Of All The Lesser Passions

It’s hard work, being the prettiest and most interesting person in the world. After three hours of riffing on birdsong, saying progressively stupider things to see if anyone’s actually listening, and generally making the road a less dull place to be, Wilkas thinks he’s earned a break.

Unfortunately, it seems that Atticus disagrees with him. As soon as Wilkas has sat down, claimed the most chairlike tree stump in the clearing for himself, gotten comfortable—there’s Atticus, standing over him, blocking out his sunlight, face unreadable.

A familiar thought crosses Wilkas’ mind, tinged with a note of dread.

I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

“What do you want?” Wilkas finally asks, only after expecting Atticus to say something—y’know, like a normal person—doesn’t work.

“The last time we were in a fight, you were thrown fifty feet by an owlbear.”

Oh, come on. “That was weeks ago—”

“It was embarrassing to watch.”

“Atticus, sweetheart,” Wilkas sighs, “I’m trying to bask in the sunlight and you’re really fucking it up for me.”

Atticus snorts, but stays put. “You can go right back to it once you prove to me you won’t get yourself killed.”

“What, you want a fight?” Wilkas jokes—then realises that Atticus isn’t. His laughter dies a tragic and slow death. “You cannot be serious.”

Atticus nudges Wilkas’ shin with his foot. “Get up.”

“Ow.”

“That did not hurt.”

“Yes, it did. Emotionally.” Reluctantly, Wilkas gets to his feet, slipping past Atticus.

“Emotionally,” Atticus repeats. “Right. Where do you think you’re going?”

“…To the wagon?” Wilkas throws him a puzzled look. “To get my lute?”

“You won’t need it.”

He can’t help but laugh. “First you want a fight, now you want me barehanded. If you want me to surrender to you, you can just ask.”

Atticus gestures to Wilkas’ hip. “You have a sword.”

And—well—he does have a sword.

The rapier is custom expensive and gorgeous, leather scabbard dyed indigo and adorned with gold wherever possible, gold that Wilkas is fairly certain is real. He’s frequently drawn it just to show off; it’s his most valuable statement piece, albeit a statement something along the lines of control yourselves, boys: I’m armed. The matching dagger decorates his right thigh—he can only assume it’s as pretty, since it’s never left its sheath.

He’s got better odds of killing someone with a necklace.

Wilkas turns back, strategically toying with a lock of ivory hair to show off nimble fingers, kissable throat, frame a gorgeous face. “I really don’t see any need for this.” Sing it to him. Low and slow and pretty. Sotto voce.

Atticus is unmoved. (It never works on Atticus; why does he keep trying it on Atticus?) “Why not? You said you could take me.”

Not in a fight, babe, Wilkas wants to say. “I say a lot of things,” he says instead. “Surely you’ve got better things to do than rough me up.”

“Probably,” Atticus agrees, unhooking a whip from his belt. He unfurls it with a sharp crack, only missing Wilkas by about a foot; Wilkas is proud to say he only flinches a little.

“And I’m the show-off…”

“Hm?”

“Nothing!” Wilkas pulls the rapier from its scabbard—this, at least, he knows—and is pleasantly surprised to find it sharp when he checks. Must be magic. “So, how much do you want me to hold back?” he asks, performing a few test swings. “I wouldn’t wanna hurt you too bad.” He flashes Atticus his second-cockiest grin.

Atticus gives him a once over. “You can give me all you have.”

Rude. Were it anyone else, he’d demand an apology. But with Atticus, well… Wilkas darts into melee.

It takes him half a second to realise he’s fucked, and another three to appreciate just how badly. His proficiency with the blade, generously theoretical, is one of other blades; he’s not sure how he’s meant to parry an angry piece of leather.

Atticus flicks the whip, and it’s wrapped around Wilkas’ upper sword-arm. (Doesn’t even have the courtesy to make it look difficult, the prick.) It stings vaguely, diminished somewhat by his sleeves, but mostly serves to throw Wilkas’ balance to the wind, or perhaps the ground; not for the first time, he thanks the Gods for his grace and poise.

The whip doesn’t do much to keep him away, so he ventures a few swipes with the rapier. Three of them make contact: arm, sternum, neck; only the arm bleeds.

“So,” Wilkas says, pleased with himself, “what do I win?”

Atticus recalls the whip.

It unfurls, tight and instant, dragging itself around Wilkas’ arm in a split second on its way back to its master. Even through his sleeves (now torn through to skin), it feels like getting set on fire, the curl of a rope-burn and the sting of a blade; of course he drops the fucking sword.

Wilkas bites his tongue through the pain: any serious complaint would kill the fun, as would fairly admitting defeat. “You cunt,” he settles on instead; “That jacket cost a fortune.”

“Stop trying to show off. You make yourself a liability.”

“What was that? Sorry, that didn’t sound like My bad, Wilkas, I’ll buy you another.”

“It’ll Mend.”

Is he smiling? Bastard.

