In The Quiet (Baine/Lytton)

---

The training yard is busy. Bodies moving, voices rising and falling, steel hitting steel ringing out. Their numbers are still growing, slowly but steadily. Baine counts them all, memorizing their faces, their strengths, their weaknesses, their fears. They are his to care for and to train, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do it properly. Ghesh comes by every now and then when he’s not busy becoming a legend up in Kundar. Watching eight squeaks try to take down a single dragonborn and fail miserably is always a fun afternoon. (And failure is a good way to learn, or so he’s been told.)

Other days, Lytton visits and runs drills with unexpected patience. His voice is gruff and his mannerisms are still those of a man twice his age but he wasn’t taught the art of Not Dying While You’re Killing by a ferocious Vorstborn and it shows. He doles out his hard-won wisdom and the squeaks have come to understand that when Ser Lytton Trask speaks, you’ll do best to listen.

Sometimes newer recruits haven’t quite caught on to who he is and why they should be taking instruction from a fresh-faced 22 year old in shining plate, but they’re quickly stripped of any illusions they may harbor about Lytton’s competence - or lack thereof. He’s a seasoned veteran in a younger man’s body and he drops them ruthlessly in the dirt without breaking a sweat, everytime. It’s almost as entertaining to watch as five rounds of Ghesh.

Zunus sidles up next to Baine under the awning where he’s watching a smart-mouthed young man hit the dirt hard enough to get the wind knocked out of him.

“I see someone didn’t know about Ser Lytton.”

Baine doesn’t look away but shakes his head with a small grin.

“They never do in the beginnin’.”

“Drooling, are we, Ser?”

“I’ll have you know, Captain, this is nothin’ but professional interest.”

“Is that what they call it these days, Ser?”

“I am simply admirin’ the immense skill and precision of a fellow fighter.”

“If you say so, Ser. I will however be calling for dinner before you undress Ser Lytton with your professional eyes.”

“I trust your judgement in this matter as always, Captain.”

“Good man.”

A loud bell rings from inside the mess hall and slowly the yard empties; all those faces and voices and bodies memorized, descend upon their hard-earned evening meal.

Squinting a little in the last true rays of summer sunshine, Lytton sheaths his sword and hefts his shield before walking over.

“Do you know how hard it is to teach footwork when I have you leering at me from across the yard?”

“I’m not leerin’!”

“No? What would you call it then?”

“Admirin’? Appreciatin’? What’s another fancy word - oh, yearnin’.”

Lytton rolls his eyes but can’t hide the blush creeping across his face, so Baine counts it as a win.

“Stay for dinner?”

The other man thinks for a second before nodding.

“Aye, should be alright for tonight.”

Baine decides to push his luck.

“Stay the night?”

Lytton shoots back without a moment's pause.

“Have you finished the walls?”

“...Almost.”

“That’s a no then.”

“This is cruel. Torture, even.”

“Is that what you’d call it? I’d say it’s more of an incentive.”

With a quirk of his eyebrows, Ser Lytton turns on his heel and makes his way towards the mess.

---

The red dust of Avernus is filling his nose, his mouth, his lungs. It’s clogging his throat as he tries to scream, as he searches. Kamar’s empty eyes follow him wherever he goes, no matter how far he runs. In the distance, Varis is a shapeless form, bound in chains. She’s found them, she’s come for them at last, and now she won’t ever let them go. The Sanguine Rose holds both of their souls, all three of their souls, and she won’t ever let them go. Te’Zeer’s voice drifts through his mind like smoke, mocking him, and she won’t ever let them go. Somewhere far away, Sweet cries out for help, asking him why he didn’t-

“Wake up. You’re not there. Wake up.”

He comes to with a start, back in his bed, back at the compound. His heart hammers in his chest and the blankets are in a messy pile at the foot of the bed. The chilly night air prickles against his sweat-damp skin. He’s halfway out of the bed, reaching for his maul, but a hand is clamped tightly around his wrist, a thumb worrying at his clenched fist.

“You’re not there. It’s alright, love. You’re home. You’re safe.”

His wild eyes find Lytton’s in the darkness and before he can ask, Lytton answers.

“Both of youse. The contract is torn. You’re home. She’s dead. You’re both safe.”

Lytton wouldn’t lie to him. He’s home. He’s safe. He falls slowly back onto the bed, shaking apart in Lytton’s arms, his forehead against the other man’s collarbone, his hands and breath trembling.

“She’s dead, and the contract is torn. She won’t ever get you. Neither of you.”

When he’s calmed again, Lytton covers them both in the blankets again to stop the autumn chill from settling in their bones. He lies down facing Baine, their hands clasped between them.

“Did I scream?”

While allowing them privacy, the walls that make up Baine’s room in the barracks are only wood, but Lytton shakes his head before pulling him even closer.

“No. And even if you did, not one of them would judge you for it.”

---

“It’s okay. You can ask.”

“...”

“I promise. It’s okay.”

“D’you still love him?”

“Lytton. I will love Varis, until the day I die. He made me who I am. He saved me from the person I would have become. I still love him, but not like that. Not anymore. And even back when I did, I think I loved the idea of him. Now, he’s my commander and my brother. I still love him. But I’m in love with you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

---

Sunny winter mornings are Baine’s favourites. Nothing compares to a cold, clear night chased away by a bright, defiant sunrise. The only thing better is a sunny winter morning on the roof of the stables, with Lytton. They don’t happen often, but that’s okay too. Frankie’s winter coat is thick enough to sink into and when he curls around them both on the small platform it’s cramped, and warm, and perfect.

“There’s talk again,” Lytton says. “About going.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“Not sure. Heard someone say Mirabar.”

“Where’s that?”

“Up towards the Spine.”

“Fuckin’ hell. Sounds cold.”

“Aye. It’s only talk though. Nothing said for sure. We’ve found a fair amount to do here an’ all. Don’t know if anythin’ll come of it.”

Baine nods thoughtfully. Frankie curls tighter around them both. He was never very happy with the prospect of the Sword of the Dawn packing up and leaving.

“I’ve decided somethin’,” Baine says. “About you goin’. Well. I’ve thought about it and I’ve come to a realization, maybe. More than a decision.”

“Careful now, you’ll hurt yourself. It’s not even seven bells.”

“Fuck off, I’m realizin’ shit. Anyway. If you left, it wouldn’t matter.”

Lytton gives him a doubtful look.

“It wouldn’t matter to me, I mean. It wouldn’t change anything. ‘Cause wherever you went, my heart would go with you. I’d still love you and I wouldn’t stop. And eventually something big will probably break something important around these parts - it seems to happen every six months or so, now that I think about it - and then you’d have to come back with your magical pavilion and your polished plate-”

“You wear a literal gold cloak out of spun gold-”

“And you’d save the day and I’d get to see you. You’d come back to me.”

Lytton frowns a little harder, studying the sunrise intently before looking back at Baine.

“You’d wait? Even if you didn’t know how long it would be?”

Baine smiles, helplessly, like he always does when he looks at Lytton for too long.

“Yes. I would.”

Lytton blushes, like he always does when Baine looks at him for too long.

“I’ll wait for you. I promise.”

---

The rings are solid gold, with a carved sun, an evening primrose and anemones. There’s no ceremony, no big announcement, only a promise.