kristoff clears his throat, and Rakela immediately schools her expression back into her usual cheerful bluster.
“Prince Kristoff!” Rakela says. “Dizzy’s contacts finally got us maps of the layout of Lady Ciere’s manor. You can plot out that little heist you’ve been itching for.”
It’s true, Kristoff has been yearning to steal Ciere’s wealth out from under her since he learned how she’s been starving her tenants for the sake of her jewels and her glittering parties. He takes the maps from Rakela’s hand and offers her a little bow. “I’ll do my best.”
“You always do, your highness,” Rakela says. “So why do you look guilty?”
Zotra looks up from the papers in her hand, her eyes narrowing.
“Guilty is a strong word,” Kristoff says. “Dalton will be sleeping in my tent tonight. Please don’t barge in and kill him.”
Zotra huffs acrid smoke out her nostrils with a disgusted snort. Rakela leans back in her chair and whistles. “I was wondering how long that’d take. Good for you. You deserve to blow off some steam.”
Zotra turns to glare at her. “It’s not good for anyone! Not Kristoff, not the rest of us, not even the Akhiiloran. Princeling, did you even hear a word I said this morning?”
“He’s simply guarding the door,” Kristoff says. “It’s nothing more.”
“Shame,” Rakela muses. “He’s awfully pretty.”
“Think about how this looks, Kristoff,” Zotra says. “Algot’s reigning over Hamlin with an iron fist, the plague is raging, and our only hope is out here sleeping with an Akhiiloran traitor he met a few months ago!”
“Sleeping in the literal sense,” Kristoff says.
“A guard at the door isn’t a bad idea,” Rakela says.
“Then the prince can accept one of our guards,” Zotra says.
“The prince is standing right here,” Kristoff says. “Your guards didn’t volunteer. Dalton did.”
“That doesn’t mean you had to accept,” Zotra says, biting off the words. “How many times must I remind you that he’s dangerous?”
“Let him be dangerous in our favor,” Rakela says. “He’s better trained than the rest of our guards--”
“Trained by the enemy!” Zotra says.
“And we stole him right out of their hands,” Rakela says. “Why not use him?”
“No one is using him!” Kristoff snaps. Both Zotra and Rakela stop and look at him, startled by his ferocity. Hell, he’s a little startled himself. “He’s a person, not some convenient weapon we picked up off the ground. If we forget that, we’re no better than Akhiilor or Algot. He makes his own choices. So do I.”
His captains exchange a look. Rakela shrugs. “Look at him, Z. He’s as stubborn as his father. You won’t change his mind.”
Zotra scoffs. “I can see that. Fine. But when you get back on the throne, we’re going to have a long talk about what exactly you plan to do with him.”
Behind Zotra's back, Rakela gives an encouraging nod.
Despite everything, they still think of it as a foregone conclusion that Kristoff will win the throne. Their unshakeable faith in him makes it difficult to stay angry. He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, and backs towards the door. “Thank you both. I’ll have a plan for the heist tomorrow.”
“You’d better,” Zotra says. “Don’t get distracted.”
“You can get a little distracted,” Rakela says with a wink.
For the sake of his own sanity, Kristoff leaves. The maps are crumpling in his fist. He forces himself to ease his grip. He likes that his people aren’t afraid to question him, damn it; it separates him from Algot and his wild charges of sedition at the slightest criticism. He just wishes his captains wouldn’t see him as a willful teenager with an overly soft heart. He’s twenty-five, for the gods’ sake. Hardly a child.
Speaking of children. Two of the youngest members of their little crew of rebels are sitting on a log as he passes, both of them studying a tent pole with apparent fascination and whispering furiously to each other. One takes an experimental jab with the pole at an imaginary enemy. Kristoff doesn’t try to hide his smile as he asks, “Shouldn’t you two be doing something else with that?”
Both of them jump to their feet. One gives an actual salute. “Sorry, your highness!”
Amused, he says, “At ease. Try not to put your eye out, please.”
The taller of the two, a rangy half-orc girl, says in an undertone, “Did you really get attacked last night, sir?”
“I did,” Kristoff says. “It was handled quickly. I think the rest of you should be safe.”
“Forget that,” the girl’s half-elf companion says. “How do you kill somebody with a tentpole?”
Rather messily, it turns out. Kristoff shrugs. “Ask Dalton.”
“I did,” the boy says. “He told me to stick the pointy end in the other person.”
“Good advice,” Kristoff says mildly. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“We’re glad you didn’t die, sir,” the girl says.
Kristoff clasps her shoulder. She beams with a pride that makes him feel very old and very tired. “As am I.”
“We could go with you on the next heist,” the boy says with unexpected daring. The girl swats him upside the back of the head. Rubbing the sore spot, he adds, “Sir.”
“I need people with sharp eyes in the camp, I’m afraid,” Kristoff says. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” they chorus.
“Good,” Kristoff says. “Thank you. Good luck with the tent. Please don’t accidentally stab each other.”
He retreats to his own tent feeling approximately a thousand years old. Patches of mud suck at his boots. They gave him the driest spot in camp, a kindness that still makes him feel rather guilty. He pulls the tent flap open, checking for the thin silver wire wound into the tent’s fabric to create a spell that conceals every sound within the tent unless he wills it otherwise. He's so distracted by ensuring it's intact that he nearly collides with Dalton, who's quietly standing to one side of the door.
“By the Mother,” Kristoff says, putting a hand to his chest. “I need to put a bell on you.”
Dalton tilts his head. “That’d make heists hard.”
“No, it’s a saying in Hamlin.” Kristoff steps around him, headed for his desk, and puts the crumpled maps down so that he can smooth them over. “It means that you have the Mother’s blessing of being sneaky as hell.”
Dalton’s mouth gives a wry twist, as if he doubts that the Mother would ever bless him, but he doesn’t protest. “Thank you. Or I’m sorry. Whichever one is appropriate.”
“No need to apologize,” Kristoff says. “I’m afraid my nerves are still wound rather tight.”
“Mine as well,” Dalton says. “Thank you again for letting me stay with you tonight. I’ve no doubt that Zotra gave you hell for it.”
“I can handle Zotra’s disapproval,” Kristoff says. “I face it at least once a day, particularly when I’m planning a heist. This hardly signifies. Do you need fresh clothes?”
Dalton looks down at himself, still caked with mud, and looks a little sheepish. He nudges his slender pack with the toe of his boot. “Dizzy provides. Dunno if I want to know where they got them from, but there’s clothes. You want me to find somewhere else to change?”
“Hardly necessary,” Kristoff says. There’s precious little room for modesty in a traveling refugee camp. “Unless it bothers you.”
Dalton shrugs and starts untying the closure of his shirt, which is answer enough. Kristoff politely turns away and directs his attention to the maps, trying to remember what his tutors told him of the areas between this camp and the estate. With Algot watching, it’s better to be subtle. They’ll travel light and with as few people as possible. Ones he can trust to handle themselves quickly and quietly should it come to a fight.
Kristoff turns from his work to glance at Dalton. He doesn't realize how much of a critical error in judgment that is until he sees Dalton's naked back.
There are scars. Unsurprising, given the life that Dalton has lived, but Kristoff wasn’t prepared for the marks across his shoulders and upper back. He recognizes the pattern from the survivors of Algot’s wrath; Dalton was flogged. More than once, by the look of it.
For all that horror chokes Kristoff's throat tight, it's tangled up with another emotion. When they found Dalton collapsed on the border of their camp, the healers were sure that he was going to die. It wasn't just the festering gut wound. He'd been dehydrated, half-starved, and filthy. A withered husk of a man. It had taken real work to get him back to the land of the living. Somehow, in the months since Dalton decided to stay, Kristoff hadn't quite realized how well he'd recovered. He looks…
Dalton is changing out of the day's clothes, his muddy pants already replaced with clean ones. He hasn't had a chance to wash the blood off his skin; he's streaked with flaking bits of it. Absently, he's trying to scrub it off his stomach with his crumpled shirt. He's all lean muscle carved over years of training, his pale skin etched with scars whose stories Kristoff doesn't know. The scar on his stomach where he was impaled with his captain's sword is vicious, though it looks years older than it is. His pants have slipped a little lower on his narrow hips. The sharp line of his hipbone is--
Kristoff realizes he's staring and forces himself to look away. It’s good to know that Dalton has recovered so well, of course. Should Dizzy catch Kristoff gawking at Dalton so rudely, they’d have no end of things to say. Same for Zotra and Rakela. Same for the rest of the camp.
In the months that he’s been here, Dalton has shown no inclination to have sex with anyone of any gender; despite being an Akhiiloran, he’s caught the eye of several people, but he’s either oblivious or deliberately ignoring any attempts to coax him into their bedroll. Yes, he watches Kristoff with an unnerving intensity sometimes, but Dalton is unnervingly intense about a lot of things. Paladins usually are, oathbreakers or not.
Dalton is loyal, that’s all. Protective. He's become a true friend, and those are precious when one is a prince.
“There’s a basin of water if you want to wash the blood off,” Kristoff says, staring very hard at the table. “The basin refills. It’s no trouble.”
