Work Text:
The little Plegian perches atop a pile of dismembered Risen, with Frederick on his feet next to him. Frederick is standing guard. Henry is cleaning his fingernails. Frederick turns up his nose in distaste, but this has no visible effect on Henry: he's smoothed out his cape between himself and the rotting flesh like some kind of depraved picnic blanket.
Frederick looks away and to the waning moon. "That's going to smell," he remarks.
"I do my own laundry," says Henry with a flick of his fingers. Frederick doesn't know him well enough to know whether he's telling the truth. In fact, Frederick barely knows the boy at all. "Besides, I like the texture of a good Risen. It's comfy."
The time since Henry's joined the Shepherds--not long at all--has been a cavalcade of little gems like that. Frederick suppresses an eye-roll and wonders what fortunes have carried him to standing watch with Henry of all people; he reminds himself not to complain. He reminds himself that Chrom admitted Henry into the Shepherds, the same as anyone else. He reminds himself that they're brothers now, and--
"Oh! I wonder if I could make a slide?"
Frederick shifts his grip on his sword and glances skyward.
"What do you think?" says Henry.
"I think," says Frederick, "that you should consider getting some rest, Henry. I'll wake you up when it's your turn." Though he'll probably do no such thing.
Henry turns his pale little face to Frederick and then splits it open with a grin. "Hey," he says. "You remember my name."
"I should hope so. There aren't many names to remember." Frederick turns his shoulder to Henry, looks out over the forest, wonders if Chrom has gotten to sleep yet. "Go to sleep."
In fact Henry burned, or perhaps rotted, himself into Frederick's memory from the beginning, though he may not know it. Henry burst into their lives in a shower of black birds, just when they needed him, a good omen all made up of bad ones. Frederick doesn't know Henry, but he remembers Henry.
Henry doesn't see him as a distinct human being, as far as Frederick knows. He's the faceless man shouting orders in the training yard--the training yard which Henry never seems to patronize. He's Prince Chrom's bulky shadow. But Frederick very much doubts he represents a particular individual to Henry, which must be why Henry finds it so easy to disregard him.
Not that Henry's much better to Chrom: and that's all the more aggravating. Henry is all irreverence. Oh, he makes himself useful--whatever tar-black pit he spools his magic out of, he destroys Risen and Valmese alike with it. Destroys is the right word--Frederick likes to think the Shepherds vanquish their enemies, but not Henry.
Yes, Frederick remembers Henry. He'd rather he didn't.
Nothing attacks them in the night. Frederick never hands second watch over to Henry, which leaves him exhausted and bleary the next day when they strike semi-permanent camp and he's tasked to put together a training session. Cordelia, Naga bless her, volunteers to hand out practice swords and blunt spears while Frederick delegates setting up targets to Stahl and Sumia. He's blinking all the while. He has trouble concentrating when he's this tired.
He blinks: and Henry's presented himself for inspection too, bright-eyed and sporting a pair of proper trousers. "Hi, Frederick," he says. "I'm here for pain."
Frederick stares. He's too tired for this: for Henry, who looks like pale, well-rested sunshine. "I'm glad that you're starting to take your duties more seriously," he says.
Henry's eyes flick curiously this way and that around the training yard. "How long does it take to learn?"
"That depends on what you're trying to learn, Henry," says Frederick, "and how often you show up."
"I said I was sorry." Henry did not, but from his injured tone, he probably thinks that he did. "Well, I'll make it up to you, right?"
Frederick frowns. "I'm not partnering you. I'll set you up with--Sully, I suppose--"
But he glances behind him and Sully is already getting warmed up with Kellam; around him, the Shepherds are casting sidelong glances at him and Henry. They like a bit of training theater. Already they're giving him and Henry a wide berth, a circle of their own for the teacher's demonstration. Frederick is sourly tempted to disappoint them all anyway and send Henry out to break up a partnership. But he stays his hand. He eyes the pairs, then looks at Henry again, and says, "Go and get a sword from Cordelia."
He watches Henry trundle over. (Cordelia shoots Frederick an unreadable look.) The sword Henry chooses is one-handed and light, the least intimidating of the pile. Frederick selects something heftier for himself and leads Henry back to the cleared-out gravel set aside for their learning match.
