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Leif isn’t sure he knew his own name until he was 6 years old.
His father’s face is dim in his memory, and the only details of it that he can see when he shuts his eyes or studies himself in the mirror—a proud-looking half smile, an arched nose—he’s almost sure came from a portrait. Whenever they rode through Leonster, Leif’s rightful homeland , as Finn had said, the two of them went through stories and paintings of the man together, and Leif remembers trying hard to show he was paying attention, like someone was watching them both to make sure they did it right. Still, in all that memory, the only thing Leif can really see clearly is Finn, the person who took him there.
His father, whoever he was, must’ve called him Leif—and like Finn said, must’ve loved him very much . But Finn called him your highness when he chased him around or sat with him until he ate his supper or fed him medicine when he was sick, and, for probably longer than he should've, Leif grew up reckoning your highness was just what he was called.
Ironically, he has much less ‘highness’ over anything than his cousin Seliph or most of their compatriots do. But when he brought this name confusion up to him, Seliph only laughed. Seliph, who always laughs like he’s thanking you for saying something funny rather than grim, smiled warmly and said no, he always knew his name—between Oifey and Shannan arguing about him all the time he had no choice—but for Leif, yes, he could certainly see how it happened that way.
Leif remembers laughing with him. He remembers wanting to tell Finn. He would’ve, he thinks, if only he wasn't so sure that Finn would apologize for it, and he really has no right to make Finn feel sorry for anything.
To be honest, though, he still wants to tell him.
Leif has other people to talk to about it now , and certainly Altena would like to know, even if she’d laugh like Seliph did. But when it actually happened, it was just the two of them, Finn and Leif. They called themselves something like guardian and ward, they looked something like father and child, and they travelled the continent with a bag of things between them that was never more than what Finn could carry overnight with Leif on his back.
No, it doesn't feel fair to ask anyone else to make judgements about this. Leif is older now than Finn was when his father died. His father, Finn’s lord. Saying he grew up lonely feels like suggesting Finn somehow failed him, and Leif knows this is wrong by the way it feels awful to even think about. Finn never, ever mentions the sacrifices he made for him, (and Nanna too, when she came around,) but they used to be the boundaries of Leif's entire world, and even as a boy, it was impossible not to understand how deeply they ran. It was impossible not to notice the way the hands that cared for him always wore gloves to cover the scars of battle and work, and impossible not to look into the empty bowls he only pretended to pour for himself after serving Leif his dinner. The things Finn gave up to raise him were how Leif came to understand the world when he was small—it was only for these that he became your highness .
Your highness , 6 years old, excited to stay in a real town with real people for the night, proudly introducing himself to the smiling innkeeper in the big apron when she crouched down to ask him for his name. Your highness , led out the same back door they came in through by his hand, hurried away before he could finish his and this is my —. Finn moved too fast to keep up with and squeezed his hand too tight, and when he lifted him back onto their horse with one arm, he did it fast and hard, like your highness had done something very wrong.
Finn was holding him too tight to breathe once he started crying, but Leif was too scared to say anything about it. Seeing anything on Finn’s face was rare enough to stick out in the boy’s mind, but seeing fear—more than fear, that specific look; wild, desperate, already so sorry —was petrifying.
And that was where Leif learned his own name: somewhere off the road in Isaach, not a soul around to hear it besides your highness and the gods above them.
The second he brought him down from their horse, Finn fell to his knees, tightening his arms around him like something awful would happen if he let himself let go too soon. Your highness couldn't stop crying until Finn let go, because he knew too, only then did he think it was safe to stop holding him. In the meantime, the two of them swayed back and forth, Finn rocking him like a baby, Leif too scared to do anything besides wonder if he'd remember this later, and feel sorry about whatever he had done wrong. Finally, remorsefully, Finn backed away, bowing his head as one would to a king, and still kneeling in the dirt.
When he did, he explained to Leif what they were actually running from. He remembers trying hard to understand what they were supposed to be scared of. He bit his lip the way Finn always did, and wrung his hands through his tiny cloak, made from an old scrap of a knight's coat of arms. He understood that, whatever it was, the most important thing in the world was for Finn to protect him from it. Suddenly, the boy felt awful for crying, and even worse for pulling away from the hug.
Finn apologized after that. He checked if he was okay, took off his glove and felt his forehead, then put it back on to give his teary cheeks a wipe with the back of his hand. He hugged him once more, still tight, but much less scary this time.
When they were calmer, he drew letters in the dirt, and Leif copied them. Finn's looked like they came from an entirely different world, and Leif got frustrated when he couldn't make his own look anywhere near as neat and uniform. Practice will do it, your highness , Finn told him whenever he got upset he couldn't do something right. It'll always turn into enough. I promise you. He wanted other things to spell, so the boy made Finn write his own name out too. Of course, they couldn't stay there for long, but before Finn brushed them all away, Leif remembers gazing at those letters proudly, the ones that meant them both, side by side.
That night, they fell asleep under the stars, as they so often did in those days. Leif snuggled up tight in their bedroll, hidden behind Finn, his lance, and their backpack—even in sleep, he was still protected. They weren't supposed to talk after saying their goodnights, but this time, Leif heard him whispering something: he was still apologizing. He remembers it because he was sure he wasn’t supposed to be awake.
I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.
The boy underneath the blankets held his breath. Despite everything, Finn’s hand over his shoulder was a comfort, and he sunk as deep into it as he could without moving, because he was scared again. Finn didn't sound like himself; he sounded like he'd done something wrong, although he had no Finn of his own to be in trouble with.
There should be someone around to say it.
Leif can't remember if Finn was crying—actually, he remembers he couldn't tell. He's sure now he'd know better; it must've been only a few months after this that he realized Finn was lying about going hungry. However, the memory is too hazy to try and parse in retrospect. If he was, though, Leif realizes, it would've been the only time he's ever seen Finn cry.
He wishes he could talk to him about this. To remind him how he learned his name. He knows he won’t, but even now, he still wants to. Maybe he’ll ask Altena what to think after all, because it feels like this shouldn’t just be it . He just doesn’t want an apology. Even if it would be years before he'd hear his name again, Finn’s voice was the first one he ever heard it in. That shouldn’t hurt. Leif shouldn’t act like it hurts. It's not fair to him, and he's deserving of better.
He decides, as they always do, to focus on Leonster.