“Thank you,” Dalton says. He crosses behind Kristoff, coming so close that Kristoff imagines he can feel the heat of Dalton’s body. The tent seems very cramped, suddenly. There’s a splash, and Dalton makes a pleased noise. “It’s warm.”
“I stole it from a noble’s mansion last week,” Kristoff says. “Lord Ainsley, if you recall, since you were on that mission. I never liked him, but the man knew how to live comfortably.”
“All your nobles tend to run together after a while,” Dalton says.
“I could take offense to that, but that’s exactly what I said when my father was trying to teach me about our government,” Kristoff says. “Of course, I was seven at the time.”
Dalton laughs, a rare sound that makes Kristoff smile in response. Before he can try to get another one, the door to his tent abruptly jerks open. He and Dalton both draw steel, but it’s only Dizzy in the doorway.
If their brush with death bothers Dizzy, it doesn’t show. They look at Dalton and grin like a feral creature, waggling their eyebrows for good measure. “May the Bastard smile on us, Dalton lost his shirt. Y’know, I hear some paladins like to do their sword practice naked. You ever tried that? I think the whole camp would enjoy it.”
“It’s a good way to cut your cock off,” Dalton says sourly. Kristoff barely manages not to give himself whiplash turning to stare at him, caught by the way the word ‘cock’ rolls off Dalton’s tongue. Dalton notices and winces. “Apologies, your highness.”
“None needed,” Kristoff says faintly. He clears his throat. “I’ve been around soldiers. I’ve heard it all. And don’t call me your highness. Did you need something, Dizzy?”
“Yes, I need Dalton to swear forever,” Dizzy says, delighted. “We’ll go through all the profanity, and then we’ll do it in elvish.”
“Dizzy,” Kristoff says.
“Ugh, fine.” Dizzy flounces over to Kristoff’s bed and sits down without an invitation. “I have a list of the towns that got hit by the taxmen and need us to swing through with food and clerics.”
Dalton grabs a new shirt and pulls it on over his head. “I’ll step outside.”
“Stay,” Kristoff says. “It’s not sensitive information. Besides, I trust you.”
Dalton’s eyes go very wide; it's an unexpectedly vulnerable look for someone who killed an assassin with a tentpole this morning. Dizzy looks between them, dangerously interested, and seems to come to several wrong conclusions. They raise their eyebrows and smirk. “Am I interrupting something, gentlemen?”
“No,” Dalton and Kristoff tell them simultaneously. Kristoff clears his throat and adds, “Give your report.”
Dizzy lists off a string of a dozen towns and villages. Algot has been busy, damn him, and Kristoff recognizes most of the names as destitute estates run by negligent nobles. They have nothing to spare already. Algot is choosing them out of pure cruelty, trying to draw Kristoff out of the woodwork. Well, it’s working. Kristoff can’t not respond. Unfortunately, everyone is too exhausted to start tonight. Tomorrow they’ll start working their way through the list. For tonight…
“If anyone feels up to hunting for deer or rabbit, send them out with my thanks,” Kristoff says. He drags a tired hand over his face. “I should join them.”
“Or you could sleep while you’ve got the chance,” Dalton says.
“He’s got a point,” Dizzy says. They tumble off the bed and bounce to their feet. “We need you, oh people’s thief. Don’t work yourself into an early grave. Dalton’s already dug a shithole today, he doesn't need any more blisters. I'll go babysit the hunters in your stead.”
“What did the hunters do to deserve that?” Dalton deadpans.
“A joke!” Dizzy says. “Let's get you a cap with bells on it, since you're determined to steal my job.”
“Maybe you should try being funny,” Dalton says.
“You wouldn't know funny if it bit you,” Dizzy says.
“Thank you for the report, Dizzy,” Kristoff says pointedly.
“Yes, yes,” Dizzy says, waving him off. “I'll let you two get back to whatever the hell it is you were doing.”
“Be careful,” Dalton says.
Dizzy makes a rude gesture over their shoulder as they slip out of the tent. As soon as they’re gone, Kristoff turns to Dalton and says, “I didn't know you were friends.”
“We're not,” Dalton says. A pause. “Dizzy’s not afraid of me.”
Kristoff thinks of Dalton with the youngest folk in the camp, as patient as can be as he walks them through how to wield a sword properly. He thinks of Dalton peeling potatoes for Mrs. Leery when her arthritis is bothering her and carrying Dizzy back to camp when they were injured in a raid.
Kristoff doesn’t know the whole of what Dalton did in service of Akhiilor. He’s gotten a few details, with Dalton haltingly confessing that he killed several clerics of the Mother and Father on his captain’s orders because he was told they were enemies of Gwyr. Said clerics eliminated the rest of his party, leaving him alone with the captain he eventually killed. There’s blood on his hands that won’t wash away. Saving one cleric from death doesn’t undo that. It would be foolish to say that there’s nothing to fear from Dalton. People watch him like he might be rabid, but Kristoff is fairly sure that in this camp the person most afraid of Dalton is Dalton himself.
“Dizzy isn’t afraid of much,” Kristoff agrees.
Dalton looks at him sidelong, his smile wry. “Neither are you. Stealing from the rich, thwarting your brother, taking in stray Akhiiloran wolves.”
“I never claimed to be wise,” Kristoff says.
“You are,” Dalton says.
Kristoff has heard a lot of pretty flattery since he was old enough to understand words. Unlike all of that, Dalton’s words are simple. It shouldn’t strike him as hard as it does. He smiles. “Wolves, hm? You were eavesdropping.”
“Zotra’s voice carries,” Dalton says. “She’s not wrong.”
“She’s not right either,” Kristoff says. “Wolves aren’t evil creatures. They do what they must to survive, just as we do.”
“I always thought that Akhiilor did what it must,” Dalton says. “That’s what they told us. We were heroes. We were better. More civilized. We were bringing Gwyr’s light to people that needed us. Then I saw that the light was from all the temples we burned. We’re not wolves. Wolves are better.”
“And yet you broke your oath when you saw the truth,” Kristoff says.
“Too late,” Dalton says.
Fiercely, Kristoff tells him, “No. It’s never too late.”
Dalton tilts his head, apparently caught off-guard. He searches Kristoff’s face. Kristoff holds his eyes, unblinking, until Dalton is the one to glance away.
“We could argue philosophy all night and get nowhere,” Dalton says.
“Sounds like fun,” Kristoff says. “Add in a little devil’s weed and we could have an excellent time.”
One corner of Dalton’s mouth quirks. “I’ve never tried it.”
Kristoff isn’t surprised. He tries to imagine Dalton after smoking devil’s weed, all hazy-eyed and relaxed for once. It's a lovely thought, but he doubts he'll ever see it. Dalton is too wary to let his guard down like that, aside from the occasional drink to take the edge off. Maybe someday, when they survive this.
“I was a hedonistic youth,” Kristoff says. Until his father died, Algot inherited, and everything went to hell. He spent a lot of time in various salons expounding on all the radical changes that needed to be made to their government. If he wasn't a prince, he probably would have been arrested for sedition. “Quite a scoundrel, in fact.”
“You’re still a scoundrel,” Dalton says. “You’re plotting a heist.”
“I certainly should be.” Kristoff pinches the bridge of his nose. His eyes are burning with fatigue. “I should be doing a lot of things. If only there were two of me.”
“The world couldn’t handle two of you,” Dalton says. He sounds fond.
Kristoff gives up on his maps. He’s too weary to come up with a good plan of attack; he’ll only have to redo all his work in the morning. “I should do the sensible thing and sleep while I can. I need to change out of these clothes.”
Since Dalton had no sense of modesty, which was probably out of the question when one lived in the barracks or out in the field, Kristoff decides to return the favor. When he begins to undo his leather armor, Dalton politely turns away.
(Was there a moment of hesitation? Certainly not.)
Dalton sits on his bedroll and takes out his blade from its sheath. As Kristoff undresses, Dalton begins to tend to his sword with a weathered whetstone. Kristoff can only imagine what ridiculous innuendo Dizzy would spew if they could see this now.
In the unsteady light of the tent’s single lamp as it dances over the steel blade, Kristoff notices for the first time that there is something scratched into the crossguard of the sword. It seems to be written in elvish script. Kristoff learned elvish from his tutors, of course, but he can hardly peer over Dalton’s shoulder while he’s in the middle of taking his pants off.
“What is that written on your crossguard?” Kristoff asks.
Dalton’s shoulders tense, and he pauses in the middle of drawing the whetstone along the blade. After a moment, he sighs. “Naitya.”
Kristoff stares at Dalton’s back and finds no answers there. “To bring shame?”
“Yes,” Dalton says.
“When did you carve that into the blade?”
“As soon as you trusted me enough to give my sword back to me.” Dalton turns the blade in his hand, his pale face reflected in its scarred surface for a moment. “It was my mother’s, back when she first enlisted. She has a better one now, of course.”
“Your mother,” Kristoff says slowly. “She’s a soldier?”
“She’s the queen’s second-in-command,” Dalton says in a carefully neutral tone. “Lutiniel Valrieth.”
