Miles Devereux and Paris Rivenhall met at Eton and formed a bond almost immediately. It continued as they grew, despite their lives going in different directions. Paris was a wealthy earl and Miles, as a second son, was destined for the army. The night before Miles is to ship off for Salamanca and the fight against Napoleon, they declare their feelings for one another.
Colonel Miles Devereux returns from Salamanca years later, broke and wounded, still thinking of the promise he made with Paris. A doting great-aunt takes to looking after him while he writes to Paris, with no reply. It’s as if Paris has disappeared, until Miles receives word he has been put in an asylum by an unscrupulous cousin. Now it is up to Miles to rescue him.
Miles didn’t know how long he stood there, trying to recover, while Paris gently tucked him away and refastened his garments. He was vaguely aware of a pain in his right hand and realized that he’d been clutching the prism so hard that the edges had cut into his palm.
Paris stood, and as he looked up at Miles, he licked his lips. In the candlelight, Miles thought it one of the most beguiling sights he’d ever seen, and knew he would carry it with him to Spain.
“Are you well?” Paris now seemed worried. “I didn’t know how else to show you -- you’re leaving and I couldn’t let you go without --”
Incapable of speech, Miles pulled Paris into his arms and held on tight. He could feel Paris chuckling against him as Paris swept his hands over Miles’ back in long, comforting strokes.
“I’d like to say I’ve loved you since we met, but I don’t know that I believe in that, just as I don’t know that I believe in ghosts,” Paris muttered, resting his head against Miles’ chest. “I’ve certainly been fond of you since we were children, but it wasn’t until Oxford that I suspected anything more. Before you go --”
“Don’t. Don’t say it.”
“But, Miles --”
“I’m going to war, Paris.” Miles’ voice was rough with all the things he wanted to say. “If I don’t come back, I don’t want -- tell me when I return. You may meet a woman and wish to marry, as everyone would expect. Tell me when I return -- if I return.”
“And if you find someone else in the meantime?” Paris asked with a bitter note.
“Then you’ll be all the happier for not having said anything. But you don’t have to worry about that. There’s no one else for me. There never has been.”
Paris released him, taking a step back. “You’ll say that, but won’t let me make any declarations.” He took the hand holding the prism and wrapped both hands around it, kissing Miles’ knuckles. “You will come back, and I will tell you then. And then what will you do?”
“Find a way for us to live as closely as possible, without danger.” Miles, in his turn, kissed the top of Paris’ head and wondered how the man managed to smell like moss and grass while living in the city. His faerie creature.
His faerie creature slipped away in the candlelight, unlocking the door and returning to the party. Miles remained, leaning against the bookcase, grateful that it was strong enough to support his weight. How could two men such as themselves be happy in this world? Any of those frantic fumblings Miles had engaged in would have led to a flogging if they’d been discovered. Paris, being an Earl, was relatively safe from prosecution for such things, but Miles was not.
Miles straightened, standing with his usual impressive bearing. After Eton he’d stopped slouching to hide his height -- he was what he was -- and the military had only improved his posture. There was time enough to think about Paris after England had put Napoleon in his place. He had years of fighting and God only knew what ahead of him. Time enough to be with Paris after he’d survived and returned to England.
After that they’d have all the time in the world.
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