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moonshine-nightlight · 2 years

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Nothing's Wrong with Dale: Part Fourteen

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing's Wrong with Dale - Chapter 14 - MoonshineNightlight - Original Work [Archive of Our Own]

[Part One][Part Two][Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six][Part Seven] [Part Seven.5] [Part Eight][Part Nine][Part Ten][Part Eleven] [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] Part Fourteen [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two] [Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four] [Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

It’s easier than you think, to find Dale’s tent—you might have guessed it would have a prominent Northridge banner on it. There isn’t a way to knock, so you cautiously pull the flap aside and ask, “Lord Dale?”

Your cheeks immediately heat because Dale’s taken the majority of his armor off and is changing his shirt. The muscles of his back ripple as leans down to pick up a fresh linen shirt, discarding the sweat stained one. “My lady?” he replies, surprised and starts to turn to face you. Without thought you spin around, knowing you’ll be unable to look him in the eye for days if you are confronted with the sight of his bare chest, alone in this small tent together. You’re not sure if simply the sight of his bare back is going to be enough to keep you from doing so anyways.

“My apologies,” you stammer. “I should have waited outside. In fact, I should—”

“It’s alright,” he says, sounding not offended, but mildly amused—which does nothing for your embarrassment. Now you feel like a sheltered child—the fact that you once were one is unhelpful in mitigating that feeling. You have seen others in various states of undress before—it's simply different with your fiance, with Dale. He’s attractive enough on his own, you knew that before, but then it was a fact, detached, when combined with his arrogance and peacocking—like the way a painting could be beautiful. Another reason for him to brag, for you to not quite meet him on his level.

This Dale, he doesn’t flaunt his appearance, for all he favors clothes that suit him still. The difference is in his attitude, in the way he bears himself. The way the sunlight lightens his dark brown hair, the dimple to his smile, the depth to his eyes, the warmer and warmer his skin has grown in color since the incident—it all catches you off guard now, at the most distracting moments, because he is not constantly shoving it to the forefront of everyone’s attention.

“I’m clothed now.” You slowly turn back around to find Dale’s fresh white shirt on and tucked in, his quilted vest on over it but unfastened. You aren’t sure whether you are grateful or not. “You’ll forgive me if I refrain from putting back on any additional layers or armor,” Dales says, with a small smile. “I am trying to recover from the heat as best I can during this reprieve.”

“Of course, of course,” you reply, trying to catalog miscellaneous details around the room to distract and hopefully calm yourself. Unfortunately, the tent is rather plain and so you note the various armor and refreshments far too quickly.

“What brings you to see me?” Dale asks, only curiosity in his voice—no annoyance at your interrupting his likely attempt to have some time to himself, no dismissiveness at your unneeded presence. You’re able to meet his eyes again, his expression is open before he frowns slightly, reaching to his vest buttons. “Is it already time to begin the next tilt? The Field Marshal said it would be at least another quarter of an hour..” He looks over at the small table in the corner where his pocket watch lays.

“No, no,” you hurry to reassure him. “Nothing like that, or rather, if the round is reconvening so soon, I do not know of it.”

“Oh, alright,” Dale relaxes a bit at that, his fingers falling from his buttons as he twists where he stands, stretching out some of his muscles.

“However, I did wish to speak to you about the current match,” you say, interlocking your fingers together so as not to fidget with them.

Dale’s eyebrows raise and his brow furrows. “Oh? I did not think you overly interested in jousting, not enough to wish to discuss one with me in the middle of the tournament. Is something wrong?”

“I am not—or, you are right,” you hastily say, not wanting him to take offense at your general disinterest in jousting. “Jousting seems far more dangerous than its worth, in my eyes. The most recent tilts though, well, I believe that perhaps, I have noticed…”

You bite your lip because he’s right, you’ve no idea about jousting or lance work—only minor prior knowledge and then everything you’ve overheard from your schoolmates or from the Northridges today. How can you think that you have noticed what they have not? What no one at the tournament has? What Dale himself has given no sign of thinking despite literally smashing into the man? Perhaps since you know Dale’s true nature, you might have slight informational advantage over Grandfather and the others, but Dale himself knows who he is.

