Brothers in Arms (Graceling Realm)

[starfishstar]

Fandom: Graceling Realm series by Kristin Cashore

Summary: Giddon and Po: a friendship told in eight years, two or three Council meetings, countless secret missions, two true confessions, and one punch in the nose.

Characters: Giddon, Po, Katsa, Bitterblue

Words: 4,400

Notes: Yuletide gift for owlbeer. And thank you to my fantastic friend A. for beta reading.


Read on AO3, or here below:




Giddon wanted very much to loathe Prince Po.

Take tonight’s Council meeting, for instance: another late-night gathering in the lamplight of Katsa’s workroom, during this long autumn of the Lienid prince who’d invaded their lives and the Council’s work. And there was Prince Po, leaning back in his chair, light glimmering golden from the bits and bobs of jewelry he wore all over his person, with the typical vanity of a Lienid. His sleeves were rolled up carelessly and he attended the conversation through half-closed eyes, looking every inch the spoiled prince he was.

He offered a useful suggestion here or there, but nothing that merited the degree to which he’d managed to draw to him not only Katsa’s attention but that of the whole Council. They flocked around him whenever he was present, fascinated by his strange eyes and his Grace and eager to hear his opinion on every matter, this upstart prince who hadn’t known the first thing about the Council’s work until a few weeks ago.

Because the Council was Katsa’s. Should be Katsa’s. The Council was her doing: her hard work in building it up from nothing, her claim to credit for any small amount of good they managed to do in the world. Why should some outsider get any part of that? Why should some prince sweep into court and capture the hearts of the Council, all while spending his days fighting Katsa like a thug and yet somehow earning praise for it.

Katsa seemed content to let him lounge about and share her glory, but that didn’t mean Giddon had to be. He stared at the prince and thought very hard about Prince Po stealing Katsa’s glory and about how he, Giddon, would look out for her honor even if she wouldn’t look out for it herself.

Po looked up just then, right at Giddon, as though he’d intuited the way Giddon’s thoughts were running. And he gave Giddon a small smile that spoke almost of understanding and apology.

How dare he. How dare he condescend to offer his pity.

Then Po turned from Giddon to offer an opinion on whatever it was Oll had been discussing; Giddon admittedly hadn’t been paying quite close enough attention. Po’s comment seemed to be quite a useful one, judging from Oll’s relieved countenance.

Perhaps the Lienid prince had managed to offer one useful bit of insight tonight, but that didn’t mean Giddon had to like him any better. In fact, Giddon loathed him.

He was doing his best to loathe him.

He definitely loathed him.


*


One thing had to be said, though: proximity to Po seemed to have given Katsa a sense of her own self-worth. Would she have dared, before, to defy Randa like that? Simply refuse to do his bidding and then stride away from the kingdom with her head held high?

Giddon had never even thought to dream so big. He’d wanted to protect Katsa, of course, wanted to shelter her away from the worst of Randa’s wrath. It had never occurred to him to change the rules of the game entirely.

But Po had dared. And Katsa had dared. And now they were gone.


*


Po seemed different, when he finally returned to the Middluns.

Nearly a year had passed since Katsa and Po’s abrupt departure from the kingdom, bound for Monsea and the takedown of a cruel king hiding in plain sight.

Now it was high summer, not yet harvest time, and Giddon had mentioned in his latest encoded letter to Oll and Raffin that he had time available to travel on behalf of the Council, if there was anything that needed doing. (Giddon did sometimes attend Council meetings in person, of course. But he tended to stay away when Katsa was passing through Randa City.)

Now Raffin, for some reason known only to himself, had declared Giddon and Po the pair best suited for a particular reconnaissance mission to Sunder, and packed Po off to meet Giddon at his estate before Giddon had a chance to protest.

Out of obligation, Giddon gritted his teeth and went out to his courtyard to greet the unwanted visitor. Out of obligation, Giddon gave Po a tour of the castle and grounds, since this was the first time the Lienid prince had visited Giddon’s holding. Together they walked through the sunlit courtyards and looked over the rippling fields of grain. Giddon resented every moment of it, knowing that these lands, his own beloved lands, surely amounted to nothing in the eyes of a prince.

But this Po was different from the one Giddon had known the year before; or perhaps Giddon was only more willing to see it. The Po who’d returned from his illness and long recovery over the winter in Monsea was—not quieter, no; quiet was not a word that could ever be used for this effusive, loquacious Lienid. But he seemed thoughtful, attuned to his surroundings with a gentle but all-encompassing interest that was hard not to warm to.

