Chapter Text
He always liked flowers.
It was the subject of his brother's relentless teasing, his mother's endearment, and His Majesty's disappointment, but to be fair, everything he did seemed to strike those sorts of reactions in his closest relatives. And so, when Auguste attended additional lessons as the true crown jewel of the family, the spare son roamed the royal gardens, admiring the profusion of colors, smells, and shapes.
He ran between lavender patches, racing with the bees, but mindful not to disturb either them or the flowers, as they helped with his mother’s insomnia. He picked tiny florets of chamomile, unchangeably disappointed they weren’t as delicious fresh as they were when brewed by his governess. He admired the white Madonna lilies and vivid purple irises, their coat of arms, both beautiful and curative, according to the physicians picking up the bulbs now and again, patiently answering all of Laurent’s questions.
He hasn't set foot in the Arlesian botanical gardens since an arrow gouged the King, and Damianos butchered his brother like worthless cattle.
His national sense of pride wanted to boast that the slave gardens of Ios didn’t hold a candle to the one he remembered from his childhood days, but such would be a lie. The soft breeze in his hair, salty on his lips, and the crunch of sand underneath his sandals as he passed through the sun-drenched pathways were quite enjoyable, and the loud screeches of seagulls could be charming, he supposed.
All of it was a mirage.
The pink foxgloves, adored by butterflies, but a handful of which could stop a child’s heart. Nightshade, a few berries of which could cause delirium.
Oleander, just four leaves of which are more than enough to kill a grown man – or a giant animal, for that matter.
Not his preferred method, but in the circumstances he was in especially, keeping an open mind was key. Moreover, how does the saying go? If you can’t have what you love, love what you have.
There was not one thing Laurent would love more than seeing Damianos with his eyes glossed over, bleeding underneath his feet.
“Kallias!”
Erasmus was waving enthusiastically at an impassive boy not much older than himself, sitting at the other side of the garden, tuning a lyre-like instrument. So engrossed by his task he was, he almost didn’t notice Erasmus’ greeting – but the moment he did, his inscrutable expression began to light up with a kind smile… which disappeared as soon as it appeared when Kallias noticed Laurent. Reaction not so uncommon, although Laurent could only guess what he had possibly managed to do to get on the wrong foot with him already, other than being born Veretian, of course.
Erasmus sighed and bowed his head slightly in apology, turning to Laurent. “This one is sorry for Kallias. He’s… quite shy. But one of the finest palace slaves there are.”
Two pairs of blue eyes met, and neither turned away, caught red-handed.
Laurent hummed, recalling the very same gaze assessing him the day before. “He is Kastor the bastard’s slave, isn’t he?”
“Eep!”
Erasmus’ eyes widened and he whipped his head around, pressing a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture. Only after he made sure no one had possibly heard him, he calmed down, resting his hand heavily on his chest, as if that could calm down his racing heart.
“It wasn’t my intention to cause you to have a premature heart attack,” Laurent deadpanned, referring to Erasmus’ frankly quite exaggerated reaction. “I was just stating a fact. The king catted around and fathered a child out of wedlock before he managed to seed his own wife, which makes said child a bastard. Are Akielons more terrified of the word than Veretians?”
“This one knows in Vere the matter is perceived… differently,” Erasmus began carefully, the sort of diplomacy even Laurent’s late King could have approved of, “but in Akielos, all children are equal.”
Said a slave, Laurent thought. But, knowing Erasmus, he haven’t said it out loud; the boy was too indoctrinated for his reservations to find a receptive audience in him so early on. Small steps.
“Equal, except that the moment Damianos was born, the throne was snatched from right under Kastor’s nose,” Laurent pointed out instead. Erasmus visibly tensed up. “Delivered from a contemptible act, bastards are followed by resentment, made out of it. Without fault of their own.”
And this was probably what was worst about children born out of wedlock – the hardships they faced in life, even in societies more tolerable to them than Vere, weren’t caused by anything they did, but rather by the short-sightedness and egoism of their parents. If anything, Laurent pitied Kastor – but seeing Erasmus's soft, childlike face tighten and the warmth in his eyes dim just a smidge, it seemed that wasn’t understood by sole virtue of the bastard prince’s rotten circumstances.
“They are born out of love.”
Ah. Love.
The great delusion.
Give it to a slave, whose will has been taken away, to be this vehemently enamored with a concept of a feeling so powerful it impairs one’s ability to think clearly, to make sound decisions, to be one’s own person. More than that, it didn’t surprise Laurent at all such idealism could be found in a country which had claimed whatever love he had experienced in his life, and stripped it away.
Because Laurent used to be loved. By his mother, who had died. By his brother, who was murdered. By the courtiers, who turned against him as soon as the wind blew from another, more personally profitable direction. By his uncle, who out of love raped him and tore him into pieces again, and again, and again, and threw him out when he was spent and used.
He knew what it was to be loved, which was why he hated it so much – because nothing hurt quite like it being taken away, twisted, mangled.
His Majesty loved, too, when he tore off his helmet in the middle of the battle without a second thought, because he heard his pride and joy, the only son he ever had, perished. He hasn’t spared one thought to the younger one, and this was the easier of the possibilities. Laurent would rather not think being thought such a letdown that his own father would rather die than see him following in his footsteps.
“And yet, there is no wedding band on Hypermenestra’s finger,” was all Laurent said.
“It… isn’t always this simple.”
Don’t you Akielons love your simplicity? Laurent was about to ask, but seeing the firm set of Erasmus’ soft lips, he took a step back. Verbal spars were not worth losing one of the very few people in this God-forsaken land who seemed to be well-disposed to him, and kind. He knew how rare simple kindness was.
Erasmus sighed as if he was tired of explaining the simplest of things to a petulant child. “Theomedes-Exalted and Lady Hypermenestra love each other dearly. They don’t need anything more than that, and this one finds it beautiful. They are devoted to one another. The Lady doesn’t even take slaves,” Erasmus emphasized as if it was truly a mighty sacrifice. “She raised Damianos-Exalted as if he was her own blood. Kastor-Exalted is the greatest supporter of his brother, and he performs his duties admirably, traveling all across Akielos and meeting with the kyroi in the King’s stead.” The slave’s shoulders relaxed, and his gaze softened. “Kallias is so beautiful and has so many talents that are appreciated in such a household. A slave of his quality truly must be bestowed the greatest of honors.”
“If he’s so priceless, then why is he serving the bastard brother, and not the heir to the throne?”
Erasmus chewed on the inside of his cheek, pulling on his brassy curls, mulling through the answer, looking anywhere but at either Laurent or Kallias, who has since turned to other affairs, walking away with effortless grace, the sheer silk chiton trailing over him. Unbothered by the heat or the pitiless sun, which only warmed and grazed his dark—
“He isn’t blond.”
“No,” Erasmus said, looking after Kallias’ receding form until it disappeared from view completely. Only then did he turn back to look at Laurent. “He isn’t.”
“I take it that Kastor’s tastes aren’t as bland and monotonous as a boiled potato, then?”
“It’s nothing wrong to have… preferences.”
Erasmus’ eyes wandered back to where Kallias was last, and Laurent knew what he wasn’t saying. Knew the longing stare from many a courtier, yearning for their paramour, but afraid of what a scandal of such a caliber would do to them. Worse – what would it do to their sweetheart.
“Are yours perhaps dark-haired, tan, and with deep blue eyes?”