He raises his voice for the benefit of the others. "Very well! Henry here has never used a sword before, is that right?"
"Not for fighting!"
Frederick ignores him. "I'm going to teach him the first few basic stances and guards and after that--"
If it weren't for those first few basic stances and guards, Henry would strike him. As it is, Frederick just sees Henry's feet shift into a sideways stance, presenting his flank to his opponent, before he flicks the tip of his sword up and towards Frederick's arm. Frederick knocks it out of the way--Henry springs back and then back again several more steps. He's fast.
Irritation is slow to rise; Frederick just narrows his eyes. This is all very textbook. "Henry. Have you been watching Chrom?"
Henry shifts into another stance. His eyes are dark and uncharacteristically wide. He looks transfixed. "Why would I be watching Chrom?" he says.
Frederick strikes. On the arc upward he smacks Henry's practice sword out of his hand--then the tip brushes Henry across the face with a wet crunch and Henry falls to his knees with his hands clapped over his nose. Blood leaks out through his fingers; he crouches there, bemused, while Frederick steps back.
"Do not," says Frederick, "interrupt me while I'm giving a demonstration. This is for your own benefit. Do you have any questions about this first lesson?"
He expects Henry to burble something smart through his broken nose, but he just shakes his head.
"Good. Get Libra to fix you up," he says and offers Henry his hand.
Henry takes it with one of his own bloodied hands. Frederick pulls him easily to his feet--he's light--and is astonished to find him smiling, genuinely, looking up at Frederick with the most utterly charmed expression Frederick's seen on any Shepherd in recent weeks. Frederick blinks and looks away; but Henry claps him on the arm and then staggers off in the direction of the healers' tent. And this is the start of it.
Henry volunteers for watch with Frederick. Henry spurs his horse up to ride next to Frederick. It's all very baffling--Frederick and Henry aren't friends, or anything approaching it, but Henry seems determined to bother him anyway. "Is this because I broke your nose?" says Frederick wryly on one occasion when Henry trots his horse to keep up with Frederick's.
"Oh, no," Henry dismisses that, waving his free hand. "People have broken my nose before."
What a terrible surprise. Frederick resists the urge to say so; he glances over at Chrom, riding at his shoulder, but Chrom is deep in a squabble with Lissa and paying no attention to Frederick and Henry at the moment. The last thing Frederick wants is more attention from Chrom on the subject of Henry--You should go easier on them, you know, was Chrom's response to the training incident, and then a rueful, but I understand it's easier with some. Chrom is always like this.
Henry looks cheerful and tidy in his robes today, riding astride the little mare the Shepherds managed to scrounge for him. He's a surprisingly good horseman--and a good beginner swordsman by observation, Frederick admits. He wonders what else Henry could be taught to do. What he says is, "You look cheerful today."
"So do you," rejoins Henry, and Frederick realizes that he does. "What's got you in such a good mood?"
Frederick opens his mouth to answer and finds that he doesn't know. He's not used to digging up a source for happiness: unhappiness, certainly, he worries at like a wound.
Instead he says, "You were watching me fight?"
"It's a hell of a show," says Henry without particular shame.
"You should have copied Chrom," Frederick says. "He's the superior swordsman."
Henry giggles. "Liar," he says.
Chrom is right next to them. Frederick's first thought is shock at the possibility that he's let Chrom hear someone insulting him; but when he turns to him, Chrom's still engrossed in his disagreement with his sister. Besides, he can imagine what Chrom would say: well, he's right, maybe, with a teasing, Frederick, you know he's right.
"You're a li-ar," Henry says, sing-song, "and that's a dirty rotten lie." Then he winks at Frederick, presses a small finger to his lips, and then falls back in the ranks again.
Across a campfire he watches Henry darn the holes in his clothing, humming an unfamiliar Plegian melody. Next to Henry and some distance away sits Tharja, her arms around her knees. Frederick wonders about them. Not romantically. Not necessarily. He wonders what they each make of Ylisse--Valm, now--and each other. There's no question why Tharja's still here: Robin sits at the fire adjoining theirs and Tharja's eyes follow her every movement. What does Henry love?
