Across the palace complex from the queen's chamber was one other, untaken by the merriment and mirth that seemed to flow from wineskins and keep the cool chill of night outside the thick stone walls.  He stormed into his own room -- much more modest than the quarters of the queen, with simple wooden decor that, while nowhere near as lavish, was perfectly functional and well-appointed -- and reached to his shoulder, unclasping a strap of leather that held a sturdy pauldron over one shoulder, releasing it and the attached vambrace and gauntlet to slip from his arm.  His finger curled, hooking the leather before the armor clattered to the floor, raising it and hanging the assembly on the wall by the door.  He admired the handiwork on the armor for a moment, appreciating the artful craftsmanship and the hewed lion inlaid in the metal, as much as the sturdy build of the piece.  It was his 'domestic' armor, thick enough to block an incoming bolt or arrow or dagger, any weapon which may approach his lady's heart.<br/><br/>The thought seemed to bring a sick look to his face.  A fingerless leather glove hid the expression for just a moment as he pushed his digits through his chocolate brown locks, pressing the mid-length hair back.  They trailed through the lengths, back down over his scalp and down his neck, where they fidgeted for a moment, brushing through his trimmed beard.  The reflection in the polished steel before him returned the image of his handsome face and strong features, but it also betrayed him, revealing what he truly was.  A flustered, frustrated soldier in over his head.<br/><br/>He was well versed in the queen's troubles.  Many had designs on the kingdom, whose mineral wealth and strategic placement made it a boon to any who could hold it.  At the junction of several busy trade routes, many of the goods carted to and from the surrounding kingdoms passed through this neutral hub.  It provided more than nominal wealth, though all eyes were on it, and that attention was making its leader more than a little uncomfortable.<br/><br/>It was not the potential battle he feared -- they were well prepared for a siege, and though the lust for the central kingdom was strong in the surrounding lands, none wanted to make the first move.  To fail was to invite rumor that they were treasonous miscreants, who wanted to control all wealth themselves.  To succeed was to invite every other nation to follow suit, attacking the kingdom again and again.  A temporary stalemate would prevail, until the nations began to draw alliances.  It was critical that the queen establish a plan before that could happen.<br/><br/>No, battle was where he belonged.  It was where he flourished, becoming a general in his youthful thirties, solidifying his right to be there by thirty-six.<br/><br/>It was the queen he feared, though it had not always been that way.<br/><br/>As a young man of sixteen -- an orphan, with no family or property to his name -- he enlisted in the King's service, lying about his age to gain entrance and employment.  He was strapping, and the guards did not question him, though the King quickly sussed out that he was not old enough to fight.  In his kindness, or perhaps wisdom, the King assigned him to protect his daughter (a safe duty, in those early days), who at the time was merely a child, toddling around and playing games that frequently involved him chasing or being chased through the palace halls.  They were fast friends, and it seemed the King himself had taken a shining to the lad himself.  Before he knew it, the King was sharing lessons, imparting knowledge, teaching him to read and write, as well as the arts of war and leadership.<br/><br/>Either through tutelage or the King's intuition, the young man had turned out to have a knack for all of them.  He was quick to react, strong and decisive, and his instincts ran true.  And yet, throughout most of the young princesses life, he was a bodyguard, friend, sometimes confidant, and on more occasions than he would have liked to admit, a play thing.  When she was a girl, he sipped imaginary tea with her, announced her at imaginary balls and gallas, and was on more than one occasion bedecked in lavender bedsheets, 'the fairest maiden of them all'.<br/><br/>As she grew, the King relied on him to suffer her precocious teenage years.  A certain amount of rebellion, though, was anticipated, and he was able to remain her friend by occasionally looking the other way, covering for her when she slipped out of her room in the evenings.  They had been inseparable, as close as could be, and her reliance on him did not diminish as the youthful auburn of her hair matured into a fiery crimson, blooming into adulthood in lovely fashion.<br/><br/>He grieved with her when her father passed, feeling the pain as uniquely as she, as he had been so blessed by the King's time and attention, the guidance he received perhaps surpassing her own.  As the general of the realm, and her closest friend, he was her advisor throughout.  He was there to help her bear the weight of her crown, by any means necessary.<br/><br/>Or so he thought.<br/><br/>Earlier in the week, an exceptionally stressful day at the negotiations table had left her frazzled, and her frustration extended to him by proximity and empathy.  He soothed her with platitudes as the sessions closed -- to the extent that platitudes had ever soothed<i>anyone</i>-- and walked with her back to her room, witnessing a moment of weakness as the overwhelmed queen took a breath, suffering evidently.  