“Noticed what, my Lady?” Dale’s voice cuts through your thoughts. He still doesn’t look annoyed or judgmental. He has one of his gauntlets in hand from when he thought he had to hurry, but he’s merely turning it in his hand as he often does, keeping his fingers busy while he thinks. You’ve seen him do it with his cane or a pen the other times you’ve discussed important information. He looks as interested in hearing what you have to say here and now as he has any other time he’s asked your opinion, for whatever reason.

You take a deep breath. You’d thought strongly enough about this back in the stands to come here. Which would you rather: warning Dale when it is unnecessary or failing to warn him when it is? That at least, is no true question. Still, you should be very careful about what you say next. “I believe Eastmount is cheating,” spills out instead.

Dale pauses, fingers freezing where they hold his gauntlet. He frowns as he looks back at you. “Cheating?”

You nod, swallowing under Dale’s scrutiny. “Yes, I believe he’s enhanced his strength somehow, or done something to his shield—with materials or energies from the Depths.”

Dale’s whole body stills at that. “From the Depths?”

“When the break was called,” you hurry to explain, “his squire came out to attend to him and he seemed angry. Obviously he didn’t expect you to be as strong as you are since he hasn’t been able to unhorse you as he has the others—he was reprimanding the squire, gesturing with his gloves and at his shield and saddle. He left all three with the squire, who then called over a stablehand who looked far more like a mage.”

Dale is still too rigid as he continues to stare at you without blinking. His gaze is calculating, weighing your words. “But you suspected something before this—you wouldn’t have been paying such close attention to them otherwise.” It’s not a question.

“Yes, I did,” you admit. “Eastmount seemed too strong.” You remember that subconscious way Dale had rubbed his hand. “I…” you swallow and meet his eyes straight on, hoping he understands what you aren’t saying, hoping that isn’t a mistake. “I know your strength. While you were unhorsed earlier, through technique, not force. In fact, I do not think anyone in the tournament could do such a thing,” you admit, fighting through the tightening that you can almost feel in the air, “and it appeared to me that he was matching it in a way I don’t think…”

You scramble for the right words as Dale stares back at you, dark eyes wide, “I don’t think possible, not without something to enhance his own.” Dale’s strength is inhuman, you think as you continue to look back at him, and so Eastmount would need something inhuman to match it.

“I see,” he says, muscles rigid and eyes still unblinking. You dare not look away, not even when the shadows seem to roil in the corner of your eyes. Slowly, he tilts his head to the side, his voice somehow emptier than it should be, echoing as if coming from a further distance away than simply his chest, “And what do you think should be done? About such a…challenge.”

At that, you can’t help but spread your empty hands. “I’ve no notion of what can be done. Particularly given the severity of the accusation and of what your grandmother’s response could be.” He straightens his head and you worry he’ll take that as a threat, when it's not what you mean so you stumble on, “You know how she feels about such things. A test of all competitors and their equipment would be likely and that is not the…ideal situation.”

He offers no response and while you try to convey your sincerity, you’re not sure it's getting across. He seems far less human than usual and your decision to meet him alone feels foolish now. What if he decides that you knowing what he is is a danger he cannot afford?

Then, something in his shoulders eases and he finally, finally blinks. “No,” he says, sounding wryly amused. “Not particularly. I’d noticed how tilting him felt rather like driving my lance into a brick wall. That his lance struck with a force more akin to a much larger foe on a much larger horse. I’d simply thought him particularly skilled. This makes more sense,” he admits ruefully.

You feel tension drain from you at Dale’s reaction, a weight you’d not realized you were carrying, lifts.

Dale taps his chin thoughtfully with the gauntlet. “This also puts what he said at the start of the match in a different context.” When you frown quizzically, Dale flaps his hand dismissively. “Something about seeing who had the most skill and may the smarter man win. I’d thought it odd since he doesn’t particularly like me and we’ve never jousted—now I remember, the last time he saw me, there was an argument about methods and which scholar had the better insight.”