And oh, Kristoff knows that name well. Selene’s counselor, a terrifying warrior responsible for carving through Marchen’s armies until she abruptly disappeared for nine years after a campaign in Hamlin. Everyone wondered why Lutiniel went quiet for so long before she came roaring back with a new fury. Kristoff is looking at the reason now. Nine years is long enough to hide a pregnancy and the raising of a scandalous half-elf child. Then the child would be drafted into Akhiilor’s forces at eight like the rest of the half-elves and become nobody’s son. It was neatly done.
“You never told me,” Kristoff says, trying not to make it sound like an accusation even though the evasion stings.
“No,” Dalton says. “I didn’t know how. I should have. I’m sorry.”
The worst part is that Kristoff can understand exactly why Dalton didn’t tell him. His very existence is a political timebomb. If the people of Akhiilor found out that the queen’s second-in-command was a hypocrite who bore a half-elf child, a child that was possibly even conceived with a human from Marchen, then it might destabilize them long enough to spare Marchen a few months of being attacked. If Akhiilor is weakened, the people of Hamlin might be more willing to turn on Algot. At the very least they won't be facing attacks on multiple fronts. Moreover, the council of regents is more likely to back Kristoff if he brings them this information to use.
All Kristoff has to do is tie Dalton to the altar like a sacrificial lamb. Akhiilor probably doesn’t know he’s still alive, nor do they know that he turned on them, but they’ll come hunting for him to silence the rumors. Marchen’s people will be no kinder. Lutiniel made her share of enemies, and they won’t forgive her son even if he is half-human. He’s caught between both sides and they’ll tear him to pieces if Kristoff lets them.
“Tell Zotra and Rakela,” Dalton says. His shoulders are hunched like a man waiting at the gallows. “They should know. They can use it.”
And damn it all, Kristoff makes the only decision that he can. “The secret will be buried with me.”
Dalton twitches, his head whipping around so that he can stare at Kristoff properly. “But--”
“No,” Kristoff says simply.
For another long moment, Dalton just looks at him. He seems unutterably tired. He nods at the sword. “Do you know why she gave me this?”
“To kill us all with, presumably,” Kristoff says.
“The last order my mother gave to me was to assassinate you,” Dalton says. “I was supposed to serve my time, rise up through the ranks, and get strong enough to put your whole family in the ground. The children too. I knew your name before I knew my own father’s. I was a weapon aimed at your heart. You owe me nothing. If I can be of use, then use me.”
“You saved my life,” Kristoff says. “You want to sleep in my tent to keep me safe.”
“I lied to you,” Dalton says. “Zotra is right about me. You shouldn’t trust me so easily.”
Kristoff takes a step towards him. Dalton goes still and watchful. Kristoff draws his shirt to one side, baring his heart, and says, “Then do as your duty if you’d like. This is your chance. I’m right here.”
Dalton drags in an unsteady breath. He looks pale in the lantern light, his eyes wide and luminous. Kristoff wants to touch him, to push the stray hair out of his eyes, which is a strange passing thought to have in this moment. He stands his ground and waits.
Finally, Dalton shakes his head and looks away. “Dramatic, your highness.”
“Effective,” Kristoff says. “I could get you a new sword.”
“It’s a reminder.” Dalton lowers the sword to his lap and applies the whetstone again. His hands are slightly unsteady. “Thank you, though.”
Kristoff doubts that Dalton truly needs a reminder of the guilt that he’s carrying or the blood in his veins, but he’s not going to win that argument. So he skims out of his pants and replaces them with a pair made of loose cotton. After last night, he rather wishes he could sleep in his armor, but that’s a recipe for waking up still exhausted. He normally sleeps in only pants and a holy symbol, and he debates for a moment as to whether to put on a shirt, but it’ll only add to the laundry that needs doing. Besides, Dalton saw him shirtless this morning when he rushed in to kill the assassin. There’s no shame in it.
“I don’t have much information about Lutiniel or Selene,” Dalton says. “Nothing recent, anyway. I was never in the castle, and I only met the queen once. But I can tell you what little I do know, if you want. Just tell Zotra I was the child of a half-elf castle servant.”
“It seems cruel to ask you to inform on your mother,” Kristoff says.
“She stopped being my mother when I broke my oaths,” Dalton says. “I’m a traitor. I failed her. She’d kill me without hesitating.”
Kristoff thinks of his own mother, her stern eyes and her kind hands, long gone now. She would have done anything to keep him or Algot safe; she would have shed any amount of blood, her own or someone else’s. It’s hard to imagine that Dalton’s mother would turn her back on him so easily, but nothing he’s ever heard about Lutiniel made her sound like she had a heart.
“Let me think on it,” Kristoff says. Dalton inclines his head, baring the nape of his neck, and Kristoff has the mad passing urge to touch him there. To comfort him. “Thank you for the offer.”
“After everything you’ve done for me--”
“Dalton,” Kristoff says, cutting him off. “Don't. It's nothing.”
Dalton subsides, but not as if he believes it.
“I usually pray before sleeping,” Kristoff says. “Do you mind?”
“No.” Dalton shifts his weight, drawing a leg up as if to stand. “Do you want privacy?”
“No need,” Kristoff says. “I’ll only be a moment.”
He takes up the lantern and kneels with it beside his cot. The woven mat protects his knees from the worst of the ground's chill. He stares into the lantern's warm, flickering light and tries to think of midsummer. Bonfires and the clash of swords. Healing. Laughter.
“Father,” he murmurs. “Keep Anja and Emil in your light. Guide my way so that I know how to help my people. Show Algot the truth of what he's doing so that he may see reason.”
At one point, Kristoff would have said that last bit with a great deal more hope. These days it's mostly because not saying it would feel like giving up. He continues asking the Father to try to reach Algot out of pure stubbornness at this point. As Kristoff told Dalton, he refuses to think it's too late for anyone, but he's not a fool. He's seen the gallows his brother mounted in the castle courtyard. Even if Algot suddenly developed a conscience, he would have to face the consequences for what he's done.
“Thank you,” Kristoff concludes.
He speaks the command word, quenching the lantern's flame, and the tent plunges into darkness. The steady scrape of whetstone against blade doesn't falter. Dalton can see perfectly well in the dark, unlike Kristoff.
Setting the lantern down, Kristoff folds his hands in his lap and closes his eyes. The darkness behind his closed lids is complete. He thinks of midwinter. Nights beneath the new moon. The stillness of death. The peace of dreamless sleep.
“Mother,” Kristoff says. “Let us walk in your darkness and out of sight of Algot’s men. May those that he’s killed find peace in your arms. Grant me your blessing of silence for the next heist so that I can steal back what was taken. Thank you.”
There is only silence from both of them, of course. Kristoff is no cleric or paladin. But he likes to imagine that the silence is that of listening rather than being ignored. It brings him peace and steadies his mind to pray every night, the way he has since he was a child, so he’d probably continue it whether they were listening or not.
Kristoff gets off his knees and returns the lamp to his desk. With that done, he pulls back the blankets from his cot and climbs into bed. The creak of it beneath his weight seems very loud as he makes himself comfortable. There is a question on his mind, one that he has no right to ask, but curiosity drives him. He can’t make peace with Akhiilor if he doesn’t understand them. “Dalton, may I ask you something?”
“Of course,” Dalton says.
“Did you ever pray to Gwyr?”
The whetstone stops again. The silence that follows is so profound that Kristoff kicks himself for asking. But when Dalton speaks, he doesn’t sound like the question pained him. “Not like that, no.”
Interesting. Kristoff rolls towards him, studying the shape of Dalton in the dim light. “How did you pray, then?”
“Gwyr doesn’t want words. They like it when you do something,” Dalton says. “Making art or music. Cooking. Dancing. Smithing.”
“That’s lovely,” Kristoff says, startled. In all his education about the elflands, he never heard such a thing. He knew Gwyr was a creator god, but the details of their worship never came up.
“It can be,” Dalton says. He sheathes his sword and sets it aside. “Most of the poetry was awful.”
Kristoff laughs. “Not a poetry fan, I take it. What did you do as an offering?”
“Swordwork,” Dalton says. “I used to sing sometimes when I was too little to pick up a weapon.”
“Truly?” Kristoff’s heart twinges at the mental image of Dalton at Emil’s age, singing in the shamelessly enthusiastic way of children. “I didn’t know you sang.”
“Not well,” Dalton says. “And I’m not nearly drunk enough, so don’t ask.”
“More’s the pity,” Kristoff says with a grin. “Won’t you soothe me to sleep?”
“There’s nothing soothing about it,” Dalton grumbles. “I sound like a cat being strangled. If you want a bard, talk to Dizzy.”
“You’re far more restful than Dizzy,” Kristoff says.
“So is getting a foot sawed off,” Dalton says.
Cloth rustles as Dalton, only a dim shape in the shadows, pulls up the corner of his bedroll and climbs inside. Kristoff thinks of the ground's bitter chill and offers, “There are extra blankets if you'd like.”
