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They were calling it Liberation Day. A full year had passed since Queen Meve's ragtag army had pulled off an impossible coup; retaking the impenetrable Rivia Castle and wresting the Twin Kingdoms away from imperial control.
The entire capitol was celebrating. Meve's council had suggested - wisely, which was rare for them - that a new national holiday would keep her victory fresh in the minds of her people and further the unity between Lyria, Rivia, and their allies. The castle cook invented a sweet for the holiday, a thin cookie sweetened with honey and stamped with an emblem of a shattered sun. According to the new tradition, before consumption the cookie would be held by two people and snapped in half with the two then sharing the pieces. This was intended to symbolize the many forces that contributed to Nilfgaard's defeat.
Another invented tradition was the bestowing of a new military honor. In a public ceremony the families of the soldiers who had perished infiltrating the castle were awarded the Order of the Golden Stag. Meve had given out these medals herself. In her speech, she credited the continued liberty of the Twin Kingdoms to the valorous sacrifice of the honorees. The medals had gleamed in the afternoon sun, bearing the heraldic stag of House Odo. The following year the honor would be granted to a new cohort of soldiers who displayed outstanding valor.
The symbol of the stag would live on even though the bloodline would not. Reynard had left no heirs, his elderly parents now the last living members of his house.
After the ceremony, Meve put in obligatory public appearances at a series of events. The brewer's guild was tapping kegs of an ale brewed for the occasion. In the city centre a mummer's troupe was performing a dramatization of the fight for Rivia Castle and the cowardly flight of Ardal aep Dahy. Her court was hosting a ball.
By midnight the festivities showed no sign of abating, but Meve was exhausted. Hoping that nobody would notice her absence, she retreated to the castle library in search of some peace. To her relief, the library was empty, and she settled into a chair near the hearth with a book plucked from a shelf at random. She paged through it idly, skimming the text but not taking anything in.
Her peace did not last long, as the creak of the door startled her out of the stupor she had fallen into. But her irritation faded at the sight of a dearly familiar face peering around a bookcase.
"Gascon," she smiled, "I'd given up on finding you in that crowd."
"And I did not want to be found," Gascon replied, "by anyone save her Majesty, o' course." He settled into the chair next to her and set a large bottle on the table. "From my latest trip. Redanian dark ale."
Without glasses or tankards, they took turns drinking straight from the bottle. Meve leaned her elbows on the table. "Did you uncover any useful information while you were at Radovid's court?"
"Loads," Gascon took a long sip, "but you don't really want to talk politics right now, do ya?"
"I do not," Meve replied with a grateful smile, "very astute, spymaster."
Gascon returned her smile. "Part of my job."
They continued to drink in silence. It was an easy silence, warm and comforting. Being here with Gascon, she felt no obligation to perform; to put on airs and be the gracious diplomat. She could simply sit and drink ale in a distinctly un-regal manner with a dear friend. The tension started to slowly drain out of Meve's shoulders.
Gascon stretched and put his feet up on the empty chair across from him. "Is there anything you would like to talk about?"
She sighed and reached for the bottle. They were about a quarter of the way through it, drinking slowly to savor the rich, bitter taste. The ale was strong as well, so there was no need to rush through it. Meve took a small sip. "He would scold us for drinking like this, were he here."
"That he would," Gascon agreed. He sat quietly as he waited for her to continue. She tended to avoid talking about Reynard. His absence sat like a stone in the pit of her stomach, heaver some days than others. This day, one year since his death, was a heavy day indeed. Gascon laid his hand, palm facing upwards, on the table. Meve slipped her fingers into his.
"He would be proud of you, you know," she murmured, squeezing Gascon's hand. "Intelligence work was never his strongest skill, and he would be gladdened that Lyria and Rivia finally have an edge in such clandestine matters."
"Aye, my Strays have done fine work."
"Due to your leadership."
"Ah, that may be a piece of it, but don't underestimate their loyalty t' you, my queen. You earned their admiration fair and square."
"That is kind of you to say."
"It's true," Gascon shrugged and reached for the bottle. "He'd be proud of you too, Meve. Fiercely proud."
The silence grew heavy, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Their own memories. It went without saying that they each missed Reynard terribly. Missed his council and expertise as well as his friendship. They'd grown so accustomed to making decisions as a trio during the war. When it was just the two of them, that absence was felt more keenly.
Breaking the silence, Meve chuckled and said, "I don't think he would be proud of me shirking my official duties to get drunk in th' library."
"Eh, we're not drunk yet. And you might be surprised. I don't know if you ever noticed, but whenever you said somethin' particularly improper - like when you told Aep Dahy to go plough himself - he'd turn his head away to conceal a smile."
"Would he really? I never caught that."
"And when you asked th' two of us if we'd been sitting around with our thumbs up our arses, I think he blushed for a week straight."
Meve choked on her mouthful of ale. "Now that I remember."
The conversation waned once more. Outside the library, Meve could still detect the vague murmur of the crowd below. At this rate, her courtiers would likely be drinking until dawn. Oh, well. Some would count that as the only decent measure of a proper celebration.
