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Ser Finn returned to the castle, bone-weary and victorious. He was met with little fanfare, though he cared not about it. Recognition wasn’t what he was after when he donned his armor and rode out, not the promise of glory that drove him from the castle at a breakneck pace, pushing his horse harder than was kind. The troubadours would write songs about him, nonetheless.
He greeted the men on evening watch, sparse as they were. “It is done,” he told them simply, as they eyed his blood-flecked steel. There must have been doubts that he would even return. No one else had.
The men had questions, their voices overlapping in a frenzy of interest, and Finn breathed through his impatience, unfair as it was. He couldn’t fault them for wanting to know what had happened, but now was not the time. His tale could wait until the morrow.
He navigated the castle’s familiar halls, each step forward taking his full concentration—one foot in front of the other, boots heavy against the old stone floors.
A squire followed him into the armory, round-faced and eager. His name didn’t immediately come to mind, though his face was familiar, the son of one of the western lords. Someone must have sent for him when they spotted a rider approaching, cloaked in the king’s colors.
The boy removed Finn’s armor with practiced ease, setting each piece aside to be cleaned, oiled, and shined. For once, he had the good sense to remain quiet as he worked, though he must have been curious. No doubt, he could sense the knight’s exhaustion.
Finn’s eyes slipped shut, heavy with fatigue, the periodic clang of steel, an unlikely lullaby. For a moment, he wondered if it was possible for him to fall asleep standing. With each passing second, he envied his horse more.
But he stood tall as the weight was lifted off his shoulders, one plate at a time. He didn’t pay much attention to the process, trusting in the squire—Henry, Finn suddenly recalled—to fulfill his task without instruction; he’d been trained well enough.
Finn let him work, shifting when prompted to give the boy access to each tie and buckle, barely noticing when he paused for a moment before removing the plackart from his waist. Steady hands worked on his cuirass next, unfastening the buckles at his flank and shoulder, brushing against the skin of his neck. When they lingered there longer than necessary, Finn opened his eyes.
In Henry’s place, candlelit and unassuming, stood the king.
“Your Highness,” Finn breathed. At once, he fell to bended knee; there was no strength left in him to slow the movement. His poleyn crashed to the floor, steel on stone, echoing around the room. He lowered his eyes in reverence due to his king. “Forgive me, I thought you were my squire.”
A gentle hand raised Finn’s chin. Brown eyes met his own, no less beautiful for the dark circles beneath them. The sight would have brought Finn to his knees had he been standing, relief flooding through him like a ruptured dam. He’d been assured of the king’s survival when he reached the castle gates, but to lay eyes on his sovereign, free of his cursed slumber, nearly overwhelmed him.
“I sent the boy away,” said the king. Without another word, he pulled Finn to stand before resuming his efforts to rid him of his armor. He’d only just removed the cuirass when Finn stepped back.
He put space between them, unwilling to let his king debase himself any further with labor beneath his station. Even without aid, Finn could remove the remaining steel on his own. Besides, the king was in no condition to be exerting himself like this.
“You should not be out of bed, Your Highness. You should be resting,” said Finn. The king appeared as though he’d just come from it, dressed in simple linen, wearing none of the usual adornment, not even his crown.
For a moment, the king didn’t answer. He set down the cuirass on the table with the rest of Finn’s plate. When he turned back, his eyes fell heavy on the knight. “And you should not have left, Ser Finn.”
Finn held his unwavering gaze. He refused to be chastised. Not for this. “Your Highness, I pledged my sword and life to yours. Would you have those vows mean nothing?”
“You vowed to protect me,” said the king, voice now raised. “How can you honor that oath if you are not by my side?”
“I was by your side. Day and night, I stood guard, hoping, praying that you’d wake. Afraid that the light in your eyes would never return. I could not risk that possibility.”
Finn turned away from his king then, words catching in his throat at the reminder of what nearly came to pass. He removed his chainmail shirt, buying himself a moment to regain his composure. He prayed that his voice would not waver.
“I made my choice. If vows were broken, I will accept the consequences. But I cannot beg for your forgiveness because I do not regret what I did. If you must send me away for that betrayal, I will go. I will heed your command and live out my days content enough with the knowledge that you were alive to pass that judgment.”
The king shook his head, anger giving way to something else, something more fragile. “You are not going anywhere,” he gritted out, a clear command. He took a long breath and when he next spoke, his voice was softer. “Finn, you could have died.”
“And if I did not go, My King, you would have. So do not tell me that I should have stayed here and done nothing. I know my duty. If that puts my life in danger, so be it. Yours is more important.”
“Not to me it’s not,” said the king. For the first time, he looked as exhausted as he must have been, the curse having taken its toll. “I do not know what I would have done if you hadn’t returned.” An unsteady breath shuddered through him. “If I had lost you.”
“You will never have to find out,” said Finn. He was done maintaining the long-standing pretense. There was no one around to overhear, no need to pretend that what he felt was mere fealty. He reached towards the king, cradling his face in one gentle palm. “I will always come back to you, Poe.”
Poe leaned into Finn’s touch, even as his brow pinched in anguish. “You cannot promise me that.”
“I already did,” said Finn. He pulled his silver chain out from under his tunic. Poe’s eyes went soft as he recognized his own signet ring, the favor he once bestowed upon Finn before battle. All he’d asked for in return was a promise to bring it home safe. “And I intend to keep that promise.”
The last vestiges of Poe’s ire vanished with a near tangible shift in the air. He reached for Finn, pulling him to his chest. His hands slid up Finn’s back, clutching onto the fabric of his shirt. He had no complaints for the way it was stiff with sweat or how the hard edges of Finn’s remaining armor pressed into his flesh. He just held Finn close like he was worried that he’d be ripped away if his grip wasn’t tight enough.
Finn felt himself melt into the embrace. He brought up a hand to tangle in Poe’s loose curls, pulling him gently away. The objection undoubtedly on Poe’s lips was soon forgotten as Finn brought their lips together for a kiss long overdue.
He’d been so afraid that he would never get to have this again—Poe’s mouth against his own, soft and familiar. It was like he could finally breathe again, his whole world put to rights with a single brush of lips.
“Stay with me tonight,” said Poe once they parted, his words a mere exhale.
Finn shook his head, a protest he felt obliged to give. “It is not proper.”
“I do not care,” argued Poe, resolute in a way that Finn so adored. “I am not letting you out of my sight.”
With no further argument, Finn gladly acquiesced. “As you command, My King.”