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It was the smells that still haunted him. He remembered flashes of colour, sunlight reflecting off bits of metal, a haze of shouts and grunts, the sounds of men dying and worse, failing to die, all around him. But the overpowering scent of horse, the metallic reek of blood, the cloying smells of mud and sweat and men - those were the memories that stayed with him, sneaking up on him at innocuous moments.
He could have accepted it better, if they restricted themselves to his dreams. Veterans spoke often of the nightmares that plagued their sleeping hours. Interrupted rest was unpleasant, but understandable. Yet this awful episode of shivering, breathless panic had come upon him quite in the midst of daylight pleasure.
He knew why, really. He had been riding. Taking some joy in one of the few pleasures still left to him - at least, of those he could partake in in public. He had exercised hard, encouraging his horse to a reckless gallop for some distance, and then the tang of horse sweat had crept up his nostrils and transported him, quite abruptly, back to Waterloo. That was all it had taken, and he was lost to this horror-inducing inability to breathe or move.
It was absurd, really. The battle itself was not where his scars lay. He had come through that challenge unscathed, laughing even, with the naive triumph of youth and ignorance. Well, he had learned better, hadn’t he? He’d come to understand that the worst wounds could be inflicted long after the final battle cries had faded. Even now, so many years later, he could not bring himself to closely examine the scene in that awful tent where his brother had lain dying for three awful, interminable days.
The smells there had been vile, too.
Julius let his thoughts spiral and focused on the tightness in his chest, trying to regain control of his ragged breaths. He realised, after a time, that his sensible bay mare had noted her rider’s inattention and slowed their frantic pace to a calm walk. Julius was ferociously grateful to the beast, and felt an absurd wetness pricking at the corners of his eyes that he angrily blinked away.
After a time, he felt the tight vice on his lungs loosening its grip, and his breaths came more easily. The wild rampage that his thoughts had taken gradually calmed itself too, until his mind once again more closely resembled its usual tightly ordered highways. He spent a few moments more in quiet contemplation and steady inhalations, enjoying the solid feel of the horse between his legs and the undulations of her muscles as she adhered to his unspoken wishes.
Eventually, he turned Claribel in the direction of the stables, and this command too she obeyed with easy grace.
The entire episode had lasted, perhaps, fifteen minutes.
Julius was having a bad day. That much was obvious to Harry almost immediately when his lover had returned home to find Harry waiting in his rooms. Harry had been entertaining himself in Julius’ absence with a novel, one that Silas had recommended to him from Richard’s library, and he found that it was enormously interesting. He was fortunate to have a friend who understood his literary tastes so well, and who was well placed to make insightful recommendations to suit them.
So Harry had been feeling quite content when Julius entered the room, lazing insouciantly on the chaise longue with the book spread over his lap and half day-dreaming of possible entertainments that he and Julius could engage in together upon his return. He had laid the book down immediately upon seeing his lover, of course, and made some quite inconsequential remark in greeting.
The icy glare that had been Julius’ only response was an expression that Harry recognised, though he had not been subjected to its fury for a pleasingly long period of time. To have it directed at him now had been quite enough to wipe the smile off his face and spoil the easy comfort in which he had spent his morning.
In the early days of their acquaintance - and even later, after they had acknowledged their mutual regard - such a cold rebuff would have certainly sent Harry either spiralling into a fiery temper or plunging down a well of self-doubt and despair. Or both at once.
Fortunately, he knew better now. Experience and shared intimacies had taught him that when Julius found himself in such a mood, it was very rarely about Harry - and if it were, Harry would generally understand which acts of his had inspired the temper.
This, however, was not that. This was not temper at all, in fact. Anger was generally thought to be a hot emotion, impulsive and wild. Julius, in such a mood, became glacial. A pond, frozen solid to its very depths, untouchable and unknowable to any who sought to peer through its waters.
Julius had gifted Harry the knowledge of what lay beneath.
So Harry understood, with a pang of heartsick anguish, that Julius had been thinking of Marcus, and that the memories had not been pleasant. He pushed down the instinctual hurt that arose at his lover’s cold rebuff, and focused instead on shaping his behaviour to best thaw Julius’ frozen soul.
The remorse hit Julius immediately, but as a distant discomfort only. His mind still felt ravaged by the earlier episode, his soul tender. Yet even these were buried deep under layers of ice that felt impenetrable. It was all happening to someone else, perhaps. Someone like him, but removed, at a distance. Someone like his twin.
