Post by devilinthedetails on Dec 23, 2021 17:02:10 GMT 10
Title: New Year’s Resolutions
Rating: PG-13 for alcohol and alcoholism.
For: wordy
Prompt: SOTL era-any characters or pairings. Fresh knights at that awkward puppy stage where they’re taking on adult responsibilities etc. and trying to navigate their new lives. At the palace, in Corus, on border duty–wherever.
Summary: In their own ways, Raoul, Gary, and Douglass are inspired to make resolutions for the new year.
Notes: Happy holidays and Wishing Tree, wordy! Thank you so much for gifting me a Neal and Duke Baird fic. In return, I’ve written this story for you. It took me an embarrassingly long time to finish it to my satisfaction, but I hope you will think the wait was worth it. Enjoy the fic and best wishes for the approaching new year!
New Year’s Resolutions
“Adulting is hard,” Raoul proclaimed with the gravitas of a graybeard as he lifted what might have been his thirteenth tankard of ale–sums, too, were hard when he had been deep in his cups since sunset and midnight had passed–to his lips. All he knew was that he had consumed at least twice as many tankards of ale as Gary, which, since he was only a little taller and broader than Gary, might have meant that he had dranken too much. Or that Gary had dranken too little.
It was difficult–too much like the mathematics equations Raoul had loathed as a page and squire and now was no longer required to perform, praise be to all the gods– to determine which when his mind felt so muddled. Arithmetic and ale didn’t mix. It didn’t demand a mathematical wizard like Alex to realize that much.
“Adulting.” Gary repeated the word with a chuckle considerably louder than his usual one. His pale cheeks had splotches the color of holly berries in them. “That’s not a word.”
They were sitting at a table in his quarters. Drinking together because they had no one else to drink with, sad as that sounded. Jon had princely meetings to attend. Alex was wrapped up as ever in the affairs of Duke Roger, who seemed not to understand or accept that Alex was no longer his squire and obliged to do his bidding at all hours of the night. And Alan was too young and impressionable for them not to feel guilty about corrupting him with their vices. Francis, most tragic of all, was buried in a pit with a hundred others killed by the same Sweating Sickness that had claimed his life and would never raise a tankard with anyone else again. That last might have been why Raoul drank so much. Perhaps he drank for both of them. Drinking in the ale Francis could no longer taste.
“Iss–” Raoul slurred his s, which gave him time to cobble together a riposte he hoped was witty enough to counter Gary. It was challenging to engage in a battle of wits with Gary while sober. At least doubly so when three sheets to the wind as the sailors so euphemistically put it. “Now. I just invented it.”
He felt a vague flash of pride at having invented anything.
“Some words should never be invented.” Gary shook his head, somewhat denting Raoul’s newly-minted sense of lexical accomplishment. “Some nouns in particular should never be turned into verbs. Adult foremost among them.”
A sharp knock–loud enough to give Raoul a headache–rapped on Gary’s door.
“Come in!” Gary shouted, and Raoul planted his palms over his ears, because everything and everyone was being too cursed noisy for him.
Douglass of Veldine entered, and Raoul was pleased to discover that he wasn’t so drunk he failed to recognize his own squire. How embarrassing would that be for a knight who wished to be deemed remotely respectable?
“It’s time to go, sir.” Bold as brass, Douglass strode up to Raoul and removed the tankard from his hand, setting it down on the table.
“Who says?” Raoul shot Douglass a bleary, bloodshot look.
“You did.” Unabashed by Raoul’s inebriated glare, Douglass lifted his chin. “Hours ago. Before you left. You told me to fetch you from Gary’s quarters if you weren’t back by midnight.”
“I did, did I?” Non-plussed, Raoul’s forehead furrowed. He had no recollection of doing anything so sensible. Rather smug about this burst of maturity he regrettably could no longer remember, he added, “Must have been during one of my rare responsible moments.”
“During one of your rare moments of lucidity, more the like,” muttered Douglass.
Raoul was too intoxicated to have any idea what lucidity meant, although he assumed it was an insult.
Striving to restore some semblance of dignity to his demeanor, he stretched out his hands toward Douglass and ordered, “Help me up now. There’s a good squire.”
With a reproachful head shake but no other complaint, Douglass heaved Raoul out of the chair and supported his knightmaster on a hobbling progress down the hallway and a flight of very winding, dizzying stairs to Raoul’s rooms.