“I've slept rougher than this.” Dalton rolls to face Kristoff, pale in the darkness, and says, “I may have nightmares. I’m usually quiet about it. Don’t try to touch me. I’ve never come up swinging before, but it’s better to be safe. Feel free to throw something at me, though.”
“Why in the name of the Mother would I throw something at you?” Kristoff asks.
“If I get loud,” Dalton says.
“Dalton,” Kristoff says. “I’m not going to throw things at you even if you wake me. It's unkind.”
A puzzled pause. “Is it? We used to do it all the time in the barracks.”
Gods. Kristoff says, “Yes. I won’t be unkind to you.”
“I know,” Dalton says, and the simple puzzled surety in that word chokes Kristoff’s throat tight for a moment. He has no words. He’s been handed something precious, Dalton’s loyalty, and he doesn’t trust his own clumsy hands with it. “Sleep, your highness. If anyone comes for you, they’ll have to get through me first.”
“I know,” Kristoff echoes, smiling. “Good night.”
He expects it to be strange to sleep with someone else in his tent. He hasn’t dallied with anyone since before Algot turned on him, and even then, he didn’t stay the night. He’s not used to anyone being so close to him. With the usual chaos of the camp, he can’t hear Dalton breathing or shifting around. But he’s aware of Dalton within reach, a sentinel in the dark, and it isn’t strange at all.
***
It starts as a joke.
Word gets around the camp that Dalton’s sleeping in Kristoff’s tent. As Kristoff expected, most people seem to assume at first that they’re having sex. Kristoff gets a few thumps on the back and knowing winks, but he receives more wary and curious stares. The looks that Dalton gets are searingly resentful, and he’s assigned latrine duty almost constantly now. He bears it without complaint and advises Kristoff to leave it be.
Then it somehow becomes public knowledge that Dalton isn’t sharing his bed after all. Kristoff suspects Dizzy had a hand in that, but he’s not sure it’s an improvement that people start whispering the rumor that Dalton sleeps at the foot of his bed. Like a hound, they say, and they laugh but it’s uneasy.
A joke. An insult. But as the months pass and Dalton kills another man on a raid to save Kristoff’s life, then another, it becomes something else. Kristoff’s hound, they call him, and there’s something like wary respect in the name. Even Zotra stops complaining when Dalton rides at Kristoff’s back, though the distrust never leaves her eyes.
“Does it bother you?” Kristoff asks him one night after Rakela congratulates ‘the hound’ for another raid without casualties.
Idly cleaning a guard’s blood off his sword, blood that he spilled to save Kristoff from a crossbow bolt in the back, Dalton says, “Why would it bother me?”
“You’re not a damned dog,” Kristoff says.
Dalton shrugs. “Is it such a terrible thing to be the king’s hound?”
And at the sound of it, Kristoff’s heart thumps hard against his ribs. Rubbing at his chest, he says, “You belong to yourself, my friend. Always.”
“I know, your highness,” Dalton says with a bittersweet little smile. “Don’t worry about it.”
Kristoff walks away feeling like he's missing something important.
There is a council of Kristoff’s guards. For once, Dalton is invited.
They sit in a circle around the fire. It’s a few hours before dawn, and Mother Night has them fully in her grasp. Shadows dance across grim faces as one of the Father's clerics heals the defensive wound on Kristoff’s forearm where the assassin nearly managed to stab him in his sleep. Dalton is still liberally splattered with drying blood, although at least he seems to have wiped it off his face.
“Killed an assassin with a fucking tent pole,” says Rakela Bonehand, breaking the silence with her usual cheer. She slaps Dalton hard on the back, nearly knocking him to the ground with the force of her enthusiasm for all that she’s half his height. Dalton almost smiles. “Good job, lad. You got there faster than any of us.”
“Of course he did,” Zotra says sourly. Steam spills from her nostrils despite the late spring warmth. “He’s the prince’s shadow. Or did you know the assassin was coming?”
“Captain,” Kristoff warns. “He saved my life.”
At least his hands have stopped trembling. It was a near miss. Kristoff had woken at the last moment to a shadow looming above him, a knife in hand. He had barely gotten his arm up in time to block her. If the assassin had poisoned her blade, he’d be dead. He had cried for help, and Dalton came tearing through the door what felt like a fraction of a second later. Kristoff hadn’t seen the fight in the dark, but it didn’t last long. Before he managed to grab his sword and get off his cot, it was done.
Kristoff thought himself a fair hand with a weapon, but killing a trained assassin with a tent pole? Ridiculous. He’d dragged Dalton into the firelight outside the tent, certain he was wounded, but there wasn’t a scratch on him. Dalton has stayed very close ever since. Even if he hadn't been invited to the meeting, Dalton might have crashed it.
(In truth, Kristoff didn’t really want to be out of Dalton’s sight.)
Dalton says, “I couldn’t sleep. If one of you wants to cast a truth spell, I’ll be happy to tell you I had nothing to do with it.”
“That’d be an unnecessary waste of resources,” Kristoff says. “I believe you.”
Dalton eyes Zotra. “The question is where were the rest of you?”
Zotra surges to her feet. “Don’t you dare--”
“Dalton,” Kristoff says, reaching out to clasp his shoulder. When Dalton subsides, he nods to Zotra. Reluctantly, she sits. “Captain. We can’t afford to be at each other’s throats. Yes, there was a lapse in security, but becoming paranoid won’t help.”
“I don’t know how they found us in the first place,” frets the court mage. “We should have been hidden from scrying. We’ll have to move again.”
“I’ve already got folks pulling up tents,” Rakela says. “You just worry about finding us a new spot. When we get there, we’ll increase guard rotations at night. Our prince will be safe as can be, at least until he pulls some damn fool stunt when he’s out thieving.”
“I never pull damn fool stunts,” Kristoff says. The entire council makes collective sounds of derision. Dalton stays stone-faced, but Kristoff sees his sidelong dubious look. “Well, I don’t!”
“You thought he was safe before,” Dalton says.
Zotra grimaces. Rakela gives Dalton another thump between the shoulder blades. “I’ll put the fear of the Father into the guards, don’t you fret. And me and Zotra will keep close. We’ll put better wards up. We’ll move more often. This won’t happen again.”
“How close will you be keeping?” Dalton asks.
“We’ll put our tents to either side of his,” Zotra says. “Leave it, boy. This isn’t your concern.”
A furrow appears between Dalton’s brow before easing. He nods and abruptly stands. “I’ll go help break up camp, then.”
That was easy. Too easy. The council continues for a while, discussing new guard rotations and the next place they should move, but Kristoff’s mind wanders between the memory of the assassin kneeling above him and the glint of trouble in Dalton’s eye when Zotra told him to leave it alone.
Eventually, the council breaks up as they all return to their duties. Kristoff rises, brushing dirt off his weathered clothes, and discovers a spray of blood on his stomach. He can’t tell if it’s his own.
“Your highness,” Zotra says. Her scaled hands are folded in her lap, fingers clasped tightly together. “A moment of your time.”
Damn it all. Kristoff stops midstep and turns back to her. “Of course, captain. You know I welcome your counsel even if I don’t always agree with it.”
Zotra snorts. “Pretty words, princeling, but I doubt you’ll hear what I have to say.”
“Try me,” Kristoff says. He can’t object to being called a princeling when Zotra was the head of his father’s guard and saw him grow from infancy. He respects her counsel and follows it in most cases, but she served in Hamlin’s army when they were at open war with Akhiilor. She would raze Akhiilor’s crystal spires to the ground if she could. “I appreciate people who tell me when I’m being an ass.”
“Not an ass, perhaps, but a fool.” Zotra reaches into the pocket of her coat and retrieves a bag of herbs and some rolling paper. There’s almost no herbs left, so she saves them for special occasions like being unnecessarily dramatic. As she uses the stump beside her as a makeshift table, she says, “I have a story for you.”
“I’m listening,” Kristoff says, lowering himself back down to sit on a log.
Zotra grunts. “I knew a man once. A farmer. He was out walking the fields one night, and he came upon a dead wolf and her cubs. Most of the little ones had frozen to death, but there was one pup left. Still a tiny thing, eyes closed, squeaking for its mama. His heart was moved to pity. He brought the pup home and nursed it with sheep’s milk. It’s a miracle the damn thing survived, but it did. Grew up big and strong, too. No mistaking that it was a wolf. It was nearly the size of a horse. But he loved it. That wolf followed him around like any dog, staring up at him with big soft eyes.”
“I see where you’re going with this,” Kristoff says flatly.
“Do you?” Zotra deadpans. She turns her head and lights the rolled cigarette with a puff of fire breath, then takes a drag. “Because he mistook that wolf for any old dog, and one night that creature started killing. Took out most of his flock, and when the farmer tried to stop him, well, that creature killed him too.”
“Dalton’s not an animal,” Kristoff says. “He saved my life.”
“By killing a man,” Zotra says. “Gods only know how many he killed before you found him. These Akhiilorans, they’re good at that. Don’t make a pet of a wolf, your highness. You can’t control him.”
“Enough.” Kristoff stands, brushing himself off. “Your objections are noted. I’ll take them under advisement.”
“No, you won’t,” Zotra says with a bitter laugh. “So be it. I tried.”