The look on Harry’s face had reminded him of Marcus. Inexplicably hurt. Betrayed, even, as the joy that had shone through his lover’s eyes on first seeing him had faded to blank neutrality upon Julius’ snub. But no, that was not right. When had Marcus ever directed such an expression at him? Certainly not at the end, in those unspeakable final days when he had been lost to infection and delirium. Earlier, then.
Julius turned silently away from Harry, walking over to gaze into the unlit fire. When had Marcus looked at him as Harry just had? It seemed vital, suddenly, for Julius to remember. It was ridiculous, he knew, and certainly not where he should be directing his thoughts - his poor bright Harry, undeserving of Julius’ fickle regard. Harry was who he should be thinking of, the apology he should be making. Not to a man now six years in the ground. Yet reason, it seemed, had deserted Julius this day, along with decency. He stared at the blackened hearth, and remembered.
It had been about Lucia, of course. Marcus - alive; so full of life in fact that it seemed to spill out of him. Marcus had come to him, brimming with joy and speaking of love. He had been so young. They both had been, Julius supposed, though it felt strange to think so. Marco had sought out his twin to see his own happiness reflected back at him, and Julius had - disappointed him. He had been jealous, that was the simple truth. The unshakeable bond that connected him to his brother had felt suddenly fragile, a bubble that could burst upon contact with another. Julius had not wanted to risk it. He had responded to his brother’s overtures with rudeness - the precise words were lost to him now, but he supposed they were unimportant. He had quarrelled with his twin, with the other half of his soul, that was the point. He had been afraid, and his fear had caused him to inflict untold pain upon the person he loved best.
Yes, Julius recalled it quite clearly now. The look of betrayal and disappointment on Marco’s face from all those years ago had been reflected quite uncannily on Harry’s, a few moments earlier.
Julius felt bile rise up within him along with the self-disgust, and fled without bothering to excuse himself to the bathing chamber.
Julius stood, hands braced on a countertop, head bowed, the reek of his own sick inescapable. More memories from that awful day accosted him. It had felt all the worse for the rarity. Certainly, they had fought as boys, as all brothers do, but not in any meaningful way. Small grievances, quickly forgiven and immediately forgotten. This had felt different. It had been the first true quarrel of their adult lives - and Julius had caused it. It hadn’t felt so at the time, of course - he remembered quite clearly feeling that the betrayal had been Marco’s, for daring to disrupt the easy equanimity of their bond as twins. He was ashamed to even recall it now. He could not forgive himself for stealing the joy from his brother’s eyes. And yet… Marcus had seemed to forgive him. Quickly, too. Julius seemed to recall that their quarrel had been made up that very same day, before even the sun had fully gone.
How had Julius done it, back then? He ran a wet cloth over his face, and tried to remember. Julius could see it in his mind’s eye, the easy grin that had returned to his twin's face. How had he redeemed himself, made it possible for Marcus to forgive him, to have the incident never be brought up again or used as a weapon against him? It felt vital, urgent, to remember the way of it. To understand how he had repaired the precious thing he had broken.
Julius carefully did not think of Harry.
Marcus had responded to Julius’ betrayal with abandonment. Or, rather - Julius corrected himself reluctantly - Marcus had, quite reasonably, stormed off into the grounds of their family seat, taking some air. He had returned after some interminable passage of time that had felt like the better part of the day to Julius, left fretting in the drawing room, but was more likely an hour at most. Julius had paced to pass the time, stewing in hurt feelings and perceived wronging until he had realised, quite abruptly, the depths of his own selfishness, and the cowardice that had inspired it.
He was, accordingly, quite prepared when Marcus had rejoined him to prostrate himself at his brother’s feet and beg his forgiveness. In the event, it had not been necessary. Marcus had evidently felt equal misery at causing Julius distress, even such unfounded and inexcusable distress as Julius had complained of. Julius had clasped his twin’s hands and pushed himself through a hurried explanation of his cowardly fears. Marcus had gripped him back with fervour, tripping over his own words in his rush to reassure of the unshakeable nature of their bond.
Mercy. That was what it had been. Undeserved, unearned mercy, founded only on the basis of their existing relationship. Julius knew himself unworthy of it, yet so relieved nonetheless to receive its benediction. Julius had committed to welcoming Lucia into their fragile bubble (which he was starting to appreciate was, perhaps, stronger than he had credited), and he had come to love her in his own way, for the happiness she brought to his brother.