Without Douglass, Raoul never would have made it to his bed, which he collapsed into instantly, falling into a deep sleep punctuated by heavy snoring. He would also likely have drowned in his own vomit–a shameful end for one from as noble a lineage as his–if Douglass hadn’t possessed the foresight to flip him over in bed so he slept on his side.
The next day, Raoul awakened to a sharp spear of light lancing through his head as Douglass yanked the drapes away from his window, revealing a sun that was high in the wintry gray sky, chirping with appalling cheerfulness like a bird trumpeting the dawn, “Rise and shine, sir!”
“It’s too early for rising and shining,” growled Raoul, fumbling for a pillow to tug over his eyes even though the position of the sun suggested that it had to be at least noon. “Let me go back to sleep, squire.”
“No.” Douglass’s jaw clenched. He had many virtues–Raoul wouldn’t have chosen him as squire otherwise–but obedience lamentably wasn’t among them. He had his own mind and was determined to direct Raoul’s schedule with remorselessness and ruthlessness. He was far better at adulting–to use Raoul’s invented word from last night–than Raoul. Especially when Raoul was hungover. And that knowledge made Raoul as irascible as a starving bear. “I made you an appointment with Duke Baird for a hangover cure. That appointment is in half an hour, so you need to get out of bed now, sir.”
“I need to teach you–”Raoul glowered at his squire and in doing so noticed with disgust the pool of sick on the blanket beside him– “that adding sir to any sentence doesn’t make it sufficiently respectful.”
“Sir, please get out of bed and let me take you to Duke Baird.” Something in Douglass’s face started to crumble, and Raoul, irritable as he was, felt a stab of remorse at causing something indefiniable and indescribable–some innocence or adolescent assurance– to break in his squire. “You’ll feel better–be more yourself–once Duke Baird has worked his healing magic on you.”
“Oh, very well. Drag me off to the healers if it means so much to you.” Raoul’s gaze dropped to the vomit staining his sheets and he mumbled with chagrin, although it wasn’t only the throwup he was referring to, “Mithros, I made a mess, didn’t I?”
“Not to worry, sir.” Erstwhile Douglass appeared at his elbow in a heartbeat. Up close, Raoul could see that the boy wore a tired expression as if caring for a too-often drunk knightmaster had burned out some spark inside him. Raoul had never wanted to be the sort of knightmaster who crushed a squire’s spirit, but somehow he had become that by getting lost in his drinking too much. And that thought depressed him so much that he was tempted to seek solace in alcohol–his truest and bluest companion–even though the sun was still high in the sky. It was sunset somewhere, he told himself as he so often did before a midday drinking binge that would put Sir Myles to shame. “I’ll bring these down to the laundry and have them replaced while Duke Baird’s attending to you.”
“I have such a dutiful squire.” Raoul hoped the praise could offset the drunkenness in the ledgers of how Douglass perceived and judged him as a knightmaster.
Douglass further proved his dutifulness by escorting Raoul to the healers’ wing. While Douglass oversaw the changing of his soiled sheets, Duke Baird ran fingers brimming with emerald Gift over Raoul’s temples and stomach, alleviating his raging headache and unpleasant nauseaness. Making it possible for Raoul to contemplate eating without feeling the urge to upchuck again.
“I can cure your symptoms.” Duke Baird fixed somber eyes green as his Gift on Raoul. “But I can’t undo the damage you’re doing to your liver and kidneys every time you drink to excess. You’ll put yourself in an early grave at this rate.”
An early grave. The stark words echoed in Raoul’s mind, hurting worse than any hangover headache. Was that what Raoul wanted? To be dead and buried like Francis? To no longer have to live when Francis was dead? Even though Francis would surely want him to live a long and happy life. A life beyond the narrow confines of a tankard.
As he began his return to his quarters, he wondered if he could break his drinking habit. Less than halfway to his rooms, he discovered that the temptations and opportunities to drink at court were too numerous for him to resist when Jon stopped him in the corridor and reminded him with a grin that he had promised to attend the Midwinter party in the grand ballroom that night. One look at Jon’s face informed Raoul that any argument would be pointless. It was obvious Jon would not accept “no” for an answer.