Henry holds up his handiwork to the firelight and lets out a proud little sigh. Frederick half expects him to call Frederick's and Tharja's attention to it, but he just smiles and drops it into his lap. Now Frederick has the uncomfortable awareness of being a voyeur. He looks away--but not before Henry looks up at him and tilts his head with the curiosity of a bird.
The Valmese are driving them back into the water. There's blood in Frederick's eyes--nothing serious, just enough to be distracting. More distracting is the layer of armored Valmese that are pressing them on three sides, chiseling at their line; Frederick can hear Chrom's voice shouting over the chaos. Barely. He cranes his neck to look for him, but now there's another Valmese horseman on his flank--he's been cut off from the others. Frederick mouths a silent oath and tries to calm his horse as a blade clangs off his armor, then another.
A blast of lightning jumps between two of the Valmese horses. Frederick watches them scream and unseat their riders.
When they're all dead, a very sandy Henry pushes himself up from kneeling in the surf. "Can I have a ride?" he shouts with a grin on his face.
Frederick offers him a wordless hand up onto his horse. Then--with a high, heady laugh from Henry--they throw themselves back into the fight.
Next time Frederick doesn't question it when Henry plops himself down to eat with him and Chrom; he doesn't raise an eyebrow when Henry turns up at training with his dulled blade in hand. He's getting better quickly, Frederick observes--he sets Henry to train with Chrom, though Henry throws a look over his shoulder when he does. He watches the two of them dance with their practice swords--Henry stiffly, Chrom with grace.
Henry winces when Chrom lands a blow and a bruise on his sternum, and winces further when Chrom peppers his arms with them; he's got no particular tolerance for pain that outweighs anyone else's, Frederick observes, but he still flexes against his bruises with a modicum of fascination. Morbid creature that he is.
"Frederick," Henry calls. "Fight us."
Frederick's about to say something dismissive, not quite hearing, but Chrom clears his throat. His smile has a mischievous curl in it. "I don't see why not," Chrom says. "It's hardly unfair."
"Milord, with all due respect, it's certainly unfair." Frederick folds his arms behind his back at attention, looking grave. "You've an additional advantage with Henry's help. I don't see how I'm expected to field you both."
To Frederick's chagrin, the two of them both laugh--Henry doubling over in full-body chortles. "Haven't I seen you take on five Risen at one time?" says Chrom. "Shouldn't Henry learn to do the same thing? Teach by example, Frederick."
So that's how Frederick ends up saluting Chrom with his sword and assuming a defensive stance, as Chrom (and Henry) salute him back, while the Shepherds look on--humoring this confounded whim of Chrom's. No, that's not fair. This confounded whim of Henry's.
Henry catches his eye and smiles a tiny smile.
With an outcry, Chrom raises his sword and rushes at Frederick. Silently Henry flicks his up and does the same. Frederick parries Chrom's blow first with ringing force; when Henry attacks him he dispatches him in two moves and sends him sprawling to the ground with a blow to the ribs, just in time to narrowly dodge another strike from Chrom. He can hear Henry breathing heavily on the ground.
Frederick tangles with Chrom for another few moments--swordplay is deceptively short--before shoving him away. Then they close again and within an instant Frederick draws the blunt edge of his blade across Chrom's throat.
Chrom collapses gamely to the ground. Frederick starts to say something, to offer Chrom a hand up--only to feel a bewildering poke next to his spine. The Shepherds laugh.
Frederick sighs. "Henry, I'm not sure what to make of your last move," he says, "considering that you had to come back from the dead in order to carry it out."
"I thought I was Risen."
"Thank you, Henry." But once again--more than once again--Frederick finds himself pulling Henry to his feet.
What does Henry love? Henry loves to spend money, for certain--Robin sends him into town with a allotment for food and medicine and is displeased to find that he's spent it all on new colored fabric for his clothes; she assigns Frederick to go with him next time, with Gaius tagging along. Frederick wonders if there are perhaps more efficient ways to deter Henry and Gaius from wasting Shepherd money. He can think of a few. But that's not what Robin asked, so he stands idle guard while the two young men compare oddly-shaped gourds.
Henry loves the sound of his own voice. He keeps up a stream of chatter while Frederick sharpens his weapons--Frederick listens in spite of himself as he tips his lance to the whetstone. Often he talks about magic: though he doesn't have the same flush of excitement about it that little Ricken does. Rather, Henry speaks of it with offhand utility, as though in a reliable hound. He takes less pleasure in it, more pride.