Julius stared now into the mirror that hung above the basin. He saw his brother’s face, as he always had. At the end of their exchange that day, it had been back. Marcus’ smile. Tentative at first, not quite as freely trusting as it had been. But there, firmly there, and growing stronger with every moment that Julius did not disappoint him a second time.
It was terrifying to think that his answer, now, was to once more prostrate himself at the feet of the person he cared for most, and to hope for mercy. Surely he could not be so fortunate a second time.
Julius tore his eyes from the mirror and made himself walk back out.
Harry looked up sharply when he heard the door of the bathing chamber open, jumping to his feet. His heart cracked anew at the expression on his lover’s face. The ice had all melted away, and Julius now looked fragile in a way that made Harry furious on his behalf. His fierce lover, military commander and hero of Waterloo, had no business looking like a single word could cause him to break apart from his very core. Harry did not hesitate, stepping forward to pull Julius into a firm embrace. Julius stood stiffly against him for a long moment, not returning the gesture.
“I… I must apologise,” he began into Harry’s shoulder, before Harry shushed him.
Harry ignored the discomfort radiating from the other man and pulled Julius tighter against his chest, holding him. Just holding him. Long minutes passed. Julius tried to speak once or twice more, but each time, Harry silenced him. One of the things Harry had learned early on was that Julius’ tongue was excessively sharp, and could cut himself as easily as anyone else. It was really best not to let him speak at all, at times like these. Eventually, he felt the slightest easing in his lover’s stance, and Harry decided it was safe to ask.
“Julius,” he began, and felt immediately the tension return to his lover. He hurried on before Julius could do something self-sacrificing and misguided like try to pull away from Harry’s embrace. “Are you well?”
Silence. Julius had clearly been expecting something quite different.
“Only you had me so worried when you came in, did you have another of your episodes?”
Another long pause.
“I - are you not upset with me, Harry?”
Harry smiled into Julius’ hair.
“Of course not, you fool.” He softened the words with another firm squeeze of his lover’s shoulders. “Merely concerned for your wellbeing.”
Julius had still not returned his embrace, and now he pulled away altogether, forcefully enough that Harry let him go. He did not go far, merely stepping back so that he could look at Harry’s face. Harry tolerated a close examination of his features for several moments, before rolling his eyes.
“No, you do not owe me any apology, Julius. I think you could credit me with having gained enough knowledge of you, and security in what we have between us, to recognise when something has distressed you that is quite unrelated to myself.”
Julius breathed out heavily. “Even so. I treated you abominably when I came in.”
“What, by not returning my greeting and rushing to the privy? Hardly the most offensive behaviour you have subjected me to. Why, just last week you insulted the jade buttons on my new waistcoat quite outrageously. I don’t recall an apology being offered for that.”
“Those buttons are an affront to decent society and you ordered that waistcoat for no reason other than to provoke me!”
Harry was pleased to see some colour returning to Julius’ face.
“Hmm.” He took a step closer to his lover, running a hand over his chest. “That may have a grain of truth to it.”
He felt the movement when Julius swallowed.
“I suppose that means, in your mind at least, we have wronged each other - but they are not the same thing at all!”
Harry ran the back of his fingers along Julius’ throat and over his lips, effectively silencing him once more.
“You are right, of course, my precious Julius. They are not the same thing. One is a trivial sartorial dispute, and the other is a result of the deep scars that still run through you. You need not apologise for having loved, and lost.”
Julius made a noise of protest, and reached out for Harry at last, grabbing at his coat with two fists. He looked at Harry with something like despair. Harry gazed back steadily, recognising in that look the myriad of emotions that were surely churning through the normally calm waters of his lover’s mind. Hope and fear, remorse and desire. Harry looked at Julius, and smiled at him, with all the love in his heart.
Love. That was what it was. The driver of mercy, the heart of that smile. His breathing was steady now, his chest quite clear, and he inhaled deeply. The distinctive scent of Harry’s cologne hit him, as powerful in its way as the remembered smells of the battlefield that had assailed him that morning. It was a scent that meant life.
His brother had loved him, but Julius had been twice blessed, and he felt a helpless kind of happiness bubbling up from inside him. Harry looked at him now with all the force of love that Marcus once had, and finally - finally! - Julius felt able to reflect it back at him. His new mirror.
Julius closed the last distance between them, and kissed Harry. A kiss full of life, blended from sorrow, distilled into dark passion. It felt like joy.