Kristoff walks away seething.
***
It’s not until they’ve slogged through what feels like a sea of mud and found the next camp that Kristoff realizes what Dalton has been plotting. He’s been rather quiet all day, keeping his distance, but Kristoff keeps feeling Dalton’s eyes on him and turning to find himself being watched. It’s slightly unnerving, but that’s Dalton for you. Unfortunately, Kristoff’s in high demand today and he can’t slip away to go check on him until evening.
Dalton has a shovel in his hand, as he often does, and is digging another latrine when Kristoff finds him. The rest of the team has gone to find their dinner. He glances up at the scuff of Kristoff’s foot in the dirt and smiles. It warms Kristoff’s heart. Everyone needs something from him, but Dalton simply seems pleased to see him.
“Come have some dinner,” Kristoff says. “I know you haven’t eaten yet.”
With a grunt, Dalton heaves himself and the shovel out of the pit. He’s covered in mud, although thankfully it looks like he changed out of his bloody clothes. Wiping sweat off his brow, Dalton lets himself be pulled to a log and urged to sit. When Kristoff presses a bowl of stew into his hands, Dalton asks suspiciously, “Did you eat, or did you give away your portion again?”
“You fuss too much,” Kristoff says. Dalton’s unimpressed look deepens into an outright glare. Holding up his hands, Kristoff laughs. “I ate all my portion, you mother hen.”
“You don’t always,” Dalton grumbles.
“Neither do you,” Kristoff says. “I felt you slip extra rations into my coat pocket yesterday morning. You make a terrible pickpocket.”
Dalton shrugs unapologetically and falls on the stew like a man who probably dug ditches and helped set up or take down tents all day. Kristoff is glad that Mrs. Leery put extra in the bowl when she realized it was for Dalton, grumbling about skinny boys working too hard. Dalton’s manners would horrify Kristoff’s governess, but then so would the blood under Kristoff’s nails.
When Dalton pauses for a breath, he asks, “Is your tent up yet?”
“Squarely between Zotra and Rakela’s,” Kristoff says. “I didn’t see yours.”
“Well,” Dalton says as he stirs the remains of his stew. “I was thinking I’d sleep in yours tonight.”
Startled, Kristoff instinctively falls back on his court training. “I beg your pardon?”
“By the door,” Dalton says. “I’m not asking to share your cot.”
The mental image of Dalton in his bed strikes Kristoff hard for reasons he can’t (won't) put his finger on. No time to ponder it. He pushes it away. “And why are you sleeping in my tent?”
“Assassins,” Dalton says. “You could have died.”
“Ah,” Kristoff says. He takes Dalton in and finds the quiet signs of strain: a tightness around his eyes and mouth, the slightest unsteadiness in his hands as he stirs, the way he’s gripping his spoon too tight.
“I can sleep outside in front of the tent if you want, but that won’t help if they don’t actually use the door,” Dalton says.
“Guarding me isn’t your job,” Kristoff says.
“You don’t pay me,” Dalton agrees. “But I am… I was a paladin. Killing people is what we're for.”
Kristoff lays a hand on his wrist, and the slight jittering of Dalton's hand goes still. “You're meant for more than that.”
“Protecting people,” Dalton says, like an uncertain pupil trying to guess the right answer.
“Better, but no,” Kristoff says. He withdraws his hand. “I think people, paladins included, are meant to live. To be safe and happy.”
“You're an idealist,” Dalton says. “No wonder people keep trying to kill you.”
“So my advisors tell me,” Kristoff says. “Where will you sleep if I tell you no?”
Dalton considers. “Nearby. Didn’t you have guards by your bedroom door in the castle while you slept?”
“By the door, yes, but not inside,” Kristoff says.
“Strange,” Dalton says. “Queen Selene doesn’t sleep, being an elf and all, but she always rests with her two guards nearby for all that she’s a demigod.”
“She’s also at war with several countries at the same time,” Kristoff says.
“There’s that,” Dalton agrees. “Should I have asked to stay in your tent more politely?”
“Probably,” Kristoff says, amused.
“It would have sounded more polite if I had said it in elvish,” Dalton says. “All right, then. Can I sleep in your tent tonight? Or near the door?”
Kristoff can only imagine Zotra’s reaction if she saw Dalton’s bedroll stationed directly outside the door to his tent. “Will you sleep at all if I say no, or will you be pacing the camp and trying to fill in the gaps in our guard rotation?”
“Worrying about me isn’t your job,” Dalton counters. “Would you feel safer with someone there?”
Yes, damn it all, Kristoff would. He can’t shake the memory of waking with the assassin above him, knife raised, or the moment of absolute certainty that he was going to die. He can’t imagine lying down tonight, closing his eyes, and finding any kind of peace with the noise of the camp and the woods around him. Rarely did anyone ask about his feelings of safety or otherwise. He was the rock. He was the people’s thief. He was the leader. Of course he would be fine.
Into his silence, Dalton says, “You could ask your guards to sleep nearer to you if you’d like. Zotra and Rakela would agree. It doesn’t have to be me, but it would be better if someone was close by in case this happens again. If Algot managed this once--”
“Yes,” Kristoff says. “When you’re finished here, bring your bedroll to my tent. I’ll make room for you.”
And he’ll deal with the consequences. Zotra won’t be happy. There will be rumors abounding that Dalton’s sharing his bed. He finds that he doesn’t actually care.
The tension in Dalton eases. He leans back in his makeshift seat and nods, turning back to what’s left of his (now cold) stew. “Thank you.”
Kristoff says, “Let’s hope we’re both being overly paranoid.”
“Is there such a thing?” Dalton asks.
What a sad question. Kristoff tells him, “We won’t always be hunted like this, my friend. Someday you’ll know peace.”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with it.” Dalton scrapes up the last of his stew and stands with the bowl. “I should take this to Mrs. Leery and get back to work. I’ll come to your tent once the ditch is dug.”
And so Kristoff goes to deal with Rakela and Zotra.
His two captains are together in Zotra’s tent, their heads bent together as they page through intelligence gathered from their spies in the capital. Rakela is giving Zotra a sidelong glance from under her eyelashes as Kristoff steps into the tent, her generous mouth curved into a fond smile as Zotra reads on, oblivious as ever. Kristoff clears his throat, and Rakela immediately schools her expression back into her usual cheerful bluster.
“Prince Kristoff!” Rakela says. “Dizzy’s contacts finally got us maps of the layout of Lady Ciere’s manor. You can plot out that little heist you’ve been itching for.”
It’s true, Kristoff has been yearning to steal Ciere’s wealth out from under her since he learned how she’s been starving her tenants for the sake of her jewels and her glittering parties. He takes the maps from Rakela’s hand and offers her a little bow. “I’ll do my best.”
“You always do, your highness,” Rakela says. “So why do you look guilty?”
Zotra looks up from the papers in her hand, her eyes narrowing.
“Guilty is a strong word,” Kristoff says. “Dalton will be sleeping in my tent tonight. Please don’t barge in and kill him.”
Zotra huffs acrid smoke out her nostrils with a disgusted snort. Rakela leans back in her chair and whistles. “I was wondering how long that’d take. Good for you. You deserve to blow off some steam.”
Zotra turns to glare at her. “It’s not good for anyone! Not Kristoff, not the rest of us, not even the Akhiiloran. Princeling, did you even hear a word I said this morning?”
“He’s simply guarding the door,” Kristoff says. “It’s nothing more.”
“Shame,” Rakela muses. “He’s awfully pretty.”
“Think about how this looks, Kristoff,” Zotra says. “Algot’s reigning over Hamlin with an iron fist, the plague is raging, and our only hope is out here sleeping with an Akhiiloran traitor he met a few months ago!”
“Sleeping in the literal sense,” Kristoff says.
“A guard at the door isn’t a bad idea,” Rakela says.
“Then the prince can accept one of our guards,” Zotra says.
“The prince is standing right here,” Kristoff says. “Your guards didn’t volunteer. Dalton did.”
“That doesn’t mean you had to accept,” Zotra says, biting off the words. “How many times must I remind you that he’s dangerous?”
“Let him be dangerous in our favor,” Rakela says. “He’s better trained than the rest of our guards--”
“Trained by the enemy!” Zotra says.
“And we stole him right out of their hands,” Rakela says. “Why not use him?”
“No one is using him!” Kristoff snaps. Both Zotra and Rakela stop and look at him, startled by his ferocity. Hell, he’s a little startled himself. “He’s a person, not some convenient weapon we picked up off the ground. If we forget that, we’re no better than Akhiilor or Algot. He makes his own choices. So do I.”
His captains exchange a look. Rakela shrugs. “Look at him, Z. He’s as stubborn as his father. You won’t change his mind.”
Zotra scoffs. “I can see that. Fine. But when you get back on the throne, we’re going to have a long talk about what exactly you plan to do with him.”
Behind Zotra's back, Rakela gives an encouraging nod.
Despite everything, they still think of it as a foregone conclusion that Kristoff will win the throne. Their unshakeable faith in him makes it difficult to stay angry. He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, and backs towards the door. “Thank you both. I’ll have a plan for the heist tomorrow.”