Across from her, Gascon shifted in his chair. He clearly had something to say, but was holding his tongue. An unusual display of restraint for him. Meve lifted an eyebrow in a silent query. He fidgeted a bit longer before asking,
"Did… did th' two of you ever…"
The bluntness of the question took Meve by surprise, and she almost instinctively scolded Gascon for his impudence. But she hesitated. Gascon was the only person she could truly speak to openly about anything as personal as this. Part of her ached to unburden herself of the closely-guarded secret. So she answered honestly. "A few times. First was after we crossed into Rivia from Angren, and then from there it was- well, whenever we could find time or privacy, really. And gods know we were all short on both." She spoke with her eyes fixed on the surface of the table, embarrassment blooming on her cheeks. When she looked up, Gascon was staring at her, slack-jawed. "What? Is it so shocking?"
"No, but, uh- I meant- I was tryin' to ask… did th' two of you ever fess up to havin' feelings for one another."
"Oh," Meve felt her blush deepen, worsened by the alcohol, "well, yes."
Gascon's shock dissolved into a fit of laughter and Meve could not help herself from smiling sheepishly.
"I'm sorry," Gascon tried to catch his breath, "I shouldn't laugh, I just- didn't expect you to… took me by surprise is all."
Meve slapped his forearm. "Oh, hush. 'Tis hardly my fault that I've come to expect such prying questions from you."
"I'm glad, though, Meve. Truly," his smile turned wistful, "it does my heart good to know that he - that you both - found some joy before…" He didn't need to finish the thought. Meve's gaze drifted over to the smoldering hearth.
The fire was burning low and the noise from the ballroom was finally starting to taper off as the bells rang out. One hour past midnight. Yet neither the queen nor her right hand made any move to stand. Neither of them were likely to find sleep tonight anyway, and their opportunities to simply enjoy one another's company were rare.
When Meve looked back across the table, she saw a cheeky grin spreading over Gascon's face. "So… what was he like?"
"Gascon!"
"Swear I'm not askin' for details," he protested, raising his hands in mock surrender, "I just can't imagine him with his guard down. Picture I've got in my head, you're both in full plate armour."
Meve shook her head, suppressing a smile. "He was still serious. Always serious."
She recalled how Reynard would tense at any noise or movement outside her tent. He had never seemed to fully lose himself in ecstasy as Meve did. They never had enough time together, always aware of the duties that awaited them outside the few moments of pleasure they could find. His single-minded focus followed him into bed, where he devoted himself to pleasing his queen. But beneath his calculated movements there was a hint of wild abandon that Meve had longed to coax out of him. The hunger in his kisses, the trembling in his limbs. The way his eyes would glaze over, losing focus when he reached his own climax.
It had been rare, but occasionally she had convinced him to stay the night with her. Those were her fondest memories. Their pillow talk had included more supply logistics and battlefield tactics than one might expect; but she dearly missed being pressed against his body in the dark, listening to the low cadence of his voice and stroking a thumb back and forth across his cheek as he spoke. It had been rare for her to rise before he did, but when she did she found a quiet satisfaction in watching him. Finally relaxed in sleep, his stern features slack and his breathing slow and deep. Greying hair tousled and messy. It was a rare, precious sight. She would watch as he gradually stirred then jolted into wakefulness all at once. A habit from his long career as a soldier.
Some of these memories she shared with Gascon, blushing like a maiden. But talking about Reynard lifted some of the burden in her heavy heart, made him feel close.
"I miss him," she concluded, "it aches, to miss someone so much. Aches down to my bones sometimes."
"Oh, Meve." Gascon's voice was tender and full of sorrow, devoid of his usual mirthful spark. He picked up the bottle and raised it solemnly. "To Reynard," he said, "to his memory."
"To Reynard," Meve echoed, drinking deep of the rich ale.
"Hey," Gascon said, his expression brightening, "did I ever tell you about th' time he asked me to pluck a leech off his arse?"
"He what?" Meve sputtered.
"We were in Angren. He couldn't reach it and was too embarrassed to go to Isbel. So, I might've seen th' dear general's bits before you did."
By the time Meve got her laughter under control there were tears in her eyes. "Oh, gods," she swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, "to ask that of you must have taken all his courage."
"Certainly seemed to."
They swapped fond remembrances while they drained the rest of the bottle. By the time it was empty, Meve was more than tipsy. Gascon offered her his arm as she stood. He walked her to her rooms, ducking out of sight when a pair of castle guards walked past. The court had enough to gossip about already, they didn't need to learn that the queen had been spotted in the small hours of the morning hanging off of Duke Brossard's arm.
When they reached her rooms, Gascon released her arm and bowed.
"Thank you, Gascon. For the escort, and for seeking out my company."
"My pleasure, your Grace," he grinned. More seriously, he lowered his voice and asked, "same time next year?"
Meve leaned in to quickly kiss him on the cheek. "Sounds like a new tradition."