A/N- so, this is a fic that stemmed from my dissatisfaction with Lineages and Legacies. The game didn't sell me on Asbel/Cheria and it inadvertently felt like the guy had just been pressured into proposing to her. Likewise it didn't sit right with me that he threw away his ambition of knighthood and caved in to his family's desire for Asbel to take up his title. Peer pressure, man.

So in response to this I decided to write 20k+ of angst. This story will be 8 chapters long, with an epilogue.

Long and Lost

by Nina Windia

The one thing Richard tries to comfort himself with is that this situation is one he's chosen himself. He's made his bed, and now he can lie in it.

The thought, unsurprisingly, isn't comforting.

They hold the wedding in the garden outside the Lhant manor. It's just supposed to be a small affair, but the wedding of the Lord of Lhant with the King of Windor as his best man was never destined to be a small affair.

Richard tries to console himself with the thought that at the very least, Asbel opted out of holding the ceremony on top of Lhant Hill. That place has become almost sacred for the memories he's shared with Asbel and Sophie. To hold his wedding with Cheria there would border on sacrilegious. Perhaps, on one level, Asbel knows this, which is why he decided to hold the ceremony on the lawn.

The thought, however, isn't terribly consoling. Not when he's standing by Asbel's side and his friend face cracks open in sheer adoration and love as Cheria walks up the aisle.

"…Wow," breathes Asbel.

She's the blushing bride she's always dreamed of as her lace trail skirts the grass, a bouquet of white lilies in her hands. And Richard cannot bring himself to begrudge her happiness, which is as long-sought after as his own.

…And yet, that does not stop the pain that grips his chest as Cheria takes Asbel's hands.

It does not change the fact that this situation is utterly unbearable, and yet Richard continues to hold his smile in place with as much determination as a sailor clinging to a ship-wrecked spar. And when Cheria and Asbel exchange their vows and kiss, he lets out of a cheer louder than anybody, to cover the sound of his own heart breaking.

That night, the Lhant manor is strung with dozens and dozens of hanging lanterns and garlands of flowers. Sophie and Lady Kerri have slaved over the decorations for weeks, and the garden is transformed.

As the blush of sunset fades and night starts to fall the lanterns are lit, the celebration begins in earnest.

He gives his best man's speech, retelling the story of when he met Asbel and Cheria, both as children and then as young adults and how even then, he knew there was something special between them. How it seemed like they were meant for one another.

This isn't mere rhetoric, either.

He'd watched, probably more closely than any other as Asbel fell for Cheria. And by the time he was reunited with his friends after the Lambda incident, he'd lost him forever.

How over-dramatic, he chides himself. After all, this situation is hardly his alone. Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of people have loved without ever being loved back.

This is why he agreed to the (foolish) decision to be Asbel's best man. And because Asbel had asked him with that smile on his face and his eyes lit up, and… Richard has never been able to say no to him. For what Asbel has done, for the friend he's been to him, Richard would move heaven and earth for his happiness.

That his own hinges on this is utterly irrelevant.

A musical quartet plays, and Asbel swings Sophie round and round in the garden, their laughter rising above the chatter of the party. Pascal is raiding the buffet table with Malik, and from across the garden Richard sees Hubert watching her. She piles her plate full of greasy chicken but he watches her like he's seen a goddess. She doesn't even notice him.

Love, Richard thinks, is ridiculous.

Richard rarely drinks, but today feels like a special occasion, and he takes a glass of wine when the waiter holds out the tray to him.

"Richard, how come you're out here alone?"

Richard looks up to see Asbel smiling down at him.

He hoists back up his smile. "Ah, I just wanted to step out for some fresh air."

Asbel nods. "It's pretty crowded in the house. I'm pretty sure I didn't invite some of these people…"

"I don't think you invited half of them," Richard says.

"Oh well! So long as everyone has a good time, I'm good," Asbel laughs.

The quartet starts up with a new song, and thoughtful, Asbel asks, "Hey, do you want to dance, Richard?"

Asbel has always been cruel.

But then, Richard has never been able to help himself, either.

He downs the last of his wine, and takes the hand Asbel is offering him.

Years ago, after they'd finished dealing with the rest of the monsters Lambda (he) spawned, Richard had taught Asbel how to dance. Richard had wanted to show his appreciation for everything his friend had done for him, and to do so had organised a proper knighting ceremony for Asbel, instead of just a piece of paper. Although Asbel seemed settled in his role of Lord of Lhant, Richard did not forget all the years he spent training towards the dream of becoming a knight.

So he had rounded up the nobility and had done the thing properly, and Asbel had knelt before him and swore his fealty and when he'd risen they broke with all formality and the King had embraced his knight, holding him tight enough to hurt. (but it still wasn't hard enough.)

There was a ball that night, and the week beforehand Asbel had admitted that uh, no, he couldn't dance. Richard couldn't very well not let Asbel dance at his party, and to that end they'd spent every night for a week practicing together.