“You’d better,” Zotra says. “Don’t get distracted.”
“You can get a little distracted,” Rakela says with a wink.
For the sake of his own sanity, Kristoff leaves. The maps are crumpling in his fist. He forces himself to ease his grip. He likes that his people aren’t afraid to question him, damn it; it separates him from Algot and his wild charges of sedition at the slightest criticism. He just wishes his captains wouldn’t see him as a willful teenager with an overly soft heart. He’s twenty-five, for the gods’ sake. Hardly a child.
Speaking of children. Two of the youngest members of their little crew of rebels are sitting on a log as he passes, both of them studying a tent pole with apparent fascination and whispering furiously to each other. One takes an experimental jab with the pole at an imaginary enemy. Kristoff doesn’t try to hide his smile as he asks, “Shouldn’t you two be doing something else with that?”
Both of them jump to their feet. One gives an actual salute. “Sorry, your highness!”
Amused, he says, “At ease. Try not to put your eye out, please.”
The taller of the two, a rangy half-orc girl, says in an undertone, “Did you really get attacked last night, sir?”
“I did,” Kristoff says. “It was handled quickly. I think the rest of you should be safe.”
“Forget that,” the girl’s half-elf companion says. “How do you kill somebody with a tentpole?”
Rather messily, it turns out. Kristoff shrugs. “Ask Dalton.”
“I did,” the boy says. “He told me to stick the pointy end in the other person.”
“Good advice,” Kristoff says mildly. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“We’re glad you didn’t die, sir,” the girl says.
Kristoff clasps her shoulder. She beams with a pride that makes him feel very old and very tired. “As am I.”
“We could go with you on the next heist,” the boy says with unexpected daring. The girl swats him upside the back of the head. Rubbing the sore spot, he adds, “Sir.”
“I need people with sharp eyes in the camp, I’m afraid,” Kristoff says. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” they chorus.
“Good,” Kristoff says. “Thank you. Good luck with the tent. Please don’t accidentally stab each other.”
He retreats to his own tent feeling approximately a thousand years old. Patches of mud suck at his boots. They gave him the driest spot in camp, a kindness that still makes him feel rather guilty. He pulls the tent flap open, checking for the thin silver wire wound into the tent’s fabric to create a spell that conceals every sound within the tent unless he wills it otherwise. He's so distracted by ensuring it's intact that he nearly collides with Dalton, who's quietly standing to one side of the door.
“By the Mother,” Kristoff says, putting a hand to his chest. “I need to put a bell on you.”
Dalton tilts his head. “That’d make heists hard.”
“No, it’s a saying in Hamlin.” Kristoff steps around him, headed for his desk, and puts the crumpled maps down so that he can smooth them over. “It means that you have the Mother’s blessing of being sneaky as hell.”
Dalton’s mouth gives a wry twist, as if he doubts that the Mother would ever bless him, but he doesn’t protest. “Thank you. Or I’m sorry. Whichever one is appropriate.”
“No need to apologize,” Kristoff says. “I’m afraid my nerves are still wound rather tight.”
“Mine as well,” Dalton says. “Thank you again for letting me stay with you tonight. I’ve no doubt that Zotra gave you hell for it.”
“I can handle Zotra’s disapproval,” Kristoff says. “I face it at least once a day, particularly when I’m planning a heist. This hardly signifies. Do you need fresh clothes?”
Dalton looks down at himself, still caked with mud, and looks a little sheepish. He nudges his slender pack with the toe of his boot. “Dizzy provides. Dunno if I want to know where they got them from, but there’s clothes. You want me to find somewhere else to change?”
“Hardly necessary,” Kristoff says. There’s precious little room for modesty in a traveling refugee camp. “Unless it bothers you.”
Dalton shrugs and starts untying the closure of his shirt, which is answer enough. Kristoff politely turns away and directs his attention to the maps, trying to remember what his tutors told him of the areas between this camp and the estate. With Algot watching, it’s better to be subtle. They’ll travel light and with as few people as possible. Ones he can trust to handle themselves quickly and quietly should it come to a fight.
Kristoff turns from his work to glance at Dalton. He doesn't realize how much of a critical error in judgment that is until he sees Dalton's naked back.
There are scars. Unsurprising, given the life that Dalton has lived, but Kristoff wasn’t prepared for the marks across his shoulders and upper back. He recognizes the pattern from the survivors of Algot’s wrath; Dalton was flogged. More than once, by the look of it.
For all that horror chokes Kristoff's throat tight, it's tangled up with another emotion. When they found Dalton collapsed on the border of their camp, the healers were sure that he was going to die. It wasn't just the festering gut wound. He'd been dehydrated, half-starved, and filthy. A withered husk of a man. It had taken real work to get him back to the land of the living. Somehow, in the months since Dalton decided to stay, Kristoff hadn't quite realized how well he'd recovered. He looks…
Dalton is changing out of the day's clothes, his muddy pants already replaced with clean ones. He hasn't had a chance to wash the blood off his skin; he's streaked with flaking bits of it. Absently, he's trying to scrub it off his stomach with his crumpled shirt. He's all lean muscle carved over years of training, his pale skin etched with scars whose stories Kristoff doesn't know. The scar on his stomach where he was impaled with his captain's sword is vicious, though it looks years older than it is. His pants have slipped a little lower on his narrow hips. The sharp line of his hipbone is--
Kristoff realizes he's staring and forces himself to look away. It’s good to know that Dalton has recovered so well, of course. Should Dizzy catch Kristoff gawking at Dalton so rudely, they’d have no end of things to say. Same for Zotra and Rakela. Same for the rest of the camp.
In the months that he’s been here, Dalton has shown no inclination to have sex with anyone of any gender; despite being an Akhiiloran, he’s caught the eye of several people, but he’s either oblivious or deliberately ignoring any attempts to coax him into their bedroll. Yes, he watches Kristoff with an unnerving intensity sometimes, but Dalton is unnervingly intense about a lot of things. Paladins usually are, oathbreakers or not.
Dalton is loyal, that’s all. Protective. He's become a true friend, and those are precious when one is a prince.
“There’s a basin of water if you want to wash the blood off,” Kristoff says, staring very hard at the table. “The basin refills. It’s no trouble.”
“Thank you,” Dalton says. He crosses behind Kristoff, coming so close that Kristoff imagines he can feel the heat of Dalton’s body. The tent seems very cramped, suddenly. There’s a splash, and Dalton makes a pleased noise. “It’s warm.”
“I stole it from a noble’s mansion last week,” Kristoff says. “Lord Ainsley, if you recall, since you were on that mission. I never liked him, but the man knew how to live comfortably.”
“All your nobles tend to run together after a while,” Dalton says.
“I could take offense to that, but that’s exactly what I said when my father was trying to teach me about our government,” Kristoff says. “Of course, I was seven at the time.”
Dalton laughs, a rare sound that makes Kristoff smile in response. Before he can try to get another one, the door to his tent abruptly jerks open. He and Dalton both draw steel, but it’s only Dizzy in the doorway.
If their brush with death bothers Dizzy, it doesn’t show. They look at Dalton and grin like a feral creature, waggling their eyebrows for good measure. “May the Bastard smile on us, Dalton lost his shirt. Y’know, I hear some paladins like to do their sword practice naked. You ever tried that? I think the whole camp would enjoy it.”
“It’s a good way to cut your cock off,” Dalton says sourly. Kristoff barely manages not to give himself whiplash turning to stare at him, caught by the way the word ‘cock’ rolls off Dalton’s tongue. Dalton notices and winces. “Apologies, your highness.”
“None needed,” Kristoff says faintly. He clears his throat. “I’ve been around soldiers. I’ve heard it all. And don’t call me your highness. Did you need something, Dizzy?”
“Yes, I need Dalton to swear forever,” Dizzy says, delighted. “We’ll go through all the profanity, and then we’ll do it in elvish.”
“Dizzy,” Kristoff says.
“Ugh, fine.” Dizzy flounces over to Kristoff’s bed and sits down without an invitation. “I have a list of the towns that got hit by the taxmen and need us to swing through with food and clerics.”
Dalton grabs a new shirt and pulls it on over his head. “I’ll step outside.”
“Stay,” Kristoff says. “It’s not sensitive information. Besides, I trust you.”
Dalton’s eyes go very wide; it's an unexpectedly vulnerable look for someone who killed an assassin with a tentpole this morning. Dizzy looks between them, dangerously interested, and seems to come to several wrong conclusions. They raise their eyebrows and smirk. “Am I interrupting something, gentlemen?”
“No,” Dalton and Kristoff tell them simultaneously. Kristoff clears his throat and adds, “Give your report.”
Dizzy lists off a string of a dozen towns and villages. Algot has been busy, damn him, and Kristoff recognizes most of the names as destitute estates run by negligent nobles. They have nothing to spare already. Algot is choosing them out of pure cruelty, trying to draw Kristoff out of the woodwork. Well, it’s working. Kristoff can’t not respond. Unfortunately, everyone is too exhausted to start tonight. Tomorrow they’ll start working their way through the list. For tonight…
“If anyone feels up to hunting for deer or rabbit, send them out with my thanks,” Kristoff says. He drags a tired hand over his face. “I should join them.”