One day Frederick ventures to ask where he learned. Henry stretches out his fingers in front of his face. "A house with lots and lots of rooms," he says. "And lots and lots of doors."
He doesn't elaborate. He does look up at Frederick, though: "Where'd you learn to be a knight?"
Frederick is unsure how to answer this question, so he opts for the literal, "Ylisstol."
"Never been," says Henry cheerfully. "Just as well. Chrom wouldn't let me have any fun."
Henry loves--training? But it's true: there he is at the crack of dawn when Frederick's rubbing his forehead and personally wishing he was still in bed. He takes punishment with cries of pain and moues of displeasure, but he's always there now. His bladework is getting better. Frederick pits him against Virion until he knocks Virion to the ground--Henry always hits too hard--and then hands him over to Stahl.
Frederick fights him again to assess him. "You're doing well," he says afterward with the tip of his sword resting on Henry's collarbone.
"You're doing better," Henry points out. He rests his hand on Frederick's practice blade and then slides it up the edge, smiling.
"I'll always be doing better, Henry." It comes out before Frederick can think to stop himself. He frowns at himself--but Henry's smile broadens to a grin.
"Right," says Henry. "That's what I'm talking about." He walks hand by hand along the length of the blade, winks up at Frederick, and spins away. Frederick has the urge to catch him. It's no use.
A singed Chrom lays Yen'fay's bloodied sword at Say'ri's feet. Frederick watches her; she doesn't weep and she doesn't thank him. A few paces away Henry and Ricken look on. Frederick wonders if Henry's going to say something inappropriate, but instead Henry peels up the sleeve on his left arm and marvels at the gruesome burn. Frederick rolls his eyes.
They make camp mostly in silence, though a cynical part of Frederick wonders if Chrom is the only Shepherd who mourns the occasion--and he knows that Chrom does, too. A part of Chrom mourns every enemy, even ones he doesn't regret. That's all of them. Of Chrom's regrets, in Frederick's observation, there has only ever been Emmeryn. Perhaps he bears her all the heavier for it.
Henry's arm is still burned. Frederick looks around for him to tell him to have it seen to, but he's nowhere to be found: "I healed him," says Lissa a few minutes later, "and Chrom sent him out for firewood."
Frederick sits down in his armor and waits for Henry to get back. He's tired; his breastplate and backplate are weighing hard on his shoulders and the metal's bitten his skin more than once.
The sun dips low. Frederick's eyes fall to half-lidded before he snaps them open again, two or three times before he glimpses Henry coming back with an armful of firewood.
He holds his hands out for it. "Allow me," he says.
Chrom might demur: you're tired, Frederick. Henry raises his pale eyebrows and drops the bundle into Frederick's arms. "Suit yourself," he says.
Frederick makes the fire while Henry seats himself on a hillock next to him and watches. Frederick wonders tiredly what Henry's thinking about.
"I wonder what kind of Risen you'd make," says Henry. Well, that's one question answered. "Big and scary. Maybe we'd only recognize you by your armor. Wouldn't that be sad!"
"Am I not big and scary?" Frederick doesn't look up from the tinder.
Henry scuffles, shifts position. "The biggest and scariest," he says.
The flames spring to life. Frederick stokes it and sits back. Soon a few of the others will wander over to take advantage of its warmth, he knows; soon they'll have company. He stares into the fire. In his peripheral vision he can see that Henry is looking at him with his head at a slight incline. He expects Henry to say something. Henry's always saying something.
Henry does not, so Frederick feels compelled to. "Why do you take an interest in me?"
"I don't know," Henry bats the question idly back, "why d'you take an interest in me?"
Frederick's gaze snaps over to him. For a moment he has nothing to say to that. Henry peers back at him, half through the fire. "I mean, I could answer my own question," he says. His voice is buttery with amusement. "You think of me as a problem that needs solving, right? Kind of a project you're working on? You don't have to reassure me, I don't take it as an insult! I like being your project, Sir Frederick," he strings out the syllables, "the Wary. I think we're going places together."
Frederick's voice rises in warning. "Henry."