Since he couldn’t weasel his way out of attending the Midwinter party, Raoul retreated into his quarters before any more invitations he couldn’t refuse were lobbed at him. His bed, he saw, was made up with fresh, clean sheets. Douglass had been faithful to his word, but Raoul had expected no less. It was so easy to take his squire’s steadying presence in his life for granted. Raoul almost couldn’t bear to think about what would happen to him when Douglass was knighted. Whatever order his life had would doubtlessly crash about his ears when Douglass was not around to hold it up.
Trying to distract himself from mororse thoughts of his probable ignomious fate once Douglass was no longer his squire, Raoul flung open his closet and scowled at the array of clothes that made up his wardrobe. It was a Midwinter party he had agreed to attend, which he supposed meant that he should deck himself in some sort of ghastly, festive apparel. The sort of clothes his mother had forced him to buy.
Perhaps something red or green? He pulled a satin scarlet tunic from his wardrobe and laid it out on his blessedly clean bed. Then he grabbed crimson breeches to complete his outfit before second-guessing himself. Was that too much red?
Maybe green breeches would be better with the scarlet tunic. He placed the green breeches beside the tunic on the bed, but found himself equally undecided about wearing them. Did the green clash with the red rather than complement it? What even did it mean for one piece of clothing to complement the other?
Douglass would know. Dressing himself for court functions was apparently another adulting skill at which Raoul was utterly incompetent and overmatched. Crossing his parlor and study, he came to the door of Douglass’s bedroom and knocked on it.
There was the sound of scraping and scrambling on the other side of the door before Douglass shouted in a fair imitation of Duke Gareth’s primest tone, “You may enter!”
This was greeted with laughter from Sacherall of Wellam, Gary’s squire and Douglass’s best friend, who was visiting.
Raoul’s gaze flicked to the strange array of wood carvings, carpentry implements, paintbrushes, and paints that had been hastily stowed–not entirely out of sight–under Douglass’s bed. Mithros only knew what mischief squires these days were up to as the Midwinter spirit of merriment overtook them.
“What are you lads up to with all those paints and carpentry supplies?” Raoul arched an eyebrow. Trying and most likely failing to be a stern, strict knightmaster.
“A Midwinter surprise,” chanted Douglass gaily as if it were some holiday carol.
“Don’t ruin the carpet or any furniture with paint making your Midwinter surprise,” warned Raoul before continuing with his reason for coming to Douglass. His dire need for fashion advice. “When you have a moment, come tell me whether red or green breeches would look better with my scarlet tunic. I have to figure out what to wear for tonight’s Midwinter party.”
“I’d better go.” Sacherell rose from the floor where he and Douglass had been sitting cross-legged on the carpet. “See if my knightmaster needs any help deciding what to wear tonight.”
“He might not,” commented Douglass. “He probably isn’t as hopeless with fashion as my knightmaster.”
“Have you seen the caterpillar over his lip that he calls a moustache? The caterpillar he refuses to shave no matter how many times I suggest he should?” Sacherell snorted. “Hopeless with fashion is a charitable understatement to describe what he is.”
“Hello.” Raoul gave an exaggerated wave of his hand. “I’m right here. Able to hear every word. So please stop talking as if I’m not.”
“You could leave,” Douglass pointed out cheekily. “Then you wouldn’t have to hear.”
Despite his impertinence, he did follow Raoul from the room to provide what fashion guidance he could to his flummoxed knightmaster.
Two nights later, Raoul learned what Douglass’s Midwinter surprise was when his squire presented him with an ornament. An ornament Douglass had seemingly carved and painted for himself. An ornament of Raoul complete with a lance in one hand and a tankard in the other.
“Is that a cup of ale?” Raoul jerked his chin at the ornament. The question tore at his heart. He knew that Douglass would have meant the tankard as a joke, but it cut sword-deep because it seemed so true.
“It doesn’t have to be, sir.” There was a twinkle in Douglass’s eyes. Apparently he didn’t see that he had hurt Raoul. Which was just as well. He didn’t deserve to be burdened by Raoul’s guilt and grief. Certainly not at Midwinter. “It could be a cup of hard cider.”
“But definitely something alcoholic?” Raoul’s stomach clenched like a fist. He felt sick as if he had been drinking. Only this time he hadn’t been. He’d only been reminded of how often he did drink.
“Oh, most definitely.” Douglass nodded.
“Thanks, Douglass.” Raoul patted the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll give this pride of place on my Midwinter tree.”