Erasmus stopped in his tracks, turning to Laurent. Tight as a spring ready to release, with drops of sweat scattered on his shoulders, he held his breath – a deer caught in headlights, afraid of what the reality next words he would hear would conjure into reality.
“Never once have you referred to Kallias with anything other than a ‘he’.”
Erasmus’ flush could rival the red of roses surrounding them in this remote part of the garden, and no amount of covering his cheeks with his hands could hide that. He turned around, trying to collect himself, but he was an open book, and they both knew it.
Both of them knew how dangerous it was, too.
“This one is guilty of an omission and apologizes,” Erasmus whipped his head back just for a split second, to bow it in an apologetic gesture. Barely audibly he murmured they should head back, and didn’t wait for Laurent’s acquiescence before scarpering, as if leaving the garden was enough to escape the reality of his feelings, too.
I don’t think it was an omission, Laurent mused, looking at Erasmus’ back, even his neck slightly pink. I think you like him.
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Erasmus fell uncharacteristically silent after that, lost deep in thought to which Laurent wasn’t privy. He didn’t mind the sudden quietude of his companion much, though, as it allowed him to pay attention to his surroundings more carefully.
What caught his attention, in particular, was a long gallery leading out of the slave baths, wide and curiously lightly guarded, as if the path wasn’t usually operational. If it was the case, Laurent wouldn’t be too surprised – there were many corridors like this in Arles as well, simply due to the palace’s size. Maintaining all of them, even for the royal family, was too much of a hassle; especially if a hallway was meant only for the use of servants, rather than for representative purposes.
Forgotten, derelict, and in his reach – a perfect escape route, if only not for Adrastus’ very explicit orders of not letting him be without a chaperone for more than it took to take a piss. Quite a vexation, and an inconvenience, but Laurent was nothing but patient if necessity arose.
“—better, but if you are to be able to protect the prince—”
Their smell reached Laurent before the burble of conversation did – a heavy, heady scent of musk and sweat, dripping off men who had just left the field after getting a good session of physical training in, perfecting their skills as soldiers. He knew it from Arles well, his guard, consisting of regular, hardworking men rather than perfumed aristocrats, oftentimes entering the halls of power still stinking of horse and mud, much to his uncle’s chagrin.
As much as Laurent wasn’t Auguste and his affinity for physical pursuits wasn’t inborn – more of a result of stubbornness and perfectionism, fired by seething hatred – he appreciated the simple honesty of it and revealed in it himself. The clang of swords slicing against each other, the sharp whoosh of sand shooting from underneath parrying feet – it was a cure for his racing thoughts, if only momentary. A brief respite for his mind, working relentlessly to keep him afloat, and alive.
He missed it more than he thought he would.
“—things have changed since the time I served, but with the incoming—”
The flow of the conversation was cut short by Erasmus, clearly with his head somewhere else entirely, blindly crashing into the younger one of the soldiers, nearly bowling him over, if not for the strong hand of the older, catching him just in time. They were familiar to Laurent, the rugged one especially. As Erasmus dropped to his knees and prostrated himself in a petrified beg for the inexcusable overstepping, Laurent narrowed his eyes, placing them in his foggy memory.
‘Or perhaps a criminal, with his area of expertise being honey-trapping. Would be very Veretian, wouldn’t you agree?’
Nikandros.
“—an honest mistake for which you won’t be punished. Rise. I see you are a member of Damianos’ household?”
“Yes, Honored kyros.”
“Should have guessed from your blond– hair.”
The way Nikandros’ expression changed from easy indulgence to seething dislike the moment his eyes flicked from sweet Erasmus to Laurent was almost comedic, if only it wasn’t so ridiculous. A taller man than him as it was, Nikandros straightened up, and the younger Akielon by his side followed, as if there was any need to put themselves over Laurent, currently enslaved, any further.
“Birds of a feather flock together, even if one of them is a lark, and the other a vulture,” Nikandros deliberated, sizing Laurent up.
Have those people never seen a Veretian up close, or what? Did they think every Veretian hissed and spit venom like a literal snake? They were quite influential, indeed, but he wouldn’t call his people reptilians.
Although he, personally, was more than adept at spitting out poison. And hissed on occasion.
Maybe he was a reptilian, after all.
Nevertheless, the gauntlet has been thrown, and Laurent wasn’t one to refuse a good round of verbal bitch fight, especially when his opponent was no match for him, most likely lacking the required amount of brain cells to as much as comprehend half of his back-handed insults and provocations.
“Don’t worry. This particular vulture knows better than to feast on spoilt flesh,” he said, easily, with a smile completely at odds with his words, “so you don’t have to be concerned about the prince-killer’s meat. Unless he tries to stick it where it doesn’t belong, it will be where nature intended the next morning, you have my word.”
The eloquent silence that befell the corridor stroked Laurent’s ego almost as much as forcing his uncle to a few seconds of silence in their public squabbles used to. Nikandros turned white, while his companion’s cheeks reddened. The youngster covered his mouth with a hand as if to conceal a yawn, but instead what followed was a short, barely noticeable huff of a guilty snicker. Nikandros whipped his head to the lad, and the chuckle was cut off, though a shadow of a flush remained.
Good one, huh?
“Laurent!” Erasmus hissed lowly, reaching to grab Laurent’s arm – a gentle hold, inconspicuous, but meant to pull him up nonetheless. Joking about the crown prince’s manhood certainly wasn’t included in the book of slavery virtues, but so far, everyone knew he wasn’t one in anything but name and position, or rather, the lack thereof. It was a dangerous game, but if played well, perhaps he would be deemed unsuitable for Damianos’ bed. With such a pay-off, it was worth trying, and besides – it was quite amusing.
To be fair, the hilarity was the driving force behind his admittedly reckless altercation.
To Nikandros’ credit, he regained his composure admirably quickly. He cleared his throat, coldly pointing out, “Laurent? How curious.”
“A common name,” Laurent himself cleared up, wary. Did this man know who he was? Delfeur was bordering Acquitart, sure, but he was quite certain they hadn’t met before today, not in person, and except his famed beauty – currently faded due to the grueling travel, anxiety, and pallor caused by whatever they have spiked him with – he didn’t have any particular distinguishing characteristics. Not to mention – who would be expecting to find a Veretian prince, heir to the throne, in Ios of all places? As a slave?
No one, unless they were in on the plot. And in that case, no amount of masquerading could help.
“I’m quite certain you can relate,” Laurent continued, easily. “I feel like a third of this country bears the name of some sort of ‘Nik’. Why is that?”
In fact, he hadn’t personally experienced this – the only Niks he knew were Nicaise and now Nikandros, and only one of them was Akielon – however, he did hear the joke enough times at the Arlesian court to know to use it the first opportunity he got. However, clearly, the humor wasn’t appreciated by Akielon Niks, judging by Nikandros’ expression not budging an inch. If anything, the corners of his mouth have gone even lower, if it was even possible at this point.
Erasmus cut in, attempting to de-escalate the situation. “Um, I see that you must have already made your acquaintance…”
Indeed we did, he thought when he was taunting me as I was writhing on the floor in pain and confusion.
“Laurent, this is- this is Nikandros of Delpha, the confidante and closest advisor of Damianos-Exalted, and the commander of the northern Akielon army.”
Erasmus surely meant for Laurent to be impressed with the revelation, however, it was hardly news to him – if anything, it simply helped him to put his thoughts in order.