“Or you could sleep while you’ve got the chance,” Dalton says.
“He’s got a point,” Dizzy says. They tumble off the bed and bounce to their feet. “We need you, oh people’s thief. Don’t work yourself into an early grave. Dalton’s already dug a shithole today, he doesn't need any more blisters. I'll go babysit the hunters in your stead.”
“What did the hunters do to deserve that?” Dalton deadpans.
“A joke!” Dizzy says. “Let's get you a cap with bells on it, since you're determined to steal my job.”
“Maybe you should try being funny,” Dalton says.
“You wouldn't know funny if it bit you,” Dizzy says.
“Thank you for the report, Dizzy,” Kristoff says pointedly.
“Yes, yes,” Dizzy says, waving him off. “I'll let you two get back to whatever the hell it is you were doing.”
“Be careful,” Dalton says.
Dizzy makes a rude gesture over their shoulder as they slip out of the tent. As soon as they’re gone, Kristoff turns to Dalton and says, “I didn't know you were friends.”
“We're not,” Dalton says. A pause. “Dizzy’s not afraid of me.”
Kristoff thinks of Dalton with the youngest folk in the camp, as patient as can be as he walks them through how to wield a sword properly. He thinks of Dalton peeling potatoes for Mrs. Leery when her arthritis is bothering her and carrying Dizzy back to camp when they were injured in a raid.
Kristoff doesn’t know the whole of what Dalton did in service of Akhiilor. He’s gotten a few details, with Dalton haltingly confessing that he killed several clerics of the Mother and Father on his captain’s orders because he was told they were enemies of Gwyr. Said clerics eliminated the rest of his party, leaving him alone with the captain he eventually killed. There’s blood on his hands that won’t wash away. Saving one cleric from death doesn’t undo that. It would be foolish to say that there’s nothing to fear from Dalton. People watch him like he might be rabid, but Kristoff is fairly sure that in this camp the person most afraid of Dalton is Dalton himself.
“Dizzy isn’t afraid of much,” Kristoff agrees.
Dalton looks at him sidelong, his smile wry. “Neither are you. Stealing from the rich, thwarting your brother, taking in stray Akhiiloran wolves.”
“I never claimed to be wise,” Kristoff says.
“You are,” Dalton says.
Kristoff has heard a lot of pretty flattery since he was old enough to understand words. Unlike all of that, Dalton’s words are simple. It shouldn’t strike him as hard as it does. He smiles. “Wolves, hm? You were eavesdropping.”
“Zotra’s voice carries,” Dalton says. “She’s not wrong.”
“She’s not right either,” Kristoff says. “Wolves aren’t evil creatures. They do what they must to survive, just as we do.”
“I always thought that Akhiilor did what it must,” Dalton says. “That’s what they told us. We were heroes. We were better. More civilized. We were bringing Gwyr’s light to people that needed us. Then I saw that the light was from all the temples we burned. We’re not wolves. Wolves are better.”
“And yet you broke your oath when you saw the truth,” Kristoff says.
“Too late,” Dalton says.
Fiercely, Kristoff tells him, “No. It’s never too late.”
Dalton tilts his head, apparently caught off-guard. He searches Kristoff’s face. Kristoff holds his eyes, unblinking, until Dalton is the one to glance away.
“We could argue philosophy all night and get nowhere,” Dalton says.
“Sounds like fun,” Kristoff says. “Add in a little devil’s weed and we could have an excellent time.”
One corner of Dalton’s mouth quirks. “I’ve never tried it.”
Kristoff isn’t surprised. He tries to imagine Dalton after smoking devil’s weed, all hazy-eyed and relaxed for once. It's a lovely thought, but he doubts he'll ever see it. Dalton is too wary to let his guard down like that, aside from the occasional drink to take the edge off. Maybe someday, when they survive this.
“I was a hedonistic youth,” Kristoff says. Until his father died, Algot inherited, and everything went to hell. He spent a lot of time in various salons expounding on all the radical changes that needed to be made to their government. If he wasn't a prince, he probably would have been arrested for sedition. “Quite a scoundrel, in fact.”
“You’re still a scoundrel,” Dalton says. “You’re plotting a heist.”
“I certainly should be.” Kristoff pinches the bridge of his nose. His eyes are burning with fatigue. “I should be doing a lot of things. If only there were two of me.”
“The world couldn’t handle two of you,” Dalton says. He sounds fond.
Kristoff gives up on his maps. He’s too weary to come up with a good plan of attack; he’ll only have to redo all his work in the morning. “I should do the sensible thing and sleep while I can. I need to change out of these clothes.”
Since Dalton had no sense of modesty, which was probably out of the question when one lived in the barracks or out in the field, Kristoff decides to return the favor. When he begins to undo his leather armor, Dalton politely turns away.
(Was there a moment of hesitation? Certainly not.)
Dalton sits on his bedroll and takes out his blade from its sheath. As Kristoff undresses, Dalton begins to tend to his sword with a weathered whetstone. Kristoff can only imagine what ridiculous innuendo Dizzy would spew if they could see this now.
In the unsteady light of the tent’s single lamp as it dances over the steel blade, Kristoff notices for the first time that there is something scratched into the crossguard of the sword. It seems to be written in elvish script. Kristoff learned elvish from his tutors, of course, but he can hardly peer over Dalton’s shoulder while he’s in the middle of taking his pants off.
“What is that written on your crossguard?” Kristoff asks.
Dalton’s shoulders tense, and he pauses in the middle of drawing the whetstone along the blade. After a moment, he sighs. “Naitya.”
Kristoff stares at Dalton’s back and finds no answers there. “To bring shame?”
“Yes,” Dalton says.
“When did you carve that into the blade?”
“As soon as you trusted me enough to give my sword back to me.” Dalton turns the blade in his hand, his pale face reflected in its scarred surface for a moment. “It was my mother’s, back when she first enlisted. She has a better one now, of course.”
“Your mother,” Kristoff says slowly. “She’s a soldier?”
“She’s the queen’s second-in-command,” Dalton says in a carefully neutral tone. “Lutiniel Valrieth.”
And oh, Kristoff knows that name well. Selene’s counselor, a terrifying warrior responsible for carving through Marchen’s armies until she abruptly disappeared for nine years after a campaign in Hamlin. Everyone wondered why Lutiniel went quiet for so long before she came roaring back with a new fury. Kristoff is looking at the reason now. Nine years is long enough to hide a pregnancy and the raising of a scandalous half-elf child. Then the child would be drafted into Akhiilor’s forces at eight like the rest of the half-elves and become nobody’s son. It was neatly done.
“You never told me,” Kristoff says, trying not to make it sound like an accusation even though the evasion stings.
“No,” Dalton says. “I didn’t know how. I should have. I’m sorry.”
The worst part is that Kristoff can understand exactly why Dalton didn’t tell him. His very existence is a political timebomb. If the people of Akhiilor found out that the queen’s second-in-command was a hypocrite who bore a half-elf child, a child that was possibly even conceived with a human from Marchen, then it might destabilize them long enough to spare Marchen a few months of being attacked. If Akhiilor is weakened, the people of Hamlin might be more willing to turn on Algot. At the very least they won't be facing attacks on multiple fronts. Moreover, the council of regents is more likely to back Kristoff if he brings them this information to use.
All Kristoff has to do is tie Dalton to the altar like a sacrificial lamb. Akhiilor probably doesn’t know he’s still alive, nor do they know that he turned on them, but they’ll come hunting for him to silence the rumors. Marchen’s people will be no kinder. Lutiniel made her share of enemies, and they won’t forgive her son even if he is half-human. He’s caught between both sides and they’ll tear him to pieces if Kristoff lets them.
“Tell Zotra and Rakela,” Dalton says. His shoulders are hunched like a man waiting at the gallows. “They should know. They can use it.”
And damn it all, Kristoff makes the only decision that he can. “The secret will be buried with me.”
Dalton twitches, his head whipping around so that he can stare at Kristoff properly. “But--”
“No,” Kristoff says simply.
For another long moment, Dalton just looks at him. He seems unutterably tired. He nods at the sword. “Do you know why she gave me this?”
“To kill us all with, presumably,” Kristoff says.
“The last order my mother gave to me was to assassinate you,” Dalton says. “I was supposed to serve my time, rise up through the ranks, and get strong enough to put your whole family in the ground. The children too. I knew your name before I knew my own father’s. I was a weapon aimed at your heart. You owe me nothing. If I can be of use, then use me.”
“You saved my life,” Kristoff says. “You want to sleep in my tent to keep me safe.”
“I lied to you,” Dalton says. “Zotra is right about me. You shouldn’t trust me so easily.”
Kristoff takes a step towards him. Dalton goes still and watchful. Kristoff draws his shirt to one side, baring his heart, and says, “Then do as your duty if you’d like. This is your chance. I’m right here.”