Po greeted each of the servants they passed, and asked their names, and showed none of the lordliness Giddon had expected of this foreign prince. He asked after this and that matter in the daily workings of the castle. He crouched down to converse with a shy little girl who peeked out from behind the legs of her father, one of the head grooms in Giddon’s stables.

When in the end they returned to the central courtyard, Po said, “You’ve got a lovely place, Giddon. Well-kept grounds and a well-run castle. But most of all, the people seem happy to work here. You’re clearly doing something right.”

And Giddon grimaced and thanked him as graciously as he was able.

The next morning, they rode toward Sunder on a narrow forest road that wound between the trunks of tall oaks. This was one of the less frequented routes, and for the most part the path ahead and behind remained empty of other travelers. It made them rather conspicuous, two noblemen on fine horses on this otherwise deserted stretch of road. But that was somewhat the point: the Council had been receiving reports of bandits in this area, and Giddon and Po were here to corroborate that secondhand information with whatever they might be able to discover with their own eyes.

They’d been riding several hours without incident, when Po abruptly reined in his horse, raised a hand and said, “I think I hear something.” 

Giddon pulled up alongside and cast Po a skeptical look, for Giddon’s ears were perfectly good but he had heard nothing.

Less than a minute later, though, came a rustling from the underbrush. A gang of men burst forth and surrounded them, whooping and yelling, obviously intending to win the advantage with speed and intimidation.

But Giddon and Po were ready. Giddon’s sword was in his hand the instant the noise began and Po was even faster, his sword crashing down to meet a knife one of the bandits attempted to thrust at Po’s thigh. Po fought with extraordinary speed and precision, all the while keeping his hood low over his eyes, so none of their adversaries would later tell tales of having seen a Graceling prince where he wasn’t supposed to be.

Giddon and Po fought from a favorable vantage atop their mounts, and they’d had forewarning thanks to Po’s acute senses. Still Giddon was surprised at how quickly the two of them turned the tide against their half dozen attackers. And when Po knocked one of the men out completely, with the broad side of his sword to the top of the man’s head, the other five saw that the battle was lost and fled back into the woods.

Po gazed down at the unconscious man sprawled on the ground beneath them. “He’ll have quite the headache when he wakes,” he commented ruefully. “But better that, I suppose, than both our lives.” He sheathed his sword and dusted off his trousers, not even out of breath. Then he raised his eyes to meet Giddon’s. “I think we’ve obtained the information we were looking for, Lord Giddon. Shall we turn back?”

Prince Po of Lienid was a good fighter. Giddon was willing to grant him that.


*


It had been a long day of making polite, inane conversation with polite, inane courtiers at the Nanderan court. Giddon’s head ached with all the lies he’d had to tell today and all the lies he’d been obligated to listen to. Still, even such tedious Council missions were vastly preferable to the errands he’d once performed for Randa, sent out as little more than a hired thug for a petty, brutish king.

Giddon wondered if he would ever do enough good in the world to make up for all the ill he’d done on King Randa’s behalf.

When at last the evening’s entertainments wound down, Giddon and Po made their way to their rooms in the Nanderan palace. They were nominally visiting in a diplomatic capacity on behalf of King Randa and King Ror respectively, and had been received as such, quartered in fine suites of rooms alongside other visiting nobles.

Giddon glanced over at Po, as they ascended the sweeping staircase: He was chatting with a young Westeran lord whose rooms lay in the same wing of the palace as theirs. Po laughed easily and made idle conversation with the young man, but Giddon had learned to recognize when Po was using an inattentive external demeanor to mask how closely he was attending every nuance of the interaction.

It was almost uncanny, how easily Po could recognize insincerity and surmise the true meaning behind the words a person spoke. There was no doubt about it; he was invaluable on missions such as these.

As they reached doors to their rooms, which stood adjacent, Giddon thought again how much benefit Po had brought when he joined the work of the Council. Giddon had been hasty in his early assessments of Po; he could admit that, now that a couple of years had passed and the sting of Katsa’s rejection had faded to only the faintest ache. Po was an asset to the council, Giddon was not too proud to admit that.

As they bid each other good night, however, Giddon merely said, “Good work tonight.”