Raoul felt even worse next time he visited Gary for some holiday drinking and saw an ornament version of Gary–presumably carved and painted by a Sacherell who was none too skilled with a chisel or paintbrush–hanging from the Midwinter tree tucked into the corner. The ornament version of Gary carried piles of books and scrolls rather than a tankard. Even if there was a caterpillar gracing the ornament Gary’s face rather than a moustache.
Raoul would have preferred to be depicted with a caterpillar above his lip than a tankard in his hand.
“Your squire gave you one of those ornaments too?” Raoul sipped at his ale that tasted bitter as failure and disappointed dreams.
“Obviously.” Gary’s lips quirked. He never had much patience for those who stated the instantly apparent.
“Mine has a lance in one hand and a tankard in the other.” Raoul fiddled with the tankard that was currently in his hand even though he hated that it was there. “Looking at it, you’d think all I do is drink. I don’t drink that much, do I, Gary?”
“Everything’s relative.” Gary was pedantic as ever. “Compared to Sir Myles, you don’t drink that much at least.”
“Compared to the court drunk, I don’t drink that much.” Raoul rolled his eyes and lifted his tankard in a mock toast. “Cheers.”
“Don’t pout.” Gary had even less patience for pouting than he did for stating the obvious. “Clearly, the ornament touched a raw nerve, but that’s likely because it held a mirror up to you. Showed you a truth about yourself you didn’t want to face. Made you confront a harsh reality in the guise of a light-hearted holiday gift.”
“Should I stop drinking?” Raoul massaged his temples. Feeling a headache threatening even if he hadn’t dranken much tonight. “Try to break the habit?”
“Well, it is Midwinter,” Gary reminded him. “The season for change. The dawn after the longest, darkest night of the year. The chance to make new year’s resolutions and stick to them.”
“Are you making a new year’s resolution then?” Raoul asked. Somehow it would feel less lonely and scary to try to make such a big change to his life if Gary were attempting a new year’s resolution as well. If his friend was also striving to reshape and redefine himself.
“I am.” Gary gave a very serious nod. “I’m going to read less.”
“Read less?” sputtered Raoul. Never in a million years had he expected to hear Gary resolve to read less. “Don’t most people make new year’s resolutions to read more?”
“I’m not most people,” rejoined Gary. “My new year’s resolution is to read less and train with weapons more. That might remind my squire that I’m not a walking library, and maybe next year I’ll get an ornament where I’m holding some sort of weapon.”
“A pile of books could be a weapon,” Raoul mused, stroking his chin. “If you dropped them with enough force.”
Having committed to his new year’s resolution not to drink, Raoul returned to his quarters early. Early enough to astonish Douglass, who sat polishing Raoul’s sword by the fireplace, and glanced up in surprise as Raoul entered.
“Back so soon, sir?” Douglass was unable to keep the shock from his voice.
“Douglass.” Raoul claimed the seat across from his squire. “We need to talk.”
“Am I in trouble?” Douglass bit his lip. An uncharacteristically nervous gesture from one who was usually confident beyond his years. Adult in his mannerisms.
“No.” Raoul shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as he prepared to embark on what would doubtlessly be a difficult, awkward discussion. An adult discussion for which Raoul hoped to be finally responsible enough. “You’re not in trouble.”
“Oh.” Douglass cocked his head skeptically. “It’s just when people say that, normally it means I’m in trouble and did something wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Raoul gave his squire’s knee a gentle swat. “I did. I’ve been the one drinking too much and too often. That’s what I want to talk to you about. I want you to know that I’ve made a new year’s resolution to drink less. To be more responsible in that way.”
“Really?” Douglass gaped at Raoul. “You mean it?”
“I mean it.” Raoul locked eyes with his squire and nodded. “Midwinter is the time to make big changes. What about you, Douglass? Any new year’s resolutions I should know about?”
“I didn’t have one before.” Douglass’s grin lit the room and made Raoul’s heart shine as well. “Now I do. You’ve inspired me, sir.”
“Well, spit it out.” Raoul waved a hand. “Don’t keep me waiting. The suspense is killing me.”
“I’m going to improve my painting.” Douglass’s smile grew even wider. Wide enough to swallow the rest of his radiant face. “The face I gave you on your ornament didn’t look like you at all. Maybe next year, your ornament will look more like you.”
And maybe next year, Raoul thought, he would be someone more worthy of emulating whether in ornament form or not. That was the hope of the new year, after all.