This was why the name sounded familiar to him from the get-go. Nikandros, formerly of nowhere, and currently of the greatest province in Akielos, which he valiantly aided his crown prince in wrenching it out of Vere. Gallantly plundering and laying waste to the land which had been part of his kingdom for generations, and flourished under their rule, until Theomedes of Akielos’ greed and his uncle's uncharacteristically mistaken guidance devastated it.
Nikandros of Delpha. How many sons have you murdered to be granted this grand title? How many daughters? Because no matter how many times you repeat it, you won’t be from Delfeur. And no title will ever grant you a sense of belonging.
“Delpha? Oh, do you mean Delfeur?” Laurent feigned ignorance, and delighted in the firm press of Nikandros’ lips and rapid blinking of his companion’s. “I apologize, my Akielon isn’t too good.”
“What are you saying, it’s perfect!” Erasmus rushed, his eyes gleaming and shoulders straightened – but just as quickly as he had puffed up, he deflated under the level gaze of Nikandros’s, swallowing and paling as he realized he might have overlooked a barbed comment. He squeaked, panicked, doing his best to – again – smooth things over and change the topic, while silently hoping the Akielon nobles would just move along, Laurent was certain. “And this is, um… this is…”
“Pallas,” Nikandros helpfully supplied. “The best soldier in the Delphean,” he stressed, looking at Laurent, “army. He has just finished his time serving at Kingsmeet, and is currently developing social graces as his father’s envoy to the court.”
“Kingsmeet!”
Erasmus’ face was nothing short of amazed, his eyes gleaming like a pair of peridots, and his mouth blooming in a wonderstruck smile. Laurent supposed that for Akielons, the term must have held different connotations than it did to him – because when he thought of kings meeting, it was of hours upon hours spent talking about matters which honestly could have been a letter, with a sprinkle of getting their’s hackles up in a languishing pissing contest. Nothing he would want to spend an afternoon doing, much less boast about it.
His Beatrice seemed to sense his confusion, because Erasmus readily provided, “It’s a sacred place for Akielons, where even the staunchest of enemies could meet without fear of ambush. Since ancient times those strict rules have been enforced, and even members of the royal family aren’t exempt from them. Serving there is the greatest honor an Akielon man can be granted.”
“It is indeed,” Nikandros confirmed. “I had served there years ago myself, and it had been a true blessing, and my father’s greatest joy.”
“Is there anything like this in Vere?”
An attempt at a pleasant conversation wasn’t something he had expected from Nikandros’ bannerman, but indeed, the first thing Pallas had spoken had been a question, as far as Laurent could see, with no malicious undertones. Judging by Erasmus’ reaction to it, pleasant conversations with slaves in general must have been an exception to the rule, so it was all the more baffling. And perplexing it would remain, if not for the very telling way Pallas tried to keep prolonged eye contact with him, only to then break it and replace it with occasional glances, albeit no less heated.
Ah. Another one with the hots for blonds. Of course.
Seemed like his Kemptian genes had equipped him with true kryptonite for Akielons, no chamomile and bleach required – and that he wasn’t the only one who had noticed it.
“Oh for Gods’ sake,” Nikandros mumbled, massaging the bridge of his nose in irritation. “Has everyone around these parts lost their mind, or– that’s it. I am done. Pallas, we are going.”
“Kyros–”
“This wasn’t a request. This was an order.”
And so, they went, leaving behind a perplexed Erasmus and highly entertained Laurent, who could not possibly stop himself from playing the part and waving demurely at Pallas as he was dragged away by his exasperated superior. The soft blush on his face turned into more of a crimson shade, which couldn’t be healthy, but at least it left no shadow of a doubt that there could be no more blood left that could travel more southward, causing even more embarrassment for the young soldier.
How beautiful. Poor Pallas would be worked to the ground by Nikandros in his livid irritation, Laurent was certain.
And he envied him.
“Laurent, please don’t do that,” Erasmus whispered after the men disappeared behind the great doors at the end of the corridor. He was probably going for admonishing with his tone, however, with little success. “It wasn’t nice.”
Laurent raised his brow. “Why would I be nice to any of them?”
“Why wouldn’t you be?” Erasmus countered out of genuine confusion. What a sweet child. “Nikandros of Delpha is an honored kyros, and it’s thanks to men like him that we can live the life we do.”
“I think it’s exactly why I shouldn’t be nice to him,” Laurent pointed out. “He’s a master, isn’t he? He must have an entire harem of slaves of his own.”
But it didn’t seem the notion was as reproachful to Erasmus as it was to him because the boy had only tilted his head slightly, furrowing his brows. “Yes,” he confirmed, baffled as to why someone would find it to be something contemptible. “And he is said to be taking great care of them.”
What did the supposed great care involve, Laurent wondered. Not being drugged to stay obedient? Being allowed to walk around the grounds, as even animals were permitted? Not be forced to perform services they didn’t want to partake in?
“We are being cherished, Laurent,” Erasmus stressed. “We are bathed, fed, and admired. This one doesn’t understand why are you finding it so despicable? The slaves are held in the highest regard, and rewarded for our service. Why would we bite the hand that feeds us?”
“You are tied to them,” he tried again, despite knowing he wouldn’t be heard. “You have your autonomy taken away. No matter what you are subjected to, you cannot leave. How is this fair?”
“This one is safe. This one is loved. This one doesn’t need more than that. It’s the greatest luxury.”
The soft, secret smiles passed between the two young boys. The promises neither dared speak exchanged in them. The way even the most obedient, docile of slaves forgot he was nothing more than an object, whenever speaking of the one person he held dear.
“Are you loved how you would want to be loved, Erasmus?”
His lips pressed together. He was losing his patience, again – Laurent was pushing too far, and he knew it. He knew it, but he couldn’t shut up, not when the psychological manipulation this poor soul was subjected to.
“You could have it much worse. Many have to walk the streets hungry and worry about what the next day will bring. That is no issue of ours, the masters have to make sure we are comfortable and content. It’s a good existence,” he concluded. “How was it for you in Vere?”
“I was free,” Laurent said carefully, although his voice wavered. Was he? With no collar around his neck, no cuffs, just a golden circlet around his head – was he free? With the expectations he could never meet, the responsibilities he was never supposed to bear, the dangers he faced since the moment he turned thirteen? “I was free.”
“But was it better?”
Back in Arles, he wasn’t living with the threat of being raped hanging over his head, at least not for the last few years.
He was being offended, just behind his back. And he knew fully well what he had was only an illusion of safety; he wouldn’t be here otherwise.
He wasn’t much faring better than Erasmus, yet another pawn in a game played by other men. But unlike the gentle slave, he had the delusion of being a major piece, when he was moments away from being knocked out of the board. He wasn’t yet ready to make peace with that, either.
He didn’t want to think.
“Perhaps physical exertion might help with taming my temper,” Laurent suggested, however, it hardly could pass through his throat. “Redirect it more productively. Take a page from the honored kyros’ book”.
“But… they are warriors.”
“Yes.”
“And… we aren’t warriors. What if you got hurt? Or- or scarred?” Erasmus looked like the very concept terrified him. Just what happened to slaves that had the misfortune to injure themselves in any way, to justify such a reaction? “No. Master Adrastus would not allow it. A training field is not a good place for us to be.”
Worth trying, Laurent sighed, internally. “What is a good place for a slave to visit, then?”
“Hmm…” Erasmus furrowed his brows, placing a finger on his lips, deep in thought, before throwing it up in the air. Eureka.