Dalton drags in an unsteady breath. He looks pale in the lantern light, his eyes wide and luminous. Kristoff wants to touch him, to push the stray hair out of his eyes, which is a strange passing thought to have in this moment. He stands his ground and waits.
Finally, Dalton shakes his head and looks away. “Dramatic, your highness.”
“Effective,” Kristoff says. “I could get you a new sword.”
“It’s a reminder.” Dalton lowers the sword to his lap and applies the whetstone again. His hands are slightly unsteady. “Thank you, though.”
Kristoff doubts that Dalton truly needs a reminder of the guilt that he’s carrying or the blood in his veins, but he’s not going to win that argument. So he skims out of his pants and replaces them with a pair made of loose cotton. After last night, he rather wishes he could sleep in his armor, but that’s a recipe for waking up still exhausted. He normally sleeps in only pants and a holy symbol, and he debates for a moment as to whether to put on a shirt, but it’ll only add to the laundry that needs doing. Besides, Dalton saw him shirtless this morning when he rushed in to kill the assassin. There’s no shame in it.
“I don’t have much information about Lutiniel or Selene,” Dalton says. “Nothing recent, anyway. I was never in the castle, and I only met the queen once. But I can tell you what little I do know, if you want. Just tell Zotra I was the child of a half-elf castle servant.”
“It seems cruel to ask you to inform on your mother,” Kristoff says.
“She stopped being my mother when I broke my oaths,” Dalton says. “I’m a traitor. I failed her. She’d kill me without hesitating.”
Kristoff thinks of his own mother, her stern eyes and her kind hands, long gone now. She would have done anything to keep him or Algot safe; she would have shed any amount of blood, her own or someone else’s. It’s hard to imagine that Dalton’s mother would turn her back on him so easily, but nothing he’s ever heard about Lutiniel made her sound like she had a heart.
“Let me think on it,” Kristoff says. Dalton inclines his head, baring the nape of his neck, and Kristoff has the mad passing urge to touch him there. To comfort him. “Thank you for the offer.”
“After everything you’ve done for me--”
“Dalton,” Kristoff says, cutting him off. “Don't. It's nothing.”
Dalton subsides, but not as if he believes it.
“I usually pray before sleeping,” Kristoff says. “Do you mind?”
“No.” Dalton shifts his weight, drawing a leg up as if to stand. “Do you want privacy?”
“No need,” Kristoff says. “I’ll only be a moment.”
He takes up the lantern and kneels with it beside his cot. The woven mat protects his knees from the worst of the ground's chill. He stares into the lantern's warm, flickering light and tries to think of midsummer. Bonfires and the clash of swords. Healing. Laughter.
“Father,” he murmurs. “Keep Anja and Emil in your light. Guide my way so that I know how to help my people. Show Algot the truth of what he's doing so that he may see reason.”
At one point, Kristoff would have said that last bit with a great deal more hope. These days it's mostly because not saying it would feel like giving up. He continues asking the Father to try to reach Algot out of pure stubbornness at this point. As Kristoff told Dalton, he refuses to think it's too late for anyone, but he's not a fool. He's seen the gallows his brother mounted in the castle courtyard. Even if Algot suddenly developed a conscience, he would have to face the consequences for what he's done.
“Thank you,” Kristoff concludes.
He speaks the command word, quenching the lantern's flame, and the tent plunges into darkness. The steady scrape of whetstone against blade doesn't falter. Dalton can see perfectly well in the dark, unlike Kristoff.
Setting the lantern down, Kristoff folds his hands in his lap and closes his eyes. The darkness behind his closed lids is complete. He thinks of midwinter. Nights beneath the new moon. The stillness of death. The peace of dreamless sleep.
“Mother,” Kristoff says. “Let us walk in your darkness and out of sight of Algot’s men. May those that he’s killed find peace in your arms. Grant me your blessing of silence for the next heist so that I can steal back what was taken. Thank you.”
There is only silence from both of them, of course. Kristoff is no cleric or paladin. But he likes to imagine that the silence is that of listening rather than being ignored. It brings him peace and steadies his mind to pray every night, the way he has since he was a child, so he’d probably continue it whether they were listening or not.
Kristoff gets off his knees and returns the lamp to his desk. With that done, he pulls back the blankets from his cot and climbs into bed. The creak of it beneath his weight seems very loud as he makes himself comfortable. There is a question on his mind, one that he has no right to ask, but curiosity drives him. He can’t make peace with Akhiilor if he doesn’t understand them. “Dalton, may I ask you something?”
“Of course,” Dalton says.
“Did you ever pray to Gwyr?”
The whetstone stops again. The silence that follows is so profound that Kristoff kicks himself for asking. But when Dalton speaks, he doesn’t sound like the question pained him. “Not like that, no.”
Interesting. Kristoff rolls towards him, studying the shape of Dalton in the dim light. “How did you pray, then?”
“Gwyr doesn’t want words. They like it when you do something,” Dalton says. “Making art or music. Cooking. Dancing. Smithing.”
“That’s lovely,” Kristoff says, startled. In all his education about the elflands, he never heard such a thing. He knew Gwyr was a creator god, but the details of their worship never came up.
“It can be,” Dalton says. He sheathes his sword and sets it aside. “Most of the poetry was awful.”
Kristoff laughs. “Not a poetry fan, I take it. What did you do as an offering?”
“Swordwork,” Dalton says. “I used to sing sometimes when I was too little to pick up a weapon.”
“Truly?” Kristoff’s heart twinges at the mental image of Dalton at Emil’s age, singing in the shamelessly enthusiastic way of children. “I didn’t know you sang.”
“Not well,” Dalton says. “And I’m not nearly drunk enough, so don’t ask.”
“More’s the pity,” Kristoff says with a grin. “Won’t you soothe me to sleep?”
“There’s nothing soothing about it,” Dalton grumbles. “I sound like a cat being strangled. If you want a bard, talk to Dizzy.”
“You’re far more restful than Dizzy,” Kristoff says.
“So is getting a foot sawed off,” Dalton says.
Cloth rustles as Dalton, only a dim shape in the shadows, pulls up the corner of his bedroll and climbs inside. Kristoff thinks of the ground's bitter chill and offers, “There are extra blankets if you'd like.”
“I've slept rougher than this.” Dalton rolls to face Kristoff, pale in the darkness, and says, “I may have nightmares. I’m usually quiet about it. Don’t try to touch me. I’ve never come up swinging before, but it’s better to be safe. Feel free to throw something at me, though.”
“Why in the name of the Mother would I throw something at you?” Kristoff asks.
“If I get loud,” Dalton says.
“Dalton,” Kristoff says. “I’m not going to throw things at you even if you wake me. It's unkind.”
A puzzled pause. “Is it? We used to do it all the time in the barracks.”
Gods. Kristoff says, “Yes. I won’t be unkind to you.”
“I know,” Dalton says, and the simple puzzled surety in that word chokes Kristoff’s throat tight for a moment. He has no words. He’s been handed something precious, Dalton’s loyalty, and he doesn’t trust his own clumsy hands with it. “Sleep, your highness. If anyone comes for you, they’ll have to get through me first.”
“I know,” Kristoff echoes, smiling. “Good night.”
He expects it to be strange to sleep with someone else in his tent. He hasn’t dallied with anyone since before Algot turned on him, and even then, he didn’t stay the night. He’s not used to anyone being so close to him. With the usual chaos of the camp, he can’t hear Dalton breathing or shifting around. But he’s aware of Dalton within reach, a sentinel in the dark, and it isn’t strange at all.
***
It starts as a joke.
Word gets around the camp that Dalton’s sleeping in Kristoff’s tent. As Kristoff expected, most people seem to assume at first that they’re having sex. Kristoff gets a few thumps on the back and knowing winks, but he receives more wary and curious stares. The looks that Dalton gets are searingly resentful, and he’s assigned latrine duty almost constantly now. He bears it without complaint and advises Kristoff to leave it be.
Then it somehow becomes public knowledge that Dalton isn’t sharing his bed after all. Kristoff suspects Dizzy had a hand in that, but he’s not sure it’s an improvement that people start whispering the rumor that Dalton sleeps at the foot of his bed. Like a hound, they say, and they laugh but it’s uneasy.
A joke. An insult. But as the months pass and Dalton kills another man on a raid to save Kristoff’s life, then another, it becomes something else. Kristoff’s hound, they call him, and there’s something like wary respect in the name. Even Zotra stops complaining when Dalton rides at Kristoff’s back, though the distrust never leaves her eyes.
“Does it bother you?” Kristoff asks him one night after Rakela congratulates ‘the hound’ for another raid without casualties.
Idly cleaning a guard’s blood off his sword, blood that he spilled to save Kristoff from a crossbow bolt in the back, Dalton says, “Why would it bother me?”
“You’re not a damned dog,” Kristoff says.
Dalton shrugs. “Is it such a terrible thing to be the king’s hound?”
And at the sound of it, Kristoff’s heart thumps hard against his ribs. Rubbing at his chest, he says, “You belong to yourself, my friend. Always.”
“I know, your highness,” Dalton says with a bittersweet little smile. “Don’t worry about it.”
Kristoff walks away feeling like he's missing something important.