"But that doesn't answer your question." Henry rocks back on his hips. "Why do I like you?"
"Henry--"
"Because you're a decent person," continues Henry. "Ish."
That is not what Frederick was expecting. "I--" He pinches the bridge of his nose through his gloves, "... thank you?"
Henry slides off the hillock and narrowly misses a merry tumble into the fire; Frederick puts out his hands to catch him anyway, but Henry shrugs it off and gets up. He dusts himself off, then leans down with his hands on his knees and grins at Frederick, baring a great number of his teeth. "Ish," he says again.
What does Henry love? Henry loves to kill.
Frederick's experience of battle is impact. Valmese slam into him one by one, trying to wrench open the chinks in his armor; he crashes into them in turn. Henry's, on the other hand, must be momentum: he opens his hands and a shock of dark energy splits the air, sucks the life out of one enemy soldier, then another. Henry laughs, unbloodied--is it just Frederick or does he glow?
He's vulnerable on his feet, though. They're surrounded in the throne room, mired in soldiers, and Frederick is half preoccupied protecting his horse from lances and javelins or he'd sweep Henry up onto the back of his horse himself. He scans the room for Chrom, spots him back to back with Gaius--leaving him in these dubious hands, he returns to the battle at present. He's cleared a path for himself, he notices, to another knight in red. He levels his lance and lowers his head.
When he's done he notices that Henry is struggling with a horse. --A Valmese horse all in red. The horse of a fallen cavalier. It takes Frederick a moment to realize Henry's intention. "Henry--" he starts to shout.
Henry manages to swing himself up by the stirrup. He spurs the horse and it thunders forward in a panic, towards the top of the throne room steps. "Henry!" Frederick shouts, then curses under his breath and follows him.
At this speed the Valmese part around him like water. He still feels the impact, but barely. Blood sprays his face: he has his sword out now. Henry rides like a madman in front of him towards Walhart, Frederick following after. A spell sizzles over Frederick's shoulder. He kills its caster with a downward swing.
He's too late to see Henry, the Plegian, the Shepherd, claim the life of Walhart the Conqueror. He just hears the sound of the spell and the distraught shouts of Walhart's bodyguards and sees Henry turn around in the saddle to greet him. Well done, Frederick's going to say, but no more heroics, please.
The look on Henry's face puts that out of mind. Frederick recoils minutely.
But Henry's eyes just flick up and down and he says, with a whistle, "Look at you."
Frederick glances down. He's covered in Valmese blood. His heart is pounding, he realizes. He hadn't noticed because he feels unimaginably serene. He always does.
"You're not a cavalier, Henry," says Frederick with a grimace of displeasure. His arms are crossed; he's come to Henry's tent for the purposes of arguing with him, it would seem, though his original intent was a lecture. "You don't know how to handle a warhorse in a combat situation."
"I could learn," parries Henry. He's wild-eyed, has been since the battle--Chrom and the others hoisted him half-jokingly onto their shoulders, but his gaze was distracted, tracking elsewhere. "There's nothing stopping me learning."
"Then you're taking this in the wrong order. Henry, you could have been killed."
"We always could've been killed," Henry points out, philosophical. "We're pretty much in a constant state of could've been killed."
"Henry. Take this seriously."
Henry scratches the back of his head with one hand. He sounds blithe when he speaks, but his expression still has that manic aspect. Battle takes a while to wear off with him. Frederick wonders how long it takes to wear off for himself, really. His heart is still racing.
"You know, Frederick," Henry says, and he lifts up to tiptoe to look Frederick--well, closer to in the eye: "I don't think you're actually mad at me." He settles back on his heels.
"I know you think that."
"I don't think you're mad at me at all," says Henry. And he steps forward and goes up on tiptoe again.
This time he kisses Frederick. At the very bottom of his heart, Frederick knows that he was expecting it.
Henry's mouth is soft and easy. It would be. He's very young. Frederick puts both his hands on Henry's shoulders for some reason--forces down temptation, and pushes down on them until Henry slides down from tiptoe again. Henry looks up, expectant.
"Don't change the subject," says Frederick. "You shouldn't be handling a warhorse until you're trained as a cavalier. --If you want that we can talk about it later."
"I thought it was pretty obvious what I wanted." Henry makes a face.