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“Where are we going?”
The question was asked helplessly, Laurent determining with full confidence that it wasn’t going to be answered anywhere soon, not with his cicerone having one singular focus, of which he didn’t think to perhaps enlighten his charge. Like this, Erasmus reminded Laurent of a pony, prancing ahead with blinkers covering his eyes, only one thing in his mind.
He wasn’t the most qualified tour guide there was, but frankly, it could easily be forgiven when one’s face and behaviors were so awfully endearing. Whatever his plan, Erasmus was positively lightened up, and the attitude was infectious – pulled around the halls, Laurent felt as if he was a child again, pulled around the corridors on some new, obviously very important quest.
Only passing through one hall, Erasmus slowed down, his steps becoming more measured, quieter in the tranquility of the space.
It gave Laurent pause. While it wasn’t out of the ordinary for a passage by the slave baths to be pretty much abandoned, a whole wing just sitting there with no guards to account for, or even courtiers mingling around it, was strange. Laurent paused as if by looking at it long enough he could get his answers.
“The Queen’s Wing,” Erasmus whispered. “Queen Egeria’s Quarters. It has been closed off since she died, and no one has been allowed here, except the king, the crown prince, and the most essential servants. It’s… eerie. People say her ghost still roams these halls.”
Which would explain Erasmus’ hushed tones and uncharacteristic solemnity. For some reason, he thought perhaps Hypermenestra would take these rooms, just like he had taken Auguste’s, and Uncle had taken His Majesty’s.
But Hypermenestra wasn’t the queen. Just like Uncle wasn’t the king.
Perhaps the Akielons were up to something.
“We are almost there.”
They were still close to the royal quarters, but the whiff of bird droppings from a passing postman lugging a crate with quite a few messenger pigeons, all of them with scrolls attached to their legs, wasn’t exactly inspiring enthusiasm in Laurent. However, if Erasmus’ idea of a suitable pastime was to play with animals, he honestly wouldn’t mind, even if he wasn’t much of a birder.
As a child, when at Acquitart, he used to sneak out to the palace hen house, playing with the chickens, much to everyone’s exasperation. They smelled, and he usually ended up with quite a few scratches after falling on his face whilst unsuccessfully chasing the birds, but he did remember the few times when his stubby legs carried him fast enough, and he managed to catch one. The softness of their feathers was making up for all the inconveniences, smell very much included.
“Where?”
Erasmus’ mouth opened in a perfect ‘o’. Did it skip his attention that he kind of sort of forgot to inform Laurent of their planned destination? “A library! Except for the baths and training halls, this is the place we attend most often in our leisure time. The royal collection is quite impressive, even the part accessible to us. There is also a closed section for the private use of the Exalteds and one for the historians. It cannot be accessed by royals themselves, since it holds recent records, but together with the historians they can grant permission to whoever might need to read them. It’s a real treat for the scholars, and those of us more inclined to understand the workings of the world!”
All of this was interesting and all, but Laurent’s brain halted at something much simpler, but the most shocking. “You… can read?”
“Of course, this one can! All of us slaves do. How else would we be able to learn the great epics?”
By someone else reading them out, and then repeating them ad nauseam, until it would stick, just like it was done in Arles with pets with talents other than purely sexual services. The ability to read among the common folk was rare – parish schools and guilds could only do so much, especially with how limited Laurent’s capabilities of establishing them, as before ascension, he had no power of his own, bounded by rulings of the Regent and the Council. And rarely they saw eye to eye, attaching equal importance to the most pressing issues.
People being able to read, count, and have at least some basic knowledge of the world was less substantial than building their army. The enemy was just behind the corner, after all. Who knows whether they wouldn’t try and take them by surprise like they did six years ago.
Laurent would need to settle for teaching Nicaise, even if his attempts weren’t falling on receptive ears. Just a bit more training and this would be done, though, he was sure.
Would anyone continue in his absence, or what he did would be all there would ever be?
He knew the answer.
“I liked reading, back in Arles. It was my favorite pastime, actually.”
Erasmus lightened up. “What was your favorite work?”
The Art of War, his mind, so used to masquerading as a right-minded aristocrat, helpfully supplied. Respectful choice for a noble. Less respectful one for a slave, and one that would certainly make Erasmus' eyes turn into saucers. For a moment, he considered saying it, if only for that reason.
It wasn't his favorite.
It was Auguste's.
But then again, Auguste was never a reader. Auguste was a soldier, a valiant knight, not a sissy spending every living moment in a library, studying flowers in the garden, or scrambling unsteady stools to braid the mane of any steed he could reach. Usually, even with some elevation, it was a mere pony.
Auguste.
In his mind, Laurent could still recall the sound of small feet trotting against the stone floors as he trailed after his big brother, tap, tap, tap, wordlessly hauling a book easily weighing half of what he himself did. He would do that until his cheeks would burn from exertion, and Auguste would finally relent, taking a break from the courtly duties of a crown prince to crouch down to Laurent’s level and ruffle his hair. This one again, Lolo? Alright, alright…
“Chanson de Clarisse et Florent.”
He could recall clutching to the same very book with hands that didn’t yet lose all of their childish chubbiness, rumpling the edges of the pages with a desperate grasp, as if by holding onto it he could pull the memory of his brother back to life. But he couldn’t, he knew he couldn’t, even then, when still some innocence was left in him – there was no Auguste, and there was no magic. There were only bitter tears smearing the ink on the pages.
Erasmus tilted his head. “This one doesn’t think we have it here… what is it about?”
A beautiful maiden, of course, like all the other chansons de geste, waiting for a knight in shining armor to save her from her plight… and outsmarting men who underestimated her by reducing her to just her looks. Because you see, Clarisse was not just a pretty skirt – she was a knight’s daughter who could fend for herself, using her shrewd mind to escape imprisonment and abuse, and the knight in shining armor was her equal, fighting alongside her and catching her when she fell.
Florent’s love enriched her but didn’t take away from her capacity. He was there when she needed him most, but respected her, believed in her abilities, and understood her resilience.
As a child, Laurent dreamed of love like this. As an adolescent, he clutched onto diminishing hope. As an adult, Laurent knew Florent wasn’t coming, and Clarisse would need to fight battles on her own.
Deep in his heart, he still just wished he didn’t have to.
“This one would love to read it one day! If there’s an Akielon or Patran translation. This one’s Veretian unfortunately isn’t too good.”
Patran? Not only could Akielon slaves read, but were also versed in foreign languages? Could read in one? Laurent didn’t even know many nobles who took the effort, rationalizing their laziness by saying that for one, Veretian was the international language and since Vere was the greatest power on the continent, others should adjust, and for another – there were translators. Why would they bother?
The fact Laurent did bother, was yet another one of his ‘curious quirks’. As a child, he learned Vaskian, enamoring the Empress’ delegation with his high little voice wrapping around the hard, unfamiliar vowels – much to his brother’s amusement, and admiration. While Auguste himself wasn’t a polyglot, languages not coming to him as easily as a sword fight, he found Laurent’s bookish affinity admirable, and quite useful, seeing how he was meant to be the closest advisor to the crown one day. Just like Uncle was to His Majesty.
And then Auguste died, and each moment he didn’t spend attending to the duties he was never fated to have, or breaking sweat learning the art of the sword, Laurent dedicated to self-studying Akielon, late at night, a faint flame of the candle his only companion.