Rating: PG-13 for alcohol and alcoholism.
For: wordy
Prompt: SOTL era-any characters or pairings. Fresh knights at that awkward puppy stage where they’re taking on adult responsibilities etc. and trying to navigate their new lives. At the palace, in Corus, on border duty–wherever.
Summary: In their own ways, Raoul, Gary, and Douglass are inspired to make resolutions for the new year.
Notes: Happy holidays and Wishing Tree, wordy! Thank you so much for gifting me a Neal and Duke Baird fic. In return, I’ve written this story for you. It took me an embarrassingly long time to finish it to my satisfaction, but I hope you will think the wait was worth it. Enjoy the fic and best wishes for the approaching new year!
New Year’s Resolutions
“Adulting is hard,” Raoul proclaimed with the gravitas of a graybeard as he lifted what might have been his thirteenth tankard of ale–sums, too, were hard when he had been deep in his cups since sunset and midnight had passed–to his lips. All he knew was that he had consumed at least twice as many tankards of ale as Gary, which, since he was only a little taller and broader than Gary, might have meant that he had dranken too much. Or that Gary had dranken too little.
It was difficult–too much like the mathematics equations Raoul had loathed as a page and squire and now was no longer required to perform, praise be to all the gods– to determine which when his mind felt so muddled. Arithmetic and ale didn’t mix. It didn’t demand a mathematical wizard like Alex to realize that much.
“Adulting.” Gary repeated the word with a chuckle considerably louder than his usual one. His pale cheeks had splotches the color of holly berries in them. “That’s not a word.”
They were sitting at a table in his quarters. Drinking together because they had no one else to drink with, sad as that sounded. Jon had princely meetings to attend. Alex was wrapped up as ever in the affairs of Duke Roger, who seemed not to understand or accept that Alex was no longer his squire and obliged to do his bidding at all hours of the night. And Alan was too young and impressionable for them not to feel guilty about corrupting him with their vices. Francis, most tragic of all, was buried in a pit with a hundred others killed by the same Sweating Sickness that had claimed his life and would never raise a tankard with anyone else again. That last might have been why Raoul drank so much. Perhaps he drank for both of them. Drinking in the ale Francis could no longer taste.
“Iss–” Raoul slurred his s, which gave him time to cobble together a riposte he hoped was witty enough to counter Gary. It was challenging to engage in a battle of wits with Gary while sober. At least doubly so when three sheets to the wind as the sailors so euphemistically put it. “Now. I just invented it.”
He felt a vague flash of pride at having invented anything.
“Some words should never be invented.” Gary shook his head, somewhat denting Raoul’s newly-minted sense of lexical accomplishment. “Some nouns in particular should never be turned into verbs. Adult foremost among them.”
A sharp knock–loud enough to give Raoul a headache–rapped on Gary’s door.
“Come in!” Gary shouted, and Raoul planted his palms over his ears, because everything and everyone was being too cursed noisy for him.
Douglass of Veldine entered, and Raoul was pleased to discover that he wasn’t so drunk he failed to recognize his own squire. How embarrassing would that be for a knight who wished to be deemed remotely respectable?
“It’s time to go, sir.” Bold as brass, Douglass strode up to Raoul and removed the tankard from his hand, setting it down on the table.
“Who says?” Raoul shot Douglass a bleary, bloodshot look.
“You did.” Unabashed by Raoul’s inebriated glare, Douglass lifted his chin. “Hours ago. Before you left. You told me to fetch you from Gary’s quarters if you weren’t back by midnight.”
“I did, did I?” Non-plussed, Raoul’s forehead furrowed. He had no recollection of doing anything so sensible. Rather smug about this burst of maturity he regrettably could no longer remember, he added, “Must have been during one of my rare responsible moments.”
“During one of your rare moments of lucidity, more the like,” muttered Douglass.
Raoul was too intoxicated to have any idea what lucidity meant, although he assumed it was an insult.
Striving to restore some semblance of dignity to his demeanor, he stretched out his hands toward Douglass and ordered, “Help me up now. There’s a good squire.”
With a reproachful head shake but no other complaint, Douglass heaved Raoul out of the chair and supported his knightmaster on a hobbling progress down the hallway and a flight of very winding, dizzying stairs to Raoul’s rooms.
