A knight who fought for his Prince to reclaim the throne. Who was his blade, his hound, brutal and bloody because it was needed.
But now his Prince is his King, and he doesn't know what to do with himself in a peaceful castle. He doesn't know how to attend balls or stand beside the King as he hosts diplomats. He was forged in blood and fire — what use is a hound when there's no hunt to be had?
What use is a hound when there’s no hunt to be had?
The falcon prince takes to the throne as if it is his due; and only the dog knight knows the lie of that. Masks and costumes, that is all power is; give a soul a sword, and the will to use it, and make a knight. Give a soul a crown, and the right lies, and see a king be made.
And blood. It is blood, behind all the finery, behind the falcon prince’s fine silks and curls; the bloody rent the two of them have cut through the world, to raise him to his title.
By the sword he won it, and by the sword he will keep it, no doubt; but for now, there is feasting, and negotiating, and talk of granaries and festivals and tithes, dignitaries and diplomats, lords to placated and marriages to arrange — the slow dance of diplomacy, that seems to draw the same keen attention from the falcon king as any field of combat.
The dog knight languishes.
He’s known this world before, and found his ruin here; and he can hear it calling again. The itch of inaction, that leaves him dulled and clumsy.
Dulled, and clumsy, and wanting.
And in the fugue, the stink of blood seeps in, regardless of how he cleans and oils his blade, or scrubs his skin in the bathhouse.
It pervades even the cool refuge of the falcon king’s bower, perfumed as it is with jasmine and ambergris, where the dog knight stands watching his king dress.
“My knight,” the falcon king says. His back is turned to the dog knight, slender hands lifting the heavy chain of command to clasp it around his neck. “Something troubles you.”
In a fight, I could yank him to the ground with that, the knight thinks, and then recoils from the thought.
He shifts, clasping his hands behind his back. “Nothing troubles me, your grace.”
The falcon king looks up, catching his gaze in the mirror. “You know better than to lie to me, my creature.”
The words force a breath from the knight; he closes his eyes, and then kneels. “I am sorry, your grace.”
He closes his eyes; the blood is all around him now. The falcon prince steps closer, jasmine and ambergris and something else, that always leaves a silvery taste in the knight’s mouth. His hand comes to rest on the knight’s head, fingers slipping through his hair. “Tell me.”
The words leave no room to disobey. “I have no further use to you.”
The knight feels the falcon king’s fingers tighten in his hair, tension running up through his body. “What do you mean?”
“I am no diplomat, no messenger, and no courtier. I don’t find any pleasure here, and I fear — I fear I will start to go to rust. Become the man I was when I met you, if I do not have a task, if I am not bound by your will.”
“If you are not bound by my will?” Amusement flickers in the falcon king’s voice. “You have not ceased to be my knight. Does that not mean you are always bound by my will?”
The knight ducks his head further. “A weapon rusts, if not put to use.”
“Rest truly does you no good, then?” the king says, softly. Thoughtfully.
“Little enough,” the knight says.
“Well,” the falcon king says. “I will shape a purpose for you, then.” He reaches down, to tip the dog knight’s chin up. His eyes shine silver as his hair in the airy light of the bower. “You are mine, and I will not let you go to rust.”