So sorry if his accent and grammar weren’t perfect.
“I could teach you some Veretian if you wanted,” Laurent offered. “However, I don’t know how useful it would be for you.”
Not like there could possibly be any situation in which an Akielon male slave could use it, especially if one already knew Patran. The slave trade was only as robust with Patras, Veretians content with their servants and pets, while the Vaskians hardly had any need for obedient, meek boys.
Nonetheless, Erasmus nearly jumped in his spot in glee. “This one would be honored! Akielos has opened itself to Vere recently, hasn’t it? Establishing foreign relations and opening trade routes. The freedom of movement improved, too, so this one guesses knowing Veretian might be quite important soon, in case we have to serve Veretian dignitaries. Damianos-Exalted was so foreseeing, learning it in the past.”
Or, perhaps, just like Laurent, he was aware of the to defeat your enemy, you have to know your enemy principle, the command of their language very much included. After all, the future is fickle, and one might find oneself in a situation where comprehension of the enemy’s speech becomes one’s life or death.
Laurent would know.
Nonetheless, time and time again Erasmus effortlessly proved he might need to take a step back and reassess what he thought he knew of Akielon slaves, and what turned out to be baseless prejudice and Veretian bias. He wasn’t proud of it and personally attempted to change that in Acquitart, over which he already had independent governance. Still, Veretians weren’t strangers to the concept of preserving power structure by withholding access to education. Knowledge is power, and holding it back from the small folk was the most fool-proof way to ensure they had no means to question the nobility’s authority. Hence, it was only natural Laurent assumed the same principle must be followed in Akielos – perhaps in more extreme ways in regards to slaves, seeing how their very sense of self was stripped away to guarantee perfect obedience.
But it wasn’t. Not only the royal slaves could read – which wasn’t commonplace among Arlesian pets, he had to admit – but were also versed in foreign languages and even politics. It was baffling, it was admirable, it was absolutely terrifying.
Because just what were those poor souls subjected to, that despite their vast education, it never crossed their minds to question why they were reduced to mere objects when they were no less human than their masters?
“This one loves romantic tales too! They are less popular than Isagoras’ epics because those are preferred by Damianos-Exalted and Kastor-Exalted too, but no less engrossing. Laechton’s yearning for Arsaces, for example, it’s so beautiful!”
And then he was gone, reciting passages from it and raving about the literal genius of the works, happily explaining to Laurent the words and ancient phrases he didn’t understand. Each question made his eyes dance and cheeks raise from smiling, and Laurent was more than happy to oblige, because as biased as he was towards the Akielons, he could not deny the value and impact of their literature and philosophy. More than that, he was happy himself to have found someone to share his love for humanities – Veretians, despite painting themselves to be so cultured, rarely were on a level to discuss such topics with him, finding his love for written works unconventional and bizarre. He didn’t expect to find a kindred spirit in an Akielon slave – but he was glad to have discovered it.
“Oh, you would love Ballad of Iphegenia, it’s so haunting. It should be in here somewhere… wait a moment, this one will go and get it!”
Off between bookshelves filled to the brim he went, and Laurent could just imagine the angry hissing the Arlesian librarian would follow Erasmus with. However, it wasn’t Arles, and he couldn’t account for any librarian in the nearest vicinity. If not for the tap of Erasmus’s feet, the library was deserted at this hour of the day.
Except that it wasn’t.
Hearing trained in a place where even walls had ears, he caught a distant echo of a hushed conversation, concealed by the grandness of the hall and muffled by thousands of pages in thick, leather covers. Curious, he followed the sound, and the closer he got, the more intrigued he became, and for a good reason.
“You cannot possibly expect me to believe you were unaware of this happening.”
The tone of voice was authoritative, the sort a lord would use with a shockingly disappointing vassal, which in itself wasn’t anything strange – Heaven knows people are incompetent, and more than deserving of a little telling off every now and again.
What made him burn with curiosity was the sheer secrecy of the rendezvous, and the fact the voice didn’t belong to a man.
It was a woman.
“It may come as a surprise to you, but not all of us are privy to the workings of minds of our betters.”
Carefully, Laurent slid his hand between the book spines to part them, and his eyes widened, witnessing a tryst he did not expect – because there, between the numerous tomes, stood the golden-haired siren he saw earlier in the day, and no one else but Councillor Guion.
The only saving grace of the meeting was that it was thankfully not romantic in nature, or Laurent might have soiled the floor with whatever sorry contents his stomach held. It didn’t mean catching a royal favorite of an enemy nation and a member of your own supposed council was good in any shape or form. If anything, it made the blood in his veins freeze.
Laurent knew Guion of Fortaine was an Ambassador to Akielos, of course – he opposed the nomination himself – and was also more than aware he was a scheming piece of shit, but nonetheless, he didn’t think Uncle’s favorite flatterer would be nonchalantly plotting with an Akielon royal whore at the other end of the continent.
Then again, Laurent didn’t expect to find himself at the other end of the continent, either, and most definitely not in the circumstances he was put in.
“Perhaps because on this side of the border, I am the better, and as one I do not appreciate such developments taking place without as much as a peek or forewarning, or preferably a discussion whether it should happen at all.” The woman crossed her arms, her expression impassable. She wasn’t happy, but would not let the man press her buttons any more than he already did. Hence, Guion was assailable – being an annoying fat prick was the only weapon he had in his arsenal, and she seemed to be very aware of the fact.
It occurred to Laurent he should probably be cheering on the Councillor in this clash, as the Veretian representative, however he found it quite hard to do, seeing how the man likely had a part in him being sent to Akielos. He agreed with the woman – Guion had to know. As secretive as Uncle was, preferring to keep plans close to his chest – they were very similar in that regard, unfortunately – there was no possibility of any plan as audacious as getting rid of the heir to the throne by sending him out of the country, disgraced, could succeed without someone to ensure a favorable outcome on-site.
As a side note, if you asked Laurent, it wasn’t a very effective plan to begin with. He was still alive, after all – probably not for long, but Uncle truly was full of himself if he thought Laurent couldn’t do any damage from the distance.
Unless this was exactly what he was expecting him to do. Damianos was too adequate of a successor, like it or not, and having a competent ruler of an enemy nation, one with expansionist ambitions, wasn’t desirable. And there was not one person in the world more determined to ensure Damianos’ downfall and painful death than Laurent himself.
Killing two birds with one stone.
“Does Kastor know you consider yourself his better?” Guion snickered. Still, the woman’s eyebrows haven’t as much as twitched, and she hasn’t budged, continuing to corner the councilor.
Laurent wished he had some popping corn on him.
“This puts our whole plan in jeopardy. Is your master aware, or does he think we are yet another pair of puppets on his little muppet stage?”
“I am sure he respects you, Lady Jokaste—”
She cut him off, swiftly like a master swordsman with a freshly-sharpened rapier. “This was a rhetorical question. There’s no doubt he thinks that, however a word of advice, underrating us might not be the wisest course of action.”
“Rhetorical ques—”
“It means a question which doesn’t elicit an answer since it’s very much obvious,” she sighed, her elegant finger circling in the air in an annoyed gesture; as if Guion was nothing more than an annoying fly, and truly, Laurent could relate to the sentiment. “Therefore, you are not to answer it. Heavens gracious, perhaps it might be worth considering changing our designated conversation language? Seeing how I seem to know Veretian better that you do.”