With no other way to console the shaken woman, he turned to the only place he knew they could find solace.<br/><br/>Drink.<br/><br/>The mere thought of alcohol sent a shiver up his spine, bringing him back into the moment and to his own needs.  His shoulders were tense, and he felt disgusting, having sweat through his proximity to the roaring fireplace all day, tending it during the debates to keep occupants of the room minimal.  He stripped off his shirt, revealing his firm body, rippling with the muscle of a man who worked for a living, hefting heavy steel on his body wherever he went, glistening slightly with his perspiration.  He shuffled out of his leather boots and trousers, taking a cloth from the back of a chair and approaching a basin of cool water.  The luxuries of the queen's bath were not his, and in truth, he would have refused them if they were.<br/><br/>He dunked the cloth into the water, tepid and clean.  Bringing it to his forehead, he mopped the sweat of his brow and scrubbed his face, washing his beard with small shavings of soap that left him smelling clean.  The cloth ran over his shoulders, down his chest and arms, and (with some difficulty), reached all corners of his back.  Water dripped down his hips and thighs as he quickly washed his shapely backside, legs, calves and feet.  Mostly cleaned, he leaned over the basin, cupping the water in his hands and splashing his face, removing the lingering soot and sweat.  The cool water cleared his mind for the briefest of moments before the door to his quarters swung open.<br/><br/>"Milord, General Roland," the sweet handmaiden Jane called, announcing herself as she entered his chamber, her eyes falling on the naked form of the general as she shrieked sweetly.  Her hand flew over her eyes just as Roland's washcloth flew in front of his member, stifling a rueful smile as she giggled girlishly, stealing a quick peek between her fingers.  Both of them were red as a beet, but he knew well enough a compliment when one was directed at him.  "Milord, milady wishes an audience with you.  I understand that it is urgent."<br/><br/>A chill went down Roland's spine, causing his posture to straighten uncomfortably, the embarrassed smile fading from his expression in a heartbeat.  His reaction was clearly visible, even to the girl with covered eyes.  "Milord?" she quipped, quickly identifying her misstep and turning away to hide her even deeper blush.<br/><br/>"Of course," Roland replied.  "I... I shall be with her majesty imminently."<br/><br/>"See that you do, good sir," Jane replied breathily, evidently flustered.  "She has taken to drink tonight.  I fear she is most distressed."  Without another word, she exited his chambers, stealing the briefest glance as she pulled the heavy oaken door closed behind her.<br/><br/>Roland prayed silently that the dread in his face was not as clear as the young woman's reaction, though he imagined that the gods had not seen fit to answer his prayer.<br/><br/>They had drank together before, earlier in the week.  It was the source of much of his discomfort in the time since.  The alcohol did indeed alleviate her stress, as it was meant to, though it alleviated vital inhibitions as well.  Their guards were down -- they always were with one another, they were so close -- and while he sat with her, he leaned a little too close.  Seemingly on an impulse, she leaned into him, or perhaps<i>fell</i>into him.  Their lips collided, and for a brief moment, he found himself joined in a kiss with the woman, his oldest friend.<br/><br/>Her lips were so soft, ineffably tender.  Warm.  Slick.<i>Trembling </i>anxiously.  Lively spiced rum lingered on the plush tiers, and he was just inebriated enough to chase the flavor, nipping at her upper lip to savor the taste and sensation.  He swore, he felt her tongue dart out to savor the taste of the brandy on his.<br/><br/>Even now he had to shake the thoughts from his mind, shivering as he physically recoiled from the memory.  It was a mistake, a<i>terrible</i>mistake.  He had torn himself away from her the moment his senses had caught up, but as he stumbled back like a wounded animal, he realized it was too late.  He could see the confused hurt in her eyes, and he knew he had overstepped a boundary that had never been meant to be crossed.<br/><br/>He had avoided her afterwards, mostly.  It was possible that she would have forgotten the whole incident, her memory of it wiped as the alcohol faded away, but he could see by the look in her eyes that she had remembered.  The negotiations required his proximity to her, and he rued the moment he'd set foot into her chambers that night.<br/><br/>Now he was summoned again.<br/><br/>He dressed quickly, slipping back into his pants and boots, pulling an arming shirt over his head.  He hadn't the time to dry off yet, his hair still slick from the quick rinse.  It dripped onto the white shirt, soaking it slightly, but he didn't have time to dally, slicking it back with the palm of his hand.  A beckon from the queen, regardless of reason, was cause for haste.<br/><br/>Suppressing his misgivings, he paced to the far side of the castle, knocking on the queen's door.  "Milady Eleanor," he announced himself, "I'm answering your beckon."  He pressed his palm to the door, leaning to draw it open and enter.