Without Douglass, Raoul never would have made it to his bed, which he collapsed into instantly, falling into a deep sleep punctuated by heavy snoring. He would also likely have drowned in his own vomit–a shameful end for one from as noble a lineage as his–if Douglass hadn’t possessed the foresight to flip him over in bed so he slept on his side.
The next day, Raoul awakened to a sharp spear of light lancing through his head as Douglass yanked the drapes away from his window, revealing a sun that was high in the wintry gray sky, chirping with appalling cheerfulness like a bird trumpeting the dawn, “Rise and shine, sir!”
“It’s too early for rising and shining,” growled Raoul, fumbling for a pillow to tug over his eyes even though the position of the sun suggested that it had to be at least noon. “Let me go back to sleep, squire.”
“No.” Douglass’s jaw clenched. He had many virtues–Raoul wouldn’t have chosen him as squire otherwise–but obedience lamentably wasn’t among them. He had his own mind and was determined to direct Raoul’s schedule with remorselessness and ruthlessness. He was far better at adulting–to use Raoul’s invented word from last night–than Raoul. Especially when Raoul was hungover. And that knowledge made Raoul as irascible as a starving bear. “I made you an appointment with Duke Baird for a hangover cure. That appointment is in half an hour, so you need to get out of bed now, sir.”
“I need to teach you–”Raoul glowered at his squire and in doing so noticed with disgust the pool of sick on the blanket beside him– “that adding sir to any sentence doesn’t make it sufficiently respectful.”
“Sir, please get out of bed and let me take you to Duke Baird.” Something in Douglass’s face started to crumble, and Raoul, irritable as he was, felt a stab of remorse at causing something indefiniable and indescribable–some innocence or adolescent assurance– to break in his squire. “You’ll feel better–be more yourself–once Duke Baird has worked his healing magic on you.”
“Oh, very well. Drag me off to the healers if it means so much to you.” Raoul’s gaze dropped to the vomit staining his sheets and he mumbled with chagrin, although it wasn’t only the throwup he was referring to, “Mithros, I made a mess, didn’t I?”
“Not to worry, sir.” Erstwhile Douglass appeared at his elbow in a heartbeat. Up close, Raoul could see that the boy wore a tired expression as if caring for a too-often drunk knightmaster had burned out some spark inside him. Raoul had never wanted to be the sort of knightmaster who crushed a squire’s spirit, but somehow he had become that by getting lost in his drinking too much. And that thought depressed him so much that he was tempted to seek solace in alcohol–his truest and bluest companion–even though the sun was still high in the sky. It was sunset somewhere, he told himself as he so often did before a midday drinking binge that would put Sir Myles to shame. “I’ll bring these down to the laundry and have them replaced while Duke Baird’s attending to you.”
“I have such a dutiful squire.” Raoul hoped the praise could offset the drunkenness in the ledgers of how Douglass perceived and judged him as a knightmaster.
Douglass further proved his dutifulness by escorting Raoul to the healers’ wing. While Douglass oversaw the changing of his soiled sheets, Duke Baird ran fingers brimming with emerald Gift over Raoul’s temples and stomach, alleviating his raging headache and unpleasant nauseaness. Making it possible for Raoul to contemplate eating without feeling the urge to upchuck again.
“I can cure your symptoms.” Duke Baird fixed somber eyes green as his Gift on Raoul. “But I can’t undo the damage you’re doing to your liver and kidneys every time you drink to excess. You’ll put yourself in an early grave at this rate.”
An early grave. The stark words echoed in Raoul’s mind, hurting worse than any hangover headache. Was that what Raoul wanted? To be dead and buried like Francis? To no longer have to live when Francis was dead? Even though Francis would surely want him to live a long and happy life. A life beyond the narrow confines of a tankard.
As he began his return to his quarters, he wondered if he could break his drinking habit. Less than halfway to his rooms, he discovered that the temptations and opportunities to drink at court were too numerous for him to resist when Jon stopped him in the corridor and reminded him with a grin that he had promised to attend the Midwinter party in the grand ballroom that night. One look at Jon’s face informed Raoul that any argument would be pointless. It was obvious Jon would not accept “no” for an answer.