Oof. Laurent could see Guion grow red in the face, wanting to fire right back, but not getting a chance to put his two coppers in. Even if he did, Laurent was sure Jokaste would throw in an entire lei.
“There were plenty of other questions that do require answers,” Jokaste continued, “and so far you have failed to provide an explanation to as much as one of them.”
“There must be a reason for this… unexpected arrival, to that I agree,” Guion grinned through gritted teeth. “I will be sure to write to him at the earliest convenience, and ask for the nature of it.”
“Write to him,” Jokaste scoffed, tossing her carefully coiled her away. If the Councillor stood any closer to her, he would probably be slapped in the face with one of the intricate braids. “Write to him, so we can get any sort of answers in a few weeks' time, if that. Not to mention, a letter could be intercepted, and then all of us would hang. May I remind you, that we are under a time constraint here?”
Guion’s face scrunched up and then relaxed, as if he was trying to regain his calm, however with no success. Tensely, he gritted out, “Make the travel to Arles yourself, my lady, if you are so inclined. I am certain your womanly graces would convince him to lift a bit more of the veil to you than he would to his long-time compatriot.”
“Watch your tone, Ambassador, and remember whom are you talking to.”
The Councillor sneered. “Last time I checked, my master didn’t wear a skirt.”
It wasn't the right reaction, and most definitely the wrong thing to say. Laurent leaned in closer, pushing the books aside just a tad bit more. A good view of this would certainly be appreciated.
“Oh, misogyny. How innovative. Wouldn’t have thought of it.” Her smile was devious, and he could see Guion gulp, taking one step back from the frail lady. “May I remind you, Ambassador, that your master is currently a continent away, while I am right here. And this may come as unexpected and unfortunate news, but your untouchable status as an ambassador doesn’t mean shit when regicide is in the cards.”
Regicide?
Guion stilted, his expression pinched. “What would you have me do.”
“Pack your bags and travel back to Vere, Gods’ speed,” she numbered on her fingers as if the Councillor was too stupid to remember the program otherwise. He probably was. “Find out what your master’s agenda with this was, and what he suggests we do instead to ensure the desired outcome. Make it known that we do not appreciate being dumped his problems right on our doorstep and that he should know better than to think Akielos is his lackey. He needs us just as much, if not more than we do him.”
“What will you be doing, then?”
She smiled.
“Cleaning up the mess men made. This is what women were created to do in your opinion, weren’t they?”
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“If you could lift your arms?”
Warm water splashed against his body, perfumed and pleasant, making him feel light-headed. It was followed by deft hands massaging oils into his skin, leaving it smooth and supple. Each of his knotted muscles relaxed under the ministrations, and if he lied to himself enough, he could have almost pretended he was still in Arles, his attendants preparing him for bed. A time for his racing mind to calm, and rest.
But even with his eyes closed, he couldn’t let himself decompress. Not with the reason why he was being pampered like this.
No.
He wouldn’t think about what he couldn’t change and had no control over. Not when there were workings he could, in fact, influence. Plans of which he had become aware.
Regicide. So, under than seemingly simple-minded and painfully honest surface of the Akielon court, a plot was hatching, and what a scheme it was indeed. Mad one, that’s for certain, and audacious, but Uncle was nothing if not full of himself. Ensuring the downfall of an enemy kingdom by underhanded means was duplicitous, but certainly effective.
Laurent could see Uncle’s plan clearly in his head. To clear his path for the Veretian throne and guarantee a smooth rule, he would first and foremost need to get rid of the small obstacle in the form of his own, vexingly alive nephew. Secondly, weakening the neighboring enemy country would be preferable, to limit the possibility of interference while the situation in Vere would be unstable due to a sudden and violent change in the line of succession. Seeing how the current king was well on his way to smelling the daisies from the other side, the greatest threat was Damianos, more than likely to jump on the first opportunity to continue the conquest of Vere. Next on the itinerary after Delfeur: Alier and Arran.
But it would be quite different if it wasn’t Damianos on the throne, but the previous crown prince, whose title was taken away from him by the sole virtue of a younger brother being born. It was indeed naive to think Kastor wasn’t jealous, and that his envy couldn’t be easily exploited. With next to no support inside of Akielos for his cause – Damianos was mostly universally adored, after all – he would be prone to accepting outside aid. There were no doors money could not open, and Vere had plenty of gold still in its treasury. Enough to finance one side of a feud between two brothers, and end up with an incompetent ruler of a neighboring country right under its thumb.
From how Erasmus reacted to Laurent as much as suggesting Kastor might not be fine with the state of affairs, he could be quite certain the Akielons wouldn’t see it coming.
Would Damianos?
It was, frankly, quite genius, and a plan he would wholeheartedly support, if it didn’t involve his death, and didn’t end up with his perverted creep of an uncle on the throne of Vere, and controlling half the continent, with Akielos as a puppet in his grasp.
Still, Laurent wondered how Uncle dealt with the sole suspiciousness of his disappearance or supposed “murder”, right in the middle of the palace. A substantial caveat in the plan, he would say, but in the end, likely one worth the gamble.
Nevertheless, even in the position he was in, Laurent could turn some tides to his advantage. A common goal of wanting Damianos dead was something he had in common with both Kastor and Jokaste, who seemed to be the true strategist on the Akielon side of the affairs. She was smart and had to know that while accepting help from Uncle was advantageous in the short term, but would be disastrous in the long run. One wouldn’t want to be indebted to a foreign Kingmaker. No – one would rather repay in kind.
And when the joint foe would be Uncle, Laurent would be more than happy to participate in taking him down, and returning to his rightful place, oh so grateful to the gracious Kastor-Exalted and his bonny Jokaste for not only freeing him from slavery his uncle subjected him to, but also for granting him the opportunity to return to the throne.
He would crush them down later.
Now, he needed to speak with Jokaste.
“Goodness gracious. You look… absolutely stunning.”
He didn’t need to turn around to look at Lykaios, or even a mirror, to know the swoon was not pretended. Some would call it hauteur, but would false modesty be any better? Pampered, with his hair freshly washed and shining (again, no chamomile required), rather than matted and greasy after God knows how many days of travel, he could turn heads.
It made his attractiveness neither any less superficial nor reaching further than the surface level.
If there ever was a time when comments about his appearance could flatter him, it has long since passed, but Lykaios didn’t know that, and neither did Erasmus, staring with a pitcher in his hands and eyes wide open, blinking slowly. He wouldn’t blame them, although he would rather not be reminded of why he was spoiled to look his very best this particular evening. His sore backside, a result of a very gentle albeit thorough cleaning, was more than enough to tell him of his absolute spotlessness.
The last time it was done, he was fourteen, and it didn’t have exactly pleasant connotations in his mind.
It would have even less pleasant ones now.
“Thank you,” he said simply, letting them wrap a gauzy piece of silk around him. How was it holding up, he wasn’t sure – Laurent longed for some good, old laces, to be certain the garments were secure, but alas, the advancement hadn’t yet reached this wild country.
Moreover, even if he lost his clothes walking around, it’s not as if much of a difference would be made, with how transparent they were.
“The Regent is a very generous man,” Erasmus whispered in reverence. “And must pursue a good relationship with Akielos to give someone like you away as a gift. This one doesn’t know how anyone could, if not as a sacrifice for a greater cause.”