Po paused with his hand on the door to his rooms and glanced over at Giddon. A hint of a grin played across his face, as if here, too, he had seen past Giddon’s words and divined what he was really thinking. But Po merely nodded and said, “You too, Giddon. Good night.”


*


“On your left, Giddon! Duck!” Po yelled.

Giddon crouched just in time, as his opponent’s knife arm swung past his head. “Great skies!” Giddon shouted, an expression of startled emotion more than anything else. They didn’t do anything by half measures, these smuggler lords of King Birn’s.

Giddon swung in return and the side of his hand made a satisfying thwack against his attacker’s temple. Po whirled past, grappling with his own opponent and forcing him to the ground.

Po was laughing, Giddon realized. Po was enjoying this fight.

Then Giddon realized he was enjoying it too.


*


“Giddon!” Po exclaimed, almost before Giddon had fully opened the door to the Council’s meeting room. “Good to see you back in one piece.”

Giddon had ridden through dismal weather to get back to Randa City in time for this meeting and he knew he looked it, mud-spattered and bedraggled as he was. But Po leapt up anyway and came to clap a hand to Giddon’s back. Raffin, too, rose and crossed the room to ask Giddon about his days spent scouting in the southernmost reaches of the Middluns. Katsa, of course, only glared at Giddon from her seat at the table.

But, well, one couldn’t have everything. And within the circle of the Council, clearly Katsa’s friendship was the only one Giddon couldn’t have.


*


There was a kind of magic to these days, with of all of them gathered at Queen Bitterblue’s court.

Giddon and Po had ridden hard from Nander, charged with carrying news of King Drowden’s deposal south to Po’s cousin, the young queen of Monsea. The Council wanted Queen Bitterblue forewarned, in case the upheaval in Nander spilled over into others of the Seven Kingdoms.

But then they stayed on much longer than required merely for that task, for Bitterblue City proved an ideal base for their work and Queen Bitterblue herself emerged as a more than capable ally. Katsa and Raffin and Bann converged on the palace, too, and suddenly much of the Council’s core had reassembled, simply in Monsea now rather than the Middluns.

It was a while since they’d last gathered in the same place, what with the ongoing upheavals in Estill and Nander requiring their attention to be in many places at once. It was unexpected and pleasant for Giddon to have these days in Monsea together with his friends, connecting with Monsean supporters of the Council and strategizing for the work still to come.

And now there was Bitterblue, too, who turned out to be a delightful if sometimes baffling conversation partner. She was hard at work untangling her own kingdom’s troubles and often sought out Giddon’s opinion on her latest intractable puzzle.

In the course of their conversations, Giddon was charmed to discover that Bitterblue—nine years his junior and with far more pressing matters of state on her mind—had never even heard about Giddon’s long-ago failed suit with Katsa. It was pleasant to be received for once merely as himself, rather than as the sum of his past missteps.

Not that Giddon could ever disavow his past missteps. And as Randa’s enforcer, there was so much he’d done that was far worse than merely the time he’d spent mooning over Katsa. If Bitterblue was to consider him a friend she would eventually need to know about that, too, about all of the harm Giddon had done before he’d finally begun to redress the balance through his work with the Council.

Still, it was a balm to be granted this unexpected gift, the friendship of a queen who trusted him with her worries and seemed to value his thoughts in return.


*


Giddon’s fist flew

—and he would like to say it was without thought, without meaning to, without wanting to cause Po actual harm, but that wasn’t true—

because he’d wanted to do this for so long, for so long, ever since Po had first dropped into their lives, golden and glimmering, captivating in ways Giddon knew he could never hope to be

—captivating especially to Katsa, who’d never paid that sort of attention to anyone—

and Giddon had wanted to punch Po then, but he hadn’t, of course he hadn’t

—he’d known how to behave himself despite his simmering rage, he’d known how to restrain himself for the sake of the greater good—

and as the years spun by, he and Po had managed to turn that early animosity into real friendship, coming to rely on each other as brothers in battle, as colleagues and confidantes

—but all of that had been a lie—

and now all these years later here was Po saying I can sense people’s thoughts if they relate in some way to me and I’m sorry I never told you

—a years-late poor excuse for an apology—

and Giddon’s fist slammed into Po, who stood there without lifting a hand in his defense, and it turned out there was nothing satisfying about the impact of Giddon’s fist with Po’s face, it was only a moment of cheap release that didn’t fix anything, it didn’t make anything better, Giddon was still a fool who’d allowed his every private emotion to be stolen by a man he’d considered a friend, and Po was still standing there with sad, naked, hurting eyes, being sorry for it, but all the while still knowing every single mortifying thought that crossed Giddon’s mind.

