#p:alexandre

[herxtiic]

@bcstardking

Staying in bed was maddening, the constant tick of the clock penetrating into his bones with every passing hour. Although he was slowly regaining his strength, managing to walk a few more steps out of his confinement every day, there was still a relentless drive in him to make his way out of his borrowed room and back into the hustle and bustle of life outside. Tristan was weary of the looks of sidelong pity and concern, as though he might drop dead at any moment. He even missed the gossip of the courtiers taking on other, more pertinent topics.

Alexandre came to his bedside nearly every night, and was a comfort, but that didn’t mean that Tristan hadn’t picked up on the shadows beneath his eyes, the anxieties that showed clearly upon his face. He wondered and worried what his lover was up to when he wasn’t by his side, if he was all right, what terrors might press on him to draw such a pallor over his features. It was that worry, and his need to get out of his opulent sickroom, that drove Tristan to unsteady feet. What pain resulted aside, primarily from extended weakness, he pushed himself up and forward, one hand against the wall. A few deep breaths later, and he mobilised further, supporting himself against the wall until he could stand on his own two feet.

Going was slow, but he made his way determinably to Alexandre’s chambers. In the privacy of this area, there was little viewing of his onward trek, and thus little commentary. When he had finally allowed himself in the gilded room, he stopped, one shoulder propped against the wall. Alexandre was far from being alone, the master metalworker, Monsieur Periquet, by his side, fitting him into gleaming light armour that had been undoubtably crafted by hand for his lover’s slender form. The view was breathtaking, but instead of admiration, fear reflected in Tristan’s gaze, understanding what it meant, what it could mean.

He felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“Your Majesty,” he requested softly, deference showing as was proper in an audience with his King, although the anxiety in his tone belied their familiarity. “I apologise for my sudden intrusion, but may I request a…private audience?”

[herxtiic]

Our Love Could Start a War - Alexandre and Tristan

Court gossip travelled fast, a fact that he had always decried with rolled eyes and condemnations of shallowness, but for once, he was grateful for its haste. Tristan hadn’t known what he had expected, but he certainly hadn’t expected this. The fact that Alexandre had stood up for him to that extent warmed him in a way that he couldn’t quite explain. Although he knew it had been also as a show of power, a proof that Alexandre would not allow the exertion of power over his men by another, he knew in another, deeper understanding, that it was a kept promise that he had whispered.  He had protected him, as Tristan protected Alexandre in return.

Still, there must have been some grief in him, and so Tristan had cautiously sought him out in the hope to offer comfort outside of a formal audience. Neither of them relished having to outwardly pretend that they meant little more to each other than a showing of hierarchical ranking. He had checked all of Alexandre’s haunts that he was permitted to visit, until a journey to the stables revealed a missing Veillantif. No friendly grey nose snuffled at him when he passed by the gelding’s stall. Alexandre must be out riding and not far.

The stable boy indicated that the King was in the gardens, and so Tristan kitted Coquette, leading her out of the stables and blinking into the sun. For a man who was uneasy with horses, he enjoyed riding the familiar mare, trusting her not to throw him. They trotted out into the gardens at an easy pace, making his way through and enjoying the warm weather, although Tristan’s chest remained tight, concern in his gaze. It didn’t take long to find him – Alexandre was riding the grey at a breakneck speed, aimless and almost reckless, as far from the Palace as he could physically manage.

With a nudge into a canter, and then later a gallop, Tristan goaded his mare to approach the pair, matching pace. “Shouldn’t you give that horse a rest,” he called out, over his shoulder, the gesture reminiscent of carefree days they had spent racing up and down the gardens on foot, playfully trying to outpace the other.

“Don’t think you’ll quite manage to fly, if that’s what you’re aiming for.”

[herxtiic]

@bcstardking

Day by day, he was becoming stronger. It had taken far longer than Tristan had expected to regain his strength. Even when training no longer physically pained him, weeks out of commission had made him weary faster than he would have liked. Over time, however, and with his well honed fighting instincts he regained much of his eventual ability as he healed, and what he hadn’t yet regained, he spent hours stubbornly testing himself in the courtyard as soon as Émile was out of sight. He had to be stronger than the day before, faster, better, to erase all memories of what had occurred.

Still, the marks remained indelibly strewn across his skin. He was reminded of them as he finally halted in his courtyard training session with a younger Musketeer, slowly stretched and squinted into the mid-morning sun. It was already baking in the early summer heat, and he yearned to do as he had in the past, and strip to the waist to cool himself. The knowledge of the questions that those scars would raise stayed him, however, and so he remained as he was.

It was only when a very familiar figure wandered in from the training yard, carrying a rapier, and with Émile Moreau behind him that Tristan paused the lesson, voicing a brief apology to his student.

With an expression that mingled confusion, joy, and concern, he made his way over to Alexandre, aware of the eyes that lingered upon them both. What was he doing out of Tuileries?

“Your Majesty,” he addressed him, quietly, as was proper, even as his heart ached and he longed to pull him into an embrace. He loathed their play-acting for the benefit of others, but despite his own wild nature, he knew that it was best.  With a flicker of a smile, and a hint of his usual loose grace, he bowed, low and formally. His eyes lingered upon the earth between them and remaining so, until his lover would bid him rise.