Sacrifice for a greater cause indeed, Laurent wanted to scoff at the unintended ridiculousness, but he was in no mood for laughter. To his uncle, he was less of a gift and more of a Trojan horse, one he happily would rid of now that he was just a nuisance and not a prepubescent hole he could stick his withering prick into. A nephew who wasn’t a malleable child wasn’t something he could ever be interested in.
“His tastes are of a different sort,” he diplomatically concluded, hoping the subject wouldn’t be pressed, or he truly wouldn’t be able to answer for himself.
“And just the kind appreciated here, in this household,” Lykaios said, finishing brushing his hair. Not a single one was pulled, a testament to her skill. “This one should be jealous. After tonight, this one won’t be the favorite anymore, there is no doubt.”
His back straightened and his shoulders tensed up, his entire body like a coiled spring bracing for impact. With the way his jaw clenched, he could break wood easily, not unlike a vice. His eyes squeezed shut, and he swiped away the appearing thoughts of nightmares, away, away, away, but they kept appearing, one after another, and he couldn’t stop them.
He used to be a favorite, once. It was the most heinous he had felt in his entire life.
Laurent’s sudden stiffness didn’t go unnoticed. “Is it… is it really your First Night?” Erasmus asked, gently, so gently. “This one is sorry if it’s insensitive, but–”
“No. It isn’t.”
The air, a vapor heavy with perfume intruding on every single one of his senses, hung low, burdened with the atmosphere following the curt, definite statement. It told Lykaios and Erasmus more than he intended to tell them; more than he wanted anyone to know.
The Akielon slaves, ones he considered to be mere extensions of their masters with no thoughts of their own, read between the lines better than anyone he had silently begged for help for the last six years.
“Then you know what to do,” Lykaios broke the silence, carefully. “But act like you don’t, he will like this.”
Stop. Just stop.
He didn’t need advice. He didn’t need tips. He needed this to be done. He needed this to never happen. He needed to die before it ever happened, he needed—
“Don’t worry. It’s going to be okay.”
Erasmus’ voice was kind, laced with pity, and it was probably what angered Laurent the most. Because what gave that foolish, naive boy the right to pity him? What made him think Laurent wanted this pity? What did he know? Wasn’t Erasmus gushing about how he himself was going to be stuck on the prince-killer’s cock just a few hours ago? He hasn’t been there himself. He hadn’t gone through anything Laurent had been through, which was probably why he had snapped at the boy innocent as a lamb.
“How do you know this?”
The barely concealed fire in his voice burned Erasmus, who shifted and took a step back, bashful and powerless. Helplessly, his eyes darted to Lykaios, without a shadow of a doubt requesting backup. Near imperceptibly, she nodded and took a step forward to Laurent, not touching him, but hovering close.
“Not all masters are kind,” Lykaios was careful, “but Damianos-Exalted will take care good care of you. Of that, this one is certain. Even if you just… relax, and do nothing much more than that.”
Good care.
His uncle also took good care of him, sometimes. As in, making sure he wouldn’t tear him until he would bleed, or at least not so much to impair his ability to walk without wobbling the next day – usually when there were foreign dignitaries to meet. Or perhaps good care constituted ensuring bruises wouldn’t reach higher than his severe collar could cover.
There was nothing that could cover him now, in this uncouth land of naked philistines.
“Damianos-Exalted will take good care of me. What does the good care substantiate?”
It was more of a rhetorical question, but judging by Lykaios’ subtle blush, it was one she felt necessary to answer, albeit unwillingly. Such came as a surprise to Laurent – if any pet was asked that question in Arles, he knew he would be flooded with more details than he could ever possibly want, especially if one was sleeping with the current ruler. He would know – if a pet’s voice has unfortunately already broken, they stopped in their attempts to pursue the Regent, and went for him, instead, only to be sorely disappointed. Berenger’s redhead was especially adamant, he remembered. Well, now, he would be glad Laurent wasn’t easy to convince to give in to his fiery charms.
“Damianos-Exalted is a considerate lover,” she muttered, embarrassed. “I’ve never- never left his chambers unsatisfied.” Such bashfulness, more like Erasmus than the overt Lykaios, was unheard of. Were Akielon slaves… shy? Walking around practically naked, more tawdry than any pet he ever met, they were shy?
A chance to ask for more details, or even to tease her, never came – because like a mirage, from the vapors, emerged Adrastus, clad in silks like an ottoman or a pouf or perhaps a lamp shade, with the light shining from behind him, making everything around him swirl and distort. Laurent felt like vomiting just by looking at him.
Frankly, it was his usual reaction to most people, but in a metaphorical sense. This time, it was very literal.
He didn’t like it one bit. If anything, he was quite concerned.
“It’s time.”
Adrastus’ appearance quelled whatever enthusiasm there might be left in his companions. They stepped aside, bowing slightly as the master of slaves passed by, demurely keeping quiet. Only after he turned around, they raised their hands – Lykaios, still flushed, with both her thumbs up and Erasmus with shyly crossed fingers. Both of their expressions were soft, marked by reassurance.
He didn’t want pity. He wanted to say he didn’t need reassurance, either, but he would be lying to himself.
With Adrastus right behind him, he felt like an animal driven to a barn by a rapid dog, keeping the pretenses of being docile and protective. Every move of his was being watched, assessed, appraised – and he didn’t need to see the master’s expression to know he was not up to his standards, even when not doing anything more than simply walking.
Defiantly, he raised his chin, proceeding forward like he would at his uncle’s court – tall, straight-backed, proud, and colder than glaciers. Like a prince. Not a slave.
And then the world swirled before his eyes, and he tripped.
Adrastus’ vice grip caught him before he could fall on the floor, the veins and scratches on the marble dancing, almost flowing over it. The scent of the perfumed fog was getting heavier; pleasant before, now it made his nausea worse.
He furrowed his eyebrows.
Adrastus sneered. “I have been told the breath of fresh air unfortunately hasn’t tempered your sharp tongue. However, the prince still insists you accompany him tonight, so precautions needed to be taken.”
It clicked.
“You drugged me. Again.”
The master waved his hand dismissively as if Laurent’s indignation was entirely disproportional. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Chalis will make the experience more pleasant, for both of you. If anything, you should be thankful. A Veretian snake like you doesn’t deserve that mercy.”
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It wasn’t pleasant.
His entire body burned. Each step taken was a grind against sandpaper, and he longed for nothing more than sitting down. There was a vaguely familiar scorching stirring in his loins – unwelcome and deplorable. He ignored it, his mind stronger than to give in. He was here before. Nothing Adrastus could think of would be new to him; his uncle was nothing if not thorough with his torture.
What was unfamiliar was the rooms themselves. The most notable fact about them was their emptiness, and not only due to their usual resident being curiously absent.
The chamber wasn’t much more elaborate than military barracks, and if one didn’t have an eye for finery, they wouldn’t guess a crown prince dwelled there – although it shouldn’t come as a surprise, taking into account Damianos’ background. He was a traditionalist; whatever wealth there was was displayed in the quality of the interior pieces rather than their abundance. Personal touches were few and scarce – nothing more than essentials, like a black-figure water jug, washbasin, and a few books, sitting in the corner and gathering dust.
Writing utensils and a letter knife on one bedside, while the other was occupied with a jug of wine and two chalices, accompanied by a variety of lotions and oils. All of them Laurent promptly chose to ignore in favor of moving on to inspect the bookshelf instead.
The scrolls there were, unsurprisingly, of most interest to Laurent. He touched the spines gently, reading the titles. They were the obvious choices.
Art of War was there, too.