"Later," Frederick repeats and turns to leave the tent.
Afterward Frederick wonders how he's going to face Henry, but it turns out he has little choice in the matter: Henry continues to present himself in Frederick's life without shame. Henry rides next to him, all merrily a-chatter; Henry cooks at the campfire with Tharja and waves at Frederick and shouts for him to join them when he walks by. Sometimes Frederick glances over at Chrom when Henry does this, hoping for an excuse to avoid him, but Chrom just smiles back, unaware and uncomprehending. Chrom spends most of his time with Robin and Lucina these days, in any case. Making up for stolen time. Sometimes he dismisses Frederick: relieves him from duty, is how he puts it.
Frederick hates it. Frederick burns. He shouldn't. But he does.
He has nothing to do and he doesn't want to see Stahl or Sully in this mood. His tent is already up. The fires are burning. So he goes to the armory to check on their stock of lances.
To his surprise, he finds Henry there too. It's no surprise when Henry follows him: it's a bit more unlikely to just find him here. But Henry is testing the edge on a steel blade--holding it up this way and that to check the balance. He glances over his shoulder when Frederick comes in.
"Has anyone ever died accidentally in here?" he asks.
"Hello, Henry. If I'm interrupting I can leave." Most of Frederick hopes that he's interrupting.
"Nope. Stay! Stay forever." Henry turns his attention back to the sword. "You're in a lousy mood," he observes. "Looking for something to do?"
Frederick doesn't answer. He takes a halfhearted look at the lances, but the truth is that yes, he is, and he can't find it. He tests the point of a lance with his fingers. Near him, Henry makes a little pained noise and an "Ow!" and Frederick glances over to see that he's cut his hand on the edge of the sword, maybe by accident. Henry puts his hand to his mouth and sucks on the cut.
"Sharp," he says approvingly.
Frederick says nothing and presents his hand for Henry's. Henry puts out his small one palm-up, revealing a spit-covered cut over the heel of his hand. It's a little deeper than Frederick was expecting. "You should get this looked at," he says and closes Henry's hand into a fist with care.
"Ow," says Henry again. He drops the fist to his side and hefts the sword again with his other hand, returning it to its scabbard. "Thanks."
"There's nothing to thank me for," says Frederick.
He's about to turn away and go when he hears Henry clear his throat. This is unusual. Generally when Henry feels the need to speak his mind, he does so without any particular ceremony. Frederick glances back at him.
Henry has his head at an incline, almost quizzical. "You're stuck on the Exalt, aren't you?" he says.
How strange it is to be reduced to that. Frederick feels a sense of detachment from himself, if anything; he might be moving through water. If anything the inevitability is a bleak comfort. He knows. Henry knows too now. Who else does? Does it matter? He's aware that it'll matter to him soon enough, but for the moment he just pushes his shoulders back and stands tall. He is a knight of Ylisse and the lieutenant commander of the Shepherds. There are standards to be met.
"Prince Chrom has not yet taken the title of Exalt," he says. "Out of respect for his late sister."
There's a silence. Maybe Henry's sucking on his cut again. Then Henry says, "Wow. ... I'm sorry, buddy."
Frederick gives a mirthless smile. Something about "buddy."
Henry walks up to him and puts a ginger hand on his arm. "You could always kill Robin," he says.
"Henry--"
"I could always kill Robin."
"Not amusing, Henry." Frederick's not prepared to entertain the possibility that Henry wasn't joking. Thankfully Henry doesn't contradict him.
He turns to leave and this time he does, but Henry trots after him, at a pitter-patter to keep up. The camp is quiet at this time of night: most people have already retired or gone onto their shifts on watch.
Henry's tent is between the armory and Frederick's, so he follows Frederick most of the way there; when he reaches his own, then, Frederick stops to bid him goodnight. He doesn't know what to say.
Henry leans up and puts his wiry arms around him. Frederick tenses in anticipation of another advance, but Henry just squeezes like a child, in full potential view of everyone. Frederick stands there, unsure of what to do with himself.
"You know, I don't care," says Henry into his shoulder, "and Grima doesn't care, and Naga doesn't care, and a whole lot of people probably just don't care about you at all. Just a thought!"