Ah. The Dale from then and Eastmount must have both been interested in demonic power—Eastmount favoring tools, or so it appears to you, and Dale obviously having intended to enhance himself. While you’re not sure how the current result reflects on either of them, it also would further explain Eastmount’s particular frustration—he clearly has no idea he isn’t truly facing Dale and must feel he’s at a standstill in an intellectual debate in addition to a physical one.

“But what is there to do? From what I could see and from what you tell, clearly his shield and likely gauntlets and saddle are all steeped in power,” you say, frowning as you try to work through the problem. “I fail to see how anything that could be done to overpower him would be helpful or achievable.”

“Eastmount’s short-sighted,” Dale says, thoughtfully, “and unimaginative. His designs are likely all to do with strength and solid seating, anything to push his opponent away and to keep the same from happening to him. And I likely would have continued to simply put more of my strength into my tilts, but if that can’t work…”

His eyes light up. “Then I simply have to outmaneuver him.”

“He could be changing his strategy as we speak, same as you,” you caution, more because you feel you should than anything else because you’re not sure you believe he will. You recall his anger, his frustration, the way he berated his allies and then stormed off in a huff. As Dale says, he seems more likely to dig himself in deeper rather than one to adapt.

“Perhaps,” Dale nods before shrugging. “But staying my course at this point is foolish.”

You nod because you agree and a thoughtful silence fills the tent. Just as you begin to feel awkward, a smile spreads across Dale’s face. He lifts a hand, as if to reach for you, but ultimately, he merely adjusts his vest, as if thinking better of it. “I appreciate your insight, my Lady. If we had continued to clash as we have been… I’m certain someone one other than you would have noticed. And then who knows what sort of suspicion would have consumed this tournament.”

You feel heat flood your cheeks at the sincerity, the compliment. “I merely did not wish for any misfortune to befall you, if I could be of assistance in preventing such an event.”

Some of the ease in Dale vanishes at that and his gaze is far more calculating than it had been. “Yes, and why is that? Not that I do not appreciate your… delicate handling of such a matter.”

You know he must be referring to your disclosure of your knowledge of his own inhuman nature, though it's clear he’s unsure of what exactly you know. You don’t know what to say, any more than you did with Steward Bilmont. Somehow, admitting you prefer this him feels like a far too vulnerable admission on your part. As such, you simply give him a polite smile, “You are my fiance, how could I not?”

Slowly, very slowly, he nods for all he’s no longer blinking again. It's clear he doesn’t understand, but he’s not pushing you on it. “Still, I thank you.”

“You are welcome,” you reply before the urge to run, which you’ve been fighting since you left the stands to some degree or another, is irresistible. “I believe I should return to my seat. No doubt you shall be recalled to tilt soon enough and I would not want to interrupt such preparations.”

“Of course,” Dale says, fading back to his more blunted way of being human. Still, even then, there is some amusement to him as he says, “I shall see you when the tournament is over.”

You freeze, having forgotten that Grandmother had named you as the one to present the prizes to the winners. Between the joust and the melee, you’ll need to move to join her in the judges booth. “Yes, right. I shall see you then.”

You find yourself back in your seat surprisingly quickly, though you know you’ve been gone for longer than expected. You hope the wine you had the sense to procure on the way back is excuse enough. You let the talk wash over you, mostly listening for an increase in speculation. Luckily, you hear none, only grumbles about shoddy craftsmanship, the high heat of the sun, the time it's taking to resume the joust. Speculation regarding victors is still high, with only eight competitors left.

Dale has seemingly good odds to make it into the final four, even given the current tie with Eastmount. Knight Alry is also a favorite, who won against Dale in the elimination jousting round and so is a Knight from Genry. You overhear a comment from someone who must think you’re already seated with Grandmother and the judges, wondering aloud why a knight from the bride’s family isn’t here to compete.