If not for the faint ocean breeze coming from the outside, tickling his cheeks, he could have felt almost as if he was in Auguste’s room. By Veretian standards, they were also so minimalistic – perhaps because of his brother’s military background, too, or maybe the insistence he didn’t have much time to spend in the chambers anyway. So, personal touches there were mostly made by little Lolo himself, cluttering up the space with countless items of his own, hauled in whenever he needed to hole himself up somewhere, overwhelmed by the ‘difficulties’ his child self had to face at those very beginnings of his princely life.
Auguste’s quarters were a safe haven. No one would disturb him there, no one would judge every step he took. In his brother’s rooms, he could be a child – safe, protected from any dangers of the outside world. Whenever he was tired of everything, he could relax.
He was so tired…
There was a hand cupping his cheek, and it was so warm and comforting, just like the one sliding down his shoulder. Has he fallen asleep? He couldn’t keep doing that. He was getting too heavy to be carried back to his quarters, after all.
A lock of hair tickled his nose. It smelled like leather and laurels.
Auguste?
No.
It wasn’t his brother.
It wasn’t his brother, because he was dead.
Laurent’s eyes shot open, but the nightmare didn’t dissipate, still rolling images in his mind like a horror flip book. A sudden weight on him, pressing him to the mattress, holding him in place. A hand covering his mouth before he could scream in fear, even though no sound would ever come out. Scratchy voice calming him, telling him it was alright, and he shouldn’t be scared, even if it was never alright, and he was always in pain after soft hands that hadn’t worked a day roughened him in the most intimate of ways.
The hands sliding against his skin now weren’t like this. They were calloused and rough in texture, but the touch was gentle. Feather-light.
The face in front of him wasn’t pale, but olive, and only wrinkled in the corners of the mouth from a stupid, dazed smile, made all the more moronic by a pair of dimples in its cheeks.
“Hello, there.”
The words, spoken in a voice so deep, were a breath against his neck – so warm and soft, but Laurent’s body was an icicle, stiff and cold. He couldn’t move when Damianos’ hands traced the shape of his body inches away from his skin. He couldn’t move when they reached up to slide the gauzy fabric off his shoulders. He couldn’t move when one of the hands was placed firmly against his thigh.
When a pair of smiling lips turned closer, about to brush against his clavicle, a dam was broken – with all his might and power he had in his trembling legs, Laurent pushed back, digging both of his heels into Damianos’ abdomen.
The prince-killer was heaving now, caught by surprise, one of his hands jolting to clutch to his stomach which wasn’t braced for such an impact. It was a split second – not enough to escape, but more than sufficient to grab the letter knife from the bedside table and point it right at the prince-killer’s throat.
Laurent was breathing heavily, sweat breaking on his forehead. The clutch he had on his makeshift weapon was bruising, holding onto it like a life rope against the monster right in front of him.
Except Damianos hardly looked like a beast. He was completely still, his brown eyes wide in a flat gaze, and his mouth fell open, slack. If Laurent didn’t know any better, he would say the prince-killed was concerned.
A few seconds passed, the silence disturbed only by their labored huffs and distant cries of the seagulls. Damianos twitched, the point of the knife drawing a single drop of blood from his Adam’s apple, but he didn’t attempt to move any further. He didn’t advance to trap him into an Akielon wrestling hold of submission. He didn’t try to overwhelm him; if he did, Laurent knew no amount of letter knives could stop him, not with the physical disparity between them so grand, and not with Laurent himself drugged and tired.
But Damianos stayed still. Only the vocal cords in his neck vibrated subtly under Laurent’s weapon, as he asked carefully, “Are you… are you alright?”
The spike in adrenaline plummeted, Laurent so thrown aback that he lowered the knife, just a tad. Damianos shifted, lifting one of his arms as if he wanted to touch Laurent reassuringly, but perhaps he realized how out of place such would be. He placed it back on the mattress, waiting.
It wasn’t often Laurent was caught speechless, and yet, here he was.
Probably it was the most moronic thing Damianos could have said in this situation, and it took Laurent by surprise.
“What do you think.”
“Um. Uh…” The way the gigantic brute fumbled, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly – so out of his depth – would probably be quite endearing, if not for him being the prince-killer, and the trembles still racking Laurent’s entire body. “I’m… I’m sorry. It’s, never before has a slave—”
A crown prince, stuttering. A decorated war criminal, stuttering, because what? A slave hasn’t jumped into his lap at the first chance of getting a taste of his barbarian baguette magique? And Laurent was supposed to just believe that? Especially knowing full well he was still under the influence?
He would be an idiot to let his guard down so easily. Nicaise was a better actor when he arrived at the palace, and he hadn’t been even in his teens yet.
“I’m not a slave,” Laurent seethed out, the grip on the knife tightening.
All of Damianos’ thoughts were written all over his face as, with knotted brows, his eyes glided from the golden cuffs clutched around his wrists and to the collar closed around his neck.
Everything indicated he was a slave – even if Laurent wasn’t one just a few weeks ago, or even less if just the time he’s been conscious would be taken into account. But then again, his circumstances weren’t entirely unique – after all, Damianos’ first experience with slaves was their very initiation into service, the famed First Nights. Trained into obedience they would be, but Laurent couldn’t imagine no blushed fumbling ever taking place. Inexperience didn’t make them any less of a slave, and neither it would with him.
But, against what Laurent would expect, carefully, Damianos tried to explain himself again. “Never has anyone refused me. Before. And there’s, um. I thought you wanted to—”
Awkwardly, his eyes darted between Laurent’s legs. Beet-red warmth spilled on his cheeks, easily outmatching the slight burgundy hue of the prince-killer’s dark cheeks.
“Chalis,” Laurent’s answer was curt, and if not for being held at a knife-point still, something told Laurent the prince-killer would be inclined to slap himself in the face for being so stupid as to not realize such a simple and predictable fact. If that were to happen, Laurent wouldn’t stop him. He might have even put the weapon away altogether. “Also, in this case, I am glad to have been your first. Now if you could move a tad, it would be appreciated.”
From how swiftly Damianos withdrew his hand and scrambled his hips back, away from his thighs as if Laurent was a piece of glowing ember, he realized the prince-killer’s own pressing problem must have skipped his attention. He skidded to the other end of the bed, almost falling over its edge, putting some distance between them. Only then did Laurent lower the stolen knife, although he didn’t let go of it. Damianos took notice of it, but haven’t attempted disarming him.
“Of course,” he said simply as if his princely grace was used to being ordered around by anyone, much less a quivering slave. “Is there anything I could do for you?”
Truly, the day the heroic Akielon heir to the throne asked him for requests, as if their roles were reversed or Laurent was still a prince in his own right, should be noted down in the annals. Still working on a pure adrenaline spike, he might have even laughed at the ridiculousness of it, but he didn’t feel particularly humorous.
There was only one thing he wanted, and not one Damianos would possibly grant him. Certainly not that night. Certainly not without price.
“Leave me alone.”
The door clicked softly behind Damianos’ retreating figure, and disbelieving, Laurent sat still on the bed, the knife pressed to the mattress pointing in the direction where the prince-killer was last. His eyes were heavy, but he kept staring, afraid Damianos might be waiting for his guard to fall, afraid he might change his mind and return to take what was, by all accounts, his.
Minutes passed like hours as Laurent kept staring, his eyes prickling from the salty air, weary from exhaustion.
He didn’t remember falling asleep.