Frederick leaves Henry in his tent, a little round-eyed ghoul with an afterimage on the backs of Frederick's eyelids. He falls asleep in little time.
He does train Henry as a cavalier. It takes some doing, including fitting him for armor to protect him in the front lines of battle: without it, lifting him onto the back of his horse is so light that Frederick momentarily doubts whether he can withstand a single blow. Henry claps his hands in delight when he's situated, but they're armored in gauntlets, so it just produces a dull clanking sound. Frederick hides a smile.
They face each other on horseback while Chrom officiates. (Chrom likes to officiate: it makes him feel involved. Frederick always lets him.) "Henry," Frederick addresses him, "face me like you would on the field. Pretend that I'm Risen."
"I can't," Henry pipes up from underneath his armor. "There's no such thing as blunt practice magic."
He has a point. Frederick absently pats his horse's neck while he considers a response. "Very well," he says eventually, "face me like you would on the field if you were only a cavalier."
Henry grins. Frederick wonders if Henry would even use blunt practice magic if he had the choice. He half suspects that a tiny part of Henry has always wanted to accidentally kill someone during training. It's probably not his fault. Henry has a craving, a need. Like a moth to the firelight. The best they can do is turn him loose.
Henry gives a smart salute with his sword, and they clash. Soon enough Frederick unseats him. The next time he's faster.
The Risen attack them just before dawn this time, on their way back from Valm. By now they have protocol for handling this: Lon'qu's on watch and buys them time to arm themselves and fall into formation. Chrom and his family are the last to wake and the Shepherds form a protective circle around them while Robin dresses in a hurry and Lucina arms herself. But the creatures are closing fast in a menacing ring, and Frederick has to tear himself away from the royal family to ride out to meet them.
Frederick trots his horse out away from the circle, and is startled to find he has company--Henry follows him at a canter with his new warhorse. "Hey," he says, breathless, as he catches up. "Thought you might like company. Everything's better with a friend!"
Frederick barely has time to contemplate whether that's also an innuendo before the Risen collide with them and they're shoulder-to-shoulder tearing through undead flesh. Frederick hacks through a spine; Henry raises his free hand and destroys several heads with a bright blast. The Risen don't stand a chance. They're dealing death.
At Frederick's shoulder, Henry laughs freely and Frederick finds himself smiling. Henry's right. It is better.
They haven't slept. They go through the day like that. The battle leaves the Shepherds without fatalities and with no more than a few minor injuries, a few cuts on Lon'qu and a dislocated shoulder on Vaike. Still, they have to travel, and Frederick rides alongside Chrom. (Next to them Lissa fusses over an uncommunicative Lon'qu.) He finds his eyelids drooping and counts down the minutes until they make camp in Regna Ferox.
When they pitch their tents again, Gregor and Nowi volunteer for watch and Frederick settles down for once to rest; but he finds he can't. He's filled with misplaced energy. He lies awake with his eyes open, his blanket pulled up to his shoulders.
Outside he hears Panne and Tharja pass him by. He closes his eyes again. The darkness fills up the space inside his tent, unfolds all its dimensions--he may as well be trying to sleep in a limitless space, a lightless plain without end. He wants to get up and strike his lantern again, go out and do something. He does not. He lies there in the expanding dark, feeling every inch of his body.
Eventually the footsteps outside cease and he's alone. He wonders if he can fall asleep now.
He can feel his mind tilting towards it. He closes his eyes and tries to let himself embrace it.
Instead he hears footsteps outside his tent again. These ones stop. Then the flap of his tent opens and with the dim illumination from outside he can see Henry, framed briefly in the light. Henry is mussed and red-eyed. Frederick thinks he can see the beginnings of a dark bruise forming along Henry's fine jawline. He holds the tent flap open for a moment, then steps all the way inside Frederick's tent and into the shadow. The darkness is abrupt; Frederick sits up immediately and defensively under his blanket, as he hears Henry kneel down and crawl forward.
"Henry," Frederick says under his breath, as if he has something to say.
His eyes are adjusting a little. In outline Henry sits down and crosses his legs on the blanket, brushing up against Frederick's feet. If he's peering at Frederick, Frederick can't tell.
"You can't sleep either," he says in a whisper.
Frederick shakes his head. Then he remembers, and murmurs, "No."