Since he couldn’t weasel his way out of attending the Midwinter party, Raoul retreated into his quarters before any more invitations he couldn’t refuse were lobbed at him. His bed, he saw, was made up with fresh, clean sheets. Douglass had been faithful to his word, but Raoul had expected no less. It was so easy to take his squire’s steadying presence in his life for granted. Raoul almost couldn’t bear to think about what would happen to him when Douglass was knighted. Whatever order his life had would doubtlessly crash about his ears when Douglass was not around to hold it up.
Trying to distract himself from mororse thoughts of his probable ignomious fate once Douglass was no longer his squire, Raoul flung open his closet and scowled at the array of clothes that made up his wardrobe. It was a Midwinter party he had agreed to attend, which he supposed meant that he should deck himself in some sort of ghastly, festive apparel. The sort of clothes his mother had forced him to buy.
Perhaps something red or green? He pulled a satin scarlet tunic from his wardrobe and laid it out on his blessedly clean bed. Then he grabbed crimson breeches to complete his outfit before second-guessing himself. Was that too much red?
Maybe green breeches would be better with the scarlet tunic. He placed the green breeches beside the tunic on the bed, but found himself equally undecided about wearing them. Did the green clash with the red rather than complement it? What even did it mean for one piece of clothing to complement the other?
Douglass would know. Dressing himself for court functions was apparently another adulting skill at which Raoul was utterly incompetent and overmatched. Crossing his parlor and study, he came to the door of Douglass’s bedroom and knocked on it.
There was the sound of scraping and scrambling on the other side of the door before Douglass shouted in a fair imitation of Duke Gareth’s primest tone, “You may enter!”
This was greeted with laughter from Sacherall of Wellam, Gary’s squire and Douglass’s best friend, who was visiting.
Raoul’s gaze flicked to the strange array of wood carvings, carpentry implements, paintbrushes, and paints that had been hastily stowed–not entirely out of sight–under Douglass’s bed. Mithros only knew what mischief squires these days were up to as the Midwinter spirit of merriment overtook them.
“What are you lads up to with all those paints and carpentry supplies?” Raoul arched an eyebrow. Trying and most likely failing to be a stern, strict knightmaster.
“A Midwinter surprise,” chanted Douglass gaily as if it were some holiday carol.
“Don’t ruin the carpet or any furniture with paint making your Midwinter surprise,” warned Raoul before continuing with his reason for coming to Douglass. His dire need for fashion advice. “When you have a moment, come tell me whether red or green breeches would look better with my scarlet tunic. I have to figure out what to wear for tonight’s Midwinter party.”
“I’d better go.” Sacherell rose from the floor where he and Douglass had been sitting cross-legged on the carpet. “See if my knightmaster needs any help deciding what to wear tonight.”
“He might not,” commented Douglass. “He probably isn’t as hopeless with fashion as my knightmaster.”
“Have you seen the caterpillar over his lip that he calls a moustache? The caterpillar he refuses to shave no matter how many times I suggest he should?” Sacherell snorted. “Hopeless with fashion is a charitable understatement to describe what he is.”
“Hello.” Raoul gave an exaggerated wave of his hand. “I’m right here. Able to hear every word. So please stop talking as if I’m not.”
“You could leave,” Douglass pointed out cheekily. “Then you wouldn’t have to hear.”
Despite his impertinence, he did follow Raoul from the room to provide what fashion guidance he could to his flummoxed knightmaster.
Two nights later, Raoul learned what Douglass’s Midwinter surprise was when his squire presented him with an ornament. An ornament Douglass had seemingly carved and painted for himself. An ornament of Raoul complete with a lance in one hand and a tankard in the other.
“Is that a cup of ale?” Raoul jerked his chin at the ornament. The question tore at his heart. He knew that Douglass would have meant the tankard as a joke, but it cut sword-deep because it seemed so true.
“It doesn’t have to be, sir.” There was a twinkle in Douglass’s eyes. Apparently he didn’t see that he had hurt Raoul. Which was just as well. He didn’t deserve to be burdened by Raoul’s guilt and grief. Certainly not at Midwinter. “It could be a cup of hard cider.”
“But definitely something alcoholic?” Raoul’s stomach clenched like a fist. He felt sick as if he had been drinking. Only this time he hadn’t been. He’d only been reminded of how often he did drink.
“Oh, most definitely.” Douglass nodded.
“Thanks, Douglass.” Raoul patted the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll give this pride of place on my Midwinter tree.”