You stiffen, keeping your eyes forward, and fail to hear the answer when an increase in crowd volume tells you that the Field Marshal has returned with fresh lances. You’re relieved to have missed the reply, wondering what they might have even said. Truthfully, your family did not see it necessary to send someone to compete for Portsmith, not for this simple marriage of their youngest. Honestly, you doubt it even crossed their mind to send someone.

Both of your brothers are skilled knights, but risking Asher, who is set to inherit, would not be an option and his children were too young to compete. Douglas likely would have competed out of his own desire, except that he’s on a military campaign in the North. You’re not even sure if your parents have mentioned your upcoming wedding to him, let alone if he’ll bother to put in a request to come to the wedding itself. Your sisters do not have the necessary martial skills for this type of tournament—your oldest sister skilled in the combat traditions of her husband and your other sister uninterested in anything of the sort, even more so than you are.

Other cousins are scattered about, but none are particularly close to you. You don’t think your parents considered whether it might be seen as an insult to not send someone to represent them, to bolster you, because the marriage itself is the key in their mind—and neither like tournaments as it is. You wonder how much of your own distaste is from them. You know they would not have thought to send someone to make you feel less alone, by yourself in Northridge for the last month and for the rest—it doesn’t matter, in the end.

A flash of red makes you realize you’ve been starting sightlessly at the field for likely too long and you blink yourself back to awareness. You’re relieved no one seems to have noticed your mental absence. Swallowing, you straighten in your seat and focus on that red that your eyes were already drawn to—Eastmount’s tunic with his coat of arms on it. Your eyes travel along from his gloves, which are already on, to the look on his face. Whatever frustration he previously felt has been replaced with smug confidence once more.

You strain your eyes as his squire hands him his shield, looking for changes, for differences to it, but you can’t identify any change—you don’t doubt there has been one though. In the very least the influence, the energy, has been refreshed. It must have been for Eastmount to no longer be concerned. You bite your lip and turn away from him, eyes landing on Dale at the opposite end of the lane. He’s adjusting his shield, his squire holding his lance for him while he does so. Once he’s happy with the shield, he glances around, scanning the stands and you swear he meets your eyes for just a split second, before his helm covers his face and he takes up his lance.

You take a fortifying gulp of wine as he gets in position. A hand lands on your arm and you jump in your seat. Turning, you see one of Dale’s cousins, his face pinched with what might be concern. “Are you alright, my Lady?”

“Yes, thank you for your inquiry,” you reply reflexively, but his frown only deepens, so you try for a sheepish smile. “My family is not overly fond of tournaments and I admit my nerves only grow each time it is Lord Dale’s turn for a tilt.”

Joel’s smile gentles. “I understand your trepidation, but Cousin Dale is skilled, we have physicians standing by—all will be well.”

You widen your smile and nod, not fully mollified, but strangely his words do help. “Thank you, perhaps I simply needed to hear it from someone other than myself.”

Before either of you can say anything more, a trumpet blast brings your attention back firmly to the riders. They’re already in motion, charging for each other, and before you know it, their lances hit shields. It’s almost predictable at this point, the way they both shatter. What isn’t expected is the way Dale leans in and catches Eastmont’s shield with his own. They lock together and Dale seems to pull him forward and sideways, twisting his very caught off guard opponent and then shoving him. Eastmont goes sprawling into the dirt.

Half the crowd stands up as cheers ring through the stands at his maneuver. While it wasn’t unheard of for someone to do such a thing, it was unexpected enough that the crowd was quite entertained. In response to the noise, Dale pulls off his helm, tucking it under his arm as he bows in the saddle to his grandmother and then to the audience at large. He leans over the barrier to say something to Eastmont, back on his feet but clearly furious over the outcome. Grudgingly he accepts Dale’s offered handshaking, knowing the only thing worse than a loss is one suffered disgracefully.

As Dale lets go and starts to guide his horse back to where his squire waits to accept the reins, he looks back to the stands and you swear that he looks directly at you—and winks.

[Part Fifteen]