Giddon turned and fled the room.


*


Giddon strode north through the dank Estill tunnel, a pack of supplies on his back, fuming.

How dare Po? How dare he play at friendship—a friendship of equals, no less—while all along he’d kept this despicable secret.

Giddon’s pride smarted at having been deceived for so very long, at clearly having been deemed unworthy of entrusting with this knowledge of what Po was. And his conscience writhed to think of all the terrible things he’d thought about Po in those early days, and to know now that Po had known. But said nothing about it. And let Giddon go on being awful, secure in the belief that those worst parts of himself would never leave the safety of his own head.

Giddon seethed and marched northward, unseeing of the dripping rock walls around him, unfeeling of the cold.

His friend—his closest friend—had been stealing Giddon’s thoughts for all the years they’d known each other. That Po didn’t choose for it to happen didn’t help. It still happened.

And Giddon… He had known, hadn’t he? Or at least he’d strongly suspected. But he hadn’t wanted to know, so he’d managed to put it out of his mind, over and over again.

And gone on trusting Po.


*


Oddly enough, it was seeing Po again that began to make it better.

Giddon was damp from the snowfall he’d traveled through to return to Bitterblue City; Po was recovering from a sudden illness that had taken him down in Giddon’s absence. Po looked pale and too thin, and Giddon had had nearly three weeks in Estill to rage in endless circles in his head and wear himself out. The worst of it was past.

“Sit down,” Giddon said, and kept watch until he’d ensured Po got some food into his too-thin frame. They were in the palace kitchens with the queen herself, for Bitterblue had been the first person Giddon encountered when he stepped into the great courtyard on his arrival back from Estill. She’d been sitting by her fountain, immersed in her thoughts and concerns, unheeding of the fountain’s cold spray and the chill in the air. Giddon had asked her if she would join him in the kitchens, since she looked like she could do with a hearty, hot meal as much as Giddon could after his long day of travel. Po joined them soon after, so Giddon made sure he ate as well.

During Giddon’s short absence from the Monsean court, there had been a number of ever more sinister intrigues and, most worryingly, an attempt on the queen’s life. And all that was on top of the growing crisis in Estill. It was more than enough to carry the three of them through a mealtime conversation, once Giddon and Po had expressed their mutual apologies.

The next days were a bit of a muddle, as Giddon and Po relearned how to work together. It was painful to find that it required effort, now, to become once again the seamless team they’d been before.

In the course of those days they strategized and planned; they conferred with Raffin and Bann; and they worried for Katsa, who’d been away now far too long, exploring a tunnel that should have been the work of a mere few days.

Much as he was trying to forgive his friend for the long deception, and even understood rationally why it had been necessary, Giddon still experienced flashes of anger. Which he would then try to rein in, for fear Po would become aware of them. The spiral only worsened, the more Giddon thought about Po in relation to the thoughts he was trying not to reveal to Po.

And Po, for his part, would catch himself engaged in the small deceits he’d always used to protect his secret—pretending to see, pretending to ask Giddon’s opinion when clearly he already knew it—and then stop, chagrined, not quite knowing how to proceed. Giddon had never seen confident, communicative Po so wrong-footed. And then Giddon would begin to feel guilty for all the ways Po was feeling guilty for something that wasn’t ultimately his fault, and the cycle would begin again.

It took work, learning how to be Po’s friend again in this new and uncomfortable understanding of their reality. That and the Estill business took up most of Giddon’s attention—until something happened that knocked all else from Giddon’s mind.


*


It was the queen—Bitterblue—who came to find Giddon, after the terrible news arrived from the Middluns: In a fit of retribution, Randa had stripped Giddon of his title, declared him a traitor and, far worse, razed his estate to the ground.

Giddon stared at the wall of his room in the Monsean palace, eyes dry and unblinking, unable to feel a thing. Title, wealth, good standing at the Middluns court; those things no longer mattered much to Giddon. But his lands—those rich, rolling, fertile fields. And worth more than that to him, far more, were the people who depended on those fields for their livelihood, tilling the earth and living from its fruits. The cheerful faces Giddon saw around the castle whenever he was at home, people hanging laundry and churning butter and doing all the daily tasks that made a life. Those people had depended on Giddon for their wellbeing and he had failed them. He hoped they had all gotten out safely. He hoped at least they’d gotten out.