Raoul felt even worse next time he visited Gary for some holiday drinking and saw an ornament version of Gary–presumably carved and painted by a Sacherell who was none too skilled with a chisel or paintbrush–hanging from the Midwinter tree tucked into the corner. The ornament version of Gary carried piles of books and scrolls rather than a tankard. Even if there was a caterpillar gracing the ornament Gary’s face rather than a moustache.
Raoul would have preferred to be depicted with a caterpillar above his lip than a tankard in his hand.
“Your squire gave you one of those ornaments too?” Raoul sipped at his ale that tasted bitter as failure and disappointed dreams.
“Obviously.” Gary’s lips quirked. He never had much patience for those who stated the instantly apparent.
“Mine has a lance in one hand and a tankard in the other.” Raoul fiddled with the tankard that was currently in his hand even though he hated that it was there. “Looking at it, you’d think all I do is drink. I don’t drink that much, do I, Gary?”
“Everything’s relative.” Gary was pedantic as ever. “Compared to Sir Myles, you don’t drink that much at least.”
“Compared to the court drunk, I don’t drink that much.” Raoul rolled his eyes and lifted his tankard in a mock toast. “Cheers.”
“Don’t pout.” Gary had even less patience for pouting than he did for stating the obvious. “Clearly, the ornament touched a raw nerve, but that’s likely because it held a mirror up to you. Showed you a truth about yourself you didn’t want to face. Made you confront a harsh reality in the guise of a light-hearted holiday gift.”
“Should I stop drinking?” Raoul massaged his temples. Feeling a headache threatening even if he hadn’t dranken much tonight. “Try to break the habit?”
“Well, it is Midwinter,” Gary reminded him. “The season for change. The dawn after the longest, darkest night of the year. The chance to make new year’s resolutions and stick to them.”
“Are you making a new year’s resolution then?” Raoul asked. Somehow it would feel less lonely and scary to try to make such a big change to his life if Gary were attempting a new year’s resolution as well. If his friend was also striving to reshape and redefine himself.
“I am.” Gary gave a very serious nod. “I’m going to read less.”
“Read less?” sputtered Raoul. Never in a million years had he expected to hear Gary resolve to read less. “Don’t most people make new year’s resolutions to read more?”
“I’m not most people,” rejoined Gary. “My new year’s resolution is to read less and train with weapons more. That might remind my squire that I’m not a walking library, and maybe next year I’ll get an ornament where I’m holding some sort of weapon.”
“A pile of books could be a weapon,” Raoul mused, stroking his chin. “If you dropped them with enough force.”
Having committed to his new year’s resolution not to drink, Raoul returned to his quarters early. Early enough to astonish Douglass, who sat polishing Raoul’s sword by the fireplace, and glanced up in surprise as Raoul entered.
“Back so soon, sir?” Douglass was unable to keep the shock from his voice.
“Douglass.” Raoul claimed the seat across from his squire. “We need to talk.”
“Am I in trouble?” Douglass bit his lip. An uncharacteristically nervous gesture from one who was usually confident beyond his years. Adult in his mannerisms.
“No.” Raoul shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as he prepared to embark on what would doubtlessly be a difficult, awkward discussion. An adult discussion for which Raoul hoped to be finally responsible enough. “You’re not in trouble.”
“Oh.” Douglass cocked his head skeptically. “It’s just when people say that, normally it means I’m in trouble and did something wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Raoul gave his squire’s knee a gentle swat. “I did. I’ve been the one drinking too much and too often. That’s what I want to talk to you about. I want you to know that I’ve made a new year’s resolution to drink less. To be more responsible in that way.”
“Really?” Douglass gaped at Raoul. “You mean it?”
“I mean it.” Raoul locked eyes with his squire and nodded. “Midwinter is the time to make big changes. What about you, Douglass? Any new year’s resolutions I should know about?”
“I didn’t have one before.” Douglass’s grin lit the room and made Raoul’s heart shine as well. “Now I do. You’ve inspired me, sir.”
“Well, spit it out.” Raoul waved a hand. “Don’t keep me waiting. The suspense is killing me.”
“I’m going to improve my painting.” Douglass’s smile grew even wider. Wide enough to swallow the rest of his radiant face. “The face I gave you on your ornament didn’t look like you at all. Maybe next year, your ornament will look more like you.”
And maybe next year, Raoul thought, he would be someone more worthy of emulating whether in ornament form or not. That was the hope of the new year, after all.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!