"Don't worry, I have a bag."
Frederick blinks. "What?"
But Henry's already scooted up and clambered into Frederick's lap--Frederick doesn't stop him--and twined his arms around Frederick's neck. He presses his mouth to Frederick's again. This time Frederick kisses back: he runs his hands up to Henry's rumpled head and fists one of them in his hair. Henry lets out a muffled giggle and Frederick shushes him. When Henry giggles again Frederick gives him a biting kiss--this time earning a squeak from him, and a little whine. It just makes Frederick harder than ever. He shifts his hips up to grind them into Henry's and Henry squirms on top of him in answer.
He doesn't know how it happens-- That's not true. He's present for all of it. He's doing it. He doesn't know why it happens, afterward. He kisses Henry and Henry strips off his clothing, and then with his pale skinny body half-luminescent in what's left of the light, he works on Frederick's. Henry strokes Frederick with both his hands and then curls on the floor to take Frederick slightly into his mouth--and when Frederick pushes down on his head, he shakes it vehemently. "Nope," he says, out of breath. "I've still got use for this." Then he goes back to his maddening little sucking routine.
Frederick strokes Henry's face and pulls his hair. When Henry bobs his head up for the last time and shakes his head again, he climbs up into Frederick's lap again and starts fussing with his bag.
Multiple objects tumble out onto the ground. Frederick blinks in the gloom--then blinks again when Henry picks one of them up and starts to mumble. "No," he says sharply. "You are not casting a spell on me under these circumstances."
Henry sounds dejected. "But it'd make you really slippery."
They settle on employing just one of the objects. Henry oils him up, which is maddening too, while Frederick touches Henry with slick fingers and makes him wriggle.
Soon he's positioning Henry over him, and then he makes Henry take him all at once, too much at once, such that Henry sucks in a pained breath through his teeth. That snaps Frederick out of it and he thinks, what am I doing, what am I doing--and then he realizes Henry's laughing.
Henry's doubled up in little giggles that Frederick can feel; when he catches his breath he puts his sweaty arms around Frederick's neck again. "I knew it," he says in a sing-song. "I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. ---I knew you'd be like this."
"Like what?" says Frederick under his breath: he repositions Henry a little in an attempt to ease up, but hears Henry hiss out another exhale.
"Just right." Henry shifts position and makes a dissatisfied moue. "--Except when you're getting all chivalrous on me. Gods. How do I make you stop?"
"Henry, don't--"
"Should I talk about Chrom?" Henry sounds faint, but brightening by the word. "I can talk about Chrom."
Frederick shuts him up. He angles his hips up rough and hard again and Henry cries out mid-word--he tips him onto the floor and flips him over and Henry screams. Frederick wonders if he's about to get into the oddest trouble he's ever gotten into with Chrom. But the Shepherds seem to have no trouble with context--which isn't much better, come to think of it--and he closes his eyes and pushes his hand down over Henry's wrist.
Henry pushes back into him when he holds him down, and lets out a strangled laugh when Frederick sinks his teeth into his shoulder. He rakes Frederick's arm to ribbons with his free hand. He bites Frederick's palm when Frederick claps his hand over his mouth to silence him. He's uncontrollable, there's no truly holding something like him down. He's impossible. He's nothing like Frederick's ever had. He's nothing that Frederick can really have at all.
They finish violently. Frederick eases off of Henry and they lie there for a while in the dark, Frederick staring up at the tent, Henry with his forehead to the ground. Frederick wonders what he's going to do. There doesn't seem to be much left.
Soon Henry levers himself up. He inches over and climbs on top of Frederick again, curling up on his chest.
He leans down to touch noses. "Hey," he says.
Frederick reaches up to ruffle his hair.
Henry shifts position and rests his head on Frederick's chest. "I'm listening. You know what sound this is?" he says.
Frederick doesn't answer.
"This is the sound," says Henry, "of you not dying this morning. And this is the sound," he touches Frederick's hand to his throat, "of me not dying this morning."
"Is it?"
"Yup." Henry whistles low. "Try to remember that, Sir Frederick."
There's a storm starting outside, Frederick thinks. He can hear the gravelly thunder. Henry curls up against his side; and Frederick thinks, for once, that maybe he will.