Wilkas picks up the rapier, jabs the tip of it into the grass; it stays precariously upright as he shrugs his jacket off and mutters a heal to his arm. It’s arguably not worth the slot—it barely bled—but at least the pain dissipates. “If you can do that to damask, I’d hate to see what you can do to skin.”

Atticus shrugs nonapologetically. “Be careful,” he says. Then: “You had the right idea when you kept fighting. Don’t give up so quickly—I’ll give you more time to act.”

“Very kind of you, darling,” Wilkas drawls; he rolls up his shirtsleeves, the safety of his forearms now assured. “Any other notes?”

There’s a long pause; Wilkas gets the impression that Atticus is hunting for a critique.

“You should tie your hair up,” he finally says. “It’s too easy to grab.”

Wilkas snorts, plucking his weapon from the ground. “If someone’s pulling my hair in a fight,” he decides, “it ain’t a fight anymore.” He winks theatrically to underscore his point. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Dead men have nothing to say.”

Drama queen. “I’m ready for round two, if you are.” A few more test swipes—maybe he’s a better swordsman left-handed.

Atticus says nothing, but Wilkas sees him ready the strike just in time to dodge—the whip cracks at where his calf was a moment ago. (He decides to have an ego problem about it, rather than entertain the reality that Atticus is going easy on him.) Round two doesn’t end quite as quickly as the first, falling into a rhythm of noncommittal violence that’s not comfortable by any means, but a rhythm nonetheless. Maybe a weird 9/8 thing—ow, fuck!

“You hate me.” Wilkas accuses; blood trickles onto his lips from the new gash on his cheekbone.

“Hate me back,” Atticus dares.

That’s easy—acting on it is harder. He’s not exactly fighting for his life here, just his image—which isn’t worth anything without a few bruises, really—and the blood in his mouth is getting really fucking annoying, actually, but he can’t afford the second it’ll take to heal, so he tries his best to ignore it in favour of making Atticus bleed back.

The issue, it seems, is that Atticus can hit him from three yards off. Hardly seems fair.

The solution, then, is not to play fair—he ducks behind a tree, drawing the dagger from its sheath in some desperate bid for the element of surprise. There’s no way Atticus doesn’t know about it, but it’s certainly less flashy than the rapier—and he pretends, at least, not to stare at Wilkas’ thighs. One in ten, it’s slipped his mind.

Wilkas wastes a second admiring the dagger—it is as pretty as the rapier—then darts back into the fray, doing his best to emulate Ferro when he throws it. The blade whizzes past Atticus’ head, sinking into the tree behind him with a tad more force than Wilkas is comfortable being capable of.

Atticus, for his part, has the decency to look momentarily dumbfounded. “Since when⁠—?”

“Good question!”

It’s a good enough distraction that Wilkas can get in close and stab! stab! stab! (Well, a bit more like tap! tap! tap!, but there’s still blood.) Suddenly, a whiptail curls itself around his waist and he stumbles towards Atticus, far too close for the bladelength to be of any use.

“Unhand me,” Wilkas says, playfully.

“If I had a dagger, you’d be dead,” Atticus says, less playfully.

“There’s one in that tree behind you, if you’re interested.”

“Wilkas.”

“You’re no fun.” It’s barely an insult, and the Mockery is weak, but it’s enough to make Atticus wince.

“No magic,” he chides, awkwardly unspooling the whip from around Wilkas’ waist.

Wilkas, naturally, does absolutely nothing to help. “You said to give everything I have.”

“Everything else.”

“I ain’t got much else, Kell—lemme heal you.”

“I’m barely bleeding.”

“Yeah, but you are bleeding”—Wilkas grabs his upper arm—“which I take for a win. Remedie.” The spell doesn’t call for contact, but the magic seeps through his fingertips anyway, which is awful nice of it.

Atticus snorts. “That was a draw, at best,” he says, stepping back. “The dagger was a good idea⁠—”

“I know, right?”

“—but your aim is awful.”

“I think it’s a real victory for— awful?”

“Well, I assume”—Atticus wrests the dagger from the tree, presses the hilt into Wilkas’ hand⁠—“that you were trying to hit me.”

Wilkas snickers, very carefully brushing bits of bark from the blade. “You assume wrong.”

“Oh?”

“’twas a distraction, my dear,” he boasts, and very carelessly flips the dagger once, twice in the air. “I hit everything I intend to.” Ow. Fuck. Sigh… Remedie.

“…I see.” Atticus seems almost disappointed—which, to be fair, is a step up from usual.

Wilkas—because he’s an idiot—deigns to flip the dagger once more before sliding it back into its scabbard. “Oh, what the fuck?” he protests, because Atticus has readied his second whip are you kidding me Kell—

“You’re doing better than I anticipated,” he says, as if that justifies anything. “Take it as a compliment.”

“That's a compliment?” Wilkas scoffs. “Call me pretty like a normal person.”

“Attack me.”

“You have two whips!”

“You have two blades. Attack.”

“Fuck no, you crazy bastard!” Oops. Backs off as subtly as he can.