When Richard thought of those evenings in the empty room in the east wing, with the golden light arching in through the windows and Asbel's arms around his, his breath still hitched in his throat.

He still can't shake off the golden, almost translucent feeling of those memories, seared into the back of his retinas. And as he and Asbel step into the middle of the other dancers and Asbel puts his hands on his waist, he still feels the echoes of Asbel's fingers where years ago, he'd held him.

"Richard? Is everything alright?"

Their eyes stumble into contact. Asbel frowns.

"Absolutely," he says, and he smiles. He smiles because despite everything, even though Asbel's married someone who isn't him, right here and right now, Asbel is with him. Even if it's just for a few minutes, before Asbel goes back to his wife. And Richard is left drinking alone, nursing his own fragile and foolish human heart.

One glass of wine turns into two, and as the night deepens Richard stops keeping count. The buffer of alcohol dampens his pain and frustration, and instead transmutes it into a pleasant, dull, numbness.

He remembers dancing with Pascal, but then the pleasant dullness starts to fade into a blur that all feels too fast and strange for him to keep up with.

And it's too much— it's all too much to bear, and—

"Richard, drink a bit more. You'll feel better afterwards."

The next thing Richard knows, he's inside the manor, the buzz of conversation surrounding him like a bubble, staring at the glass of water that's somehow got into his hand.

"You'll have an awful headache if you don't," says a voice, and he pulls his gaze away from the glass of water that demands his attention to see Cheria crouched beside him in her wedding dress.

"Everything hurts," he tells her.

"Well, you were knocking it back a bit fast, Richard," Cheria tells him, with more compassion than he deserves. "Keep sipping that and you'll feel better soon. I'll get you something to eat, too."

She makes to rise, but Richard feels his finger close round her wrist. "Please, don't trouble yourself. I'm fine," he manages out, and she sinks back down.

He doesn't know why he wants to her to stay. Doesn't know why he's got himself in this predicament of all predicaments.

If there's a word to sum this up Richard thinks it's probably masochism.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"You don't need to keep apologising, Richard," Cheria says.

The people in the town call her the Angel of Lhant, but in her gown studded with pearl seeds and lace, cheeks dusted with rouge, the thought crosses Richard's addled mind that she looks the part of a real angel.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

The party begins to wind down. There's still a lot of people Richard doesn't know, milling around, sat on the stairs and chatting. The room's finally stopped spinning, though it remains reassuringly hazy.

Cheria and Asbel vanished upstairs, some time before.

When he thinks about that, Richard starts feeling queasy again.

Pascal's been perched by his side, chatting endlessly with words that go in one ear and slip out of the other. She's been asked to stay with him by Cheria, Richard thinks.

When she slips away for more food, or the bathroom, or something, somebody else takes their place.

A hand slides itself against Richard's thigh.

For several moments, Richard just stares at it. As though wondering what it's doing there.

"Fancy coming upstairs with me?" a voice slithers into his ear.

Richard makes himself look up. The man sat beside him is a stranger. Yet there's something about him. The colour of his hair, and something about the shape of his jaw. They remind him of…

"Alright," Richard says, as he takes his hand.

Richard finds himself in one of the guest rooms in the manor, shoved up against the wall by a stranger who takes him with hot, bruising kisses. Clothes come off, though Richard doesn't remember unbuttoning anything. They tumble back onto the fresh linen of the bed, he and the stranger, and Richard forgets everything but golden light streaming through the windows and echoes of his friend, his love's touch on him, and a terrible, burning need.

And from certain angles, he looks so much like him that Richard lets himself imagine it's his hands upon him, his fingers driving to a messy, sloppy rising ecstasy.

"A-Asbel! Asbel!" Richard gasps, as fingernails dig into skin, "God, Asbel—"

So caught in the hedonistic pleasure of it all, Richard doesn't hear the door click open. Not until he sees Asbel, his necktie loose, standing in the doorway.

No doubt, sent by a worried Pascal to search for the missing King.

In a second, all of Richard's rising desire is extinguished like fingers, dousing an eleth lamp. Asbel's eyes are wide, and Richard opens his mouth to speak, before he closes it upon the realisation there's nothing really he can say.

I'm sorry?

I love you?

None of it is right.

And shame is roiling in tight, hot coils in his stomach, and Richard feels as though he's going to be sick.

Asbel's eyes close, very briefly, as though he's in pain. He opens his mouth, too, and closes it. Tries again:

"Sorry to disturb you," he says.

Those words, too, mean nothing. And Richard cannot look his friend in the eye.

Asbel closes the door between them with a soft, final click.

The stranger puts a hand on Richard's shoulder. He says something to him that Richard cannot hear above the rise of rushing of blood in his ears.

"Leave me," he spits, hard as stone.

He sits, unmoving, on the bed as the stranger dresses and without another word, slips away.

Richard sits there in the empty room, naked and hunched, listening to the muffled sound of laughter and conversation leaking through the walls, alone with his shame and his desire burning through him.

Even if this is something he's done to himself, the pain isn't any less real.