Now Bitterblue was kneeling before him, holding and kissing his hands, looking up at him with a face wet with tears.

“You’re crying,” Giddon said in wonder, reaching out to cup her face and wipe her tears. It seemed a miracle: that someone in the world could still feel; that Bitterblue was here, with her hands touching his and her great, loving heart taking on this burden that Giddon’s could not.

Bitterblue, with her unshakeable belief that Giddon could not only survive this but someday make it right: she herself was a miracle.


*


“You could tell her how you feel, you know,” Po said.

Giddon sat bolt upright. He’d been reclining on one of the low walls in the back garden of Bitterblue’s castle, enjoying the mild spring weather and letting his mind wander, but now he was entirely alert. He shot a glance at Po, but Po didn’t look up. He lounged beside Giddon, whittling a set of wings for a little wooden flying machine he’d been tinkering with, the latest in a series of experiments that had succeeded his earlier run of paper gliders.

Giddon thought about protesting that he had no idea what Po was talking about, but gave up on the idea before he’d even begun to voice it. This was Po, after all. It was too late to hide any thoughts.

Giddon sighed and slumped down again, feeling the rough stones against his back. “I wouldn’t burden Bitterblue with that.”

“Why should your high regard be a burden?” Po asked mildly, his hands deft in their work, his gaze unfocused since he no longer had to pretend in front of Giddon to be seeing the work of his hands.

Now Giddon sent him a truly disbelieving stare, making sure Po could feel just how obtuse Giddon thought he was being. “I’m far too old for her. She’s a queen and I’m landless, no longer even a lord. But more than any of that, I’m not good enough for her. Not nearly. Bitterblue deserves someone like herself, and she is so constantly and utterly good.”

Po laughed. “Giddon, I assure you, my cousin is a normal mortal. She has her tempers like any of the rest of us.”

“But they’re always in the service of trying to do what’s right,” Giddon said earnestly, leaning forward again, trying to make Po understand. “Every day, Bitterblue is trying to understand the world even better than before, so she can do right by her country and by those she cares about. I admire her for that. I admire her for her kindness and for her perseverance.”

“All right, all right!” Po waved one hand, the blade of his paring knife flashing bright in the sunlight. “My cousin is a paragon of earthly good and no man or woman shall ever be worthy of her.”

“You mock, but she is all of those things,” Giddon said quietly. “I try to model my own way of being after Bitterblue’s, for I know she won’t steer me wrong.”

Po’s hands stilled and he turned his gaze to Giddon, his eyes focusing although they didn’t need to. “I apologize,” Po said, his tone now matching Giddon’s in solemnity. “I shouldn’t have teased. I didn’t realize you were so serious about it.”

Giddon shrugged, embarrassed now. “It’s no matter. I can admire her simply as a friend.”

“Giddon,” Po said. “Bitterblue is a worthy person, it’s true. And so are you.” He reached out to clap Giddon on the shoulder. “You ought to tell her how you feel. Let her be the one to decide what she makes of it.”

“Perhaps,” Giddon said, slowly shaking his head. “One day, perhaps.”


*


It was a dappled autumn day, one of those rare lulls with no crises brewing, no smoldering revolutions the Council needed to quench or fan into flame. Po came and found Giddon in their accustomed spot in the back garden, where he’d been enjoying the sunlight and vaguely thinking of going in search of some lunch.

“Come,” Po said, holding out a hand. “Don’t you think this is the sort of afternoon when we ought to find ourselves an adventure?”

Giddon laughed, but let Po pull him up from the stone wall. “An adventure? Where to?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Po. “But I expect we’ll find something, don’t you think?”

Giddon, feeling suddenly mischievous, cast a glance at Po and said, “I’ll race you to the stables!” Then he took off running, before Po could protest at Giddon’s unfair head start.

Po chased after him, laughing and calling out threats he had no intention of carrying out. Giddon beat him to the stables, but only by a hair. Side by side they saddled up their horses, who whickered and tossed their heads, as eager as their riders to be off exploring this crisp afternoon.

Once they were mounted, Po cocked his head in Giddon’s direction and grinned. “Ready for an adventure?”

Giddon grinned back. “Always.”

.