Atticus grunts in pain; “You piece of—”

Wilkas darts back, narrowly dodging the two whiptails. “Sorry!” he lies, and readies his sword just in time to—

Parry? Block? He’s not versed in his duelling terms—the whip connects first with the sword instead of him, good enough. (It still licks at his shoulder, but it barely stings.) He lunges forward, slashing half-assedly at Atticus’ chest before retreating and—ow—earning another stripe to the arm for his troubles.

It’s a lot easier, he finds, being on the defensive. Being on the wrong end of the whip is new, but⁠—

Crack, half a foot in front of him—

—he’s seen Atticus fight enough that it’s not hard to anticipate his strikes. Like the crown of a waltz, albeit with too much rubato: onetworestonetworest… one two breathe—

Crack, where he was a beat ago.

Atticus is a fierce opponent, but Wilkas is lighter and quicker and—in his humble opinion—has the stamina of a god: all he has to do is outlast, endure, and Atticus will tire first.

Maybe he already has—stood still in the sun, staring daggers into him.

Tentatively, Wilkas approaches, bracing himself for a strike that never comes. Even in arm’s reach, nothing. “Are we done, then?”

“Attack me,” Atticus demands.

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m trying to kill you.”

“You can’t kill me.” He sweeps a lock of ivory from his eyes, maybe Atticus has a point about the hair. “You’re too fond of me.”

“Attack me.”

Maybe ‘fond’ was a touch far. “I’m not a violent man,” Wilkas insists, drawing the dagger. “You first.”

“Idiot,” Atticus sighs, and attacks anyway. The first blow is nothing; the second burns.

Idiot! Wilkas wants to refute it—he takes a stab, draws a bit of blood, flits back out of reach⁠—⁠wants to argue, like, with words! He’s awful convincing with words, awful clever in his element. Yet, here he is—always saying yes, always getting himself into trouble, always backing himself into a corner.

He notices the tree too late—he jumps back from a whipstrike, only for his back to hit unforgiving oak. “Atticus—” The second bites against his chest, tearing shirt and skin and a cry from his throat. “Atticus!”

Abruptly, nothing, though the sting remains; he hears footsteps, opens his eyes to see Atticus in front of him.

“Do you forfeit?”

He offers a hand to shake—stern, disciplined, the most anxious he’s looked since the owlbear.

Wilkas considers, weighs his options—forfeit, or fight and lose? Neither are great for his ego, he’s not even sure if it’d make Atticus happy… There’s magic, of course, but that’s basically forfeit. Attacking now would be unsportsmanlike—although, maybe not a concern, if they’re playing life-or-death…

Wilkas jabs the rapier into the grass and does the only thing he can do: take Atticus by the hand and pull. Atticus stumbles—not much, but just enough that he has to brace himself against the tree, and the gap between them becomes measured in inches.

Wilkas takes it from there.

Atticus’ lips are chapped and warm and strong, and they don’t stay against Wilkas’ for nearly long enough. He tastes like blood. It might belong to either of them. Wilkas guides Atticus’ hand to his waist, nudges him to grab on like the selfish bastard he surely is—sighs contentedly into his lips, throws his arms around his shoulders, anything to keep his attention.

So, he muses, clutching the dagger, this works on Atticus.

It doesn’t work for long—shame—Atticus breaks off after history’s shortest eternity. “Wilkas—”

“Atticus.” For theatrics—and, he supposes, lethality—he presses the steel against his neck, flat to artery.

Atticus freezes against him; Wilkas can feel his pulse thrumming through the blade.

“So,” he says, pleased with himself, “what do I win?”

“Is this what you call a fight, Wilkas?” Gods, he’s breathless.

“It worked, didn’t it?” He lifts the dagger away, careful not to draw any more blood, and slides it back into its scabbard. “I didn’t forfeit, so…” He lazes back against the oak, dimly hoping that Atticus will follow him down; he knows damn well what a picture he makes, give or take a bit of blood. “What do I win?”

Instead, Atticus straightens up, pulling his hand from Wilkas’ waist like he’s been bitten. “I— You’re a disgrace.”

“That I am.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Wilkas says, shrugging. “I’ve got a good strategy.”

“This”—he gestures—“is not a strategy, Wilkas.”

“I’ve normally got magic, too.”

“You cannot guarantee—”

“Need healing?” He offers a hand. “…Purely cosmetic, of course,” he adds, stifling a grin, “since I didn’t hurt you too bad.”

Atticus is silent for a long moment, gaze flicking between Wilkas’ hand and his face. “I will be fine,” he eventually says, and his cloak flicks as he turns to leave. “We’re back on the road in an hour. Be ready,” he orders.

“Would you fetch me my lute?”

“No.”

Wilkas snickers, picking up the rapier and returning it to its scabbard—where it will stay, at least for a little while. He sinks to the ground, singing himself a Remedie and contemplating a nap—he’s certainly earned it. The bark is rough, and the leaves shield him from the sunlight—but victory is just as good to bask in.