Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“What is he? A traitor? A disgraced pet?”

The marble was cold underneath his body, still throbbing after being thrown against the stone without ceremony. He was sure to bruise, he knew. The sensitive skin he inherited from his mother to a man was nothing more than a nuisance, the smallest of impacts resulting in aching bruises persisting for days, if not weeks, to come. He flinched, and the movement almost caused him to hiss – his bones were contused, and so, he was sure whatever he went through wasn’t just playful nudges or even a light beating.

He had been touched, and he didn't know by whom. He had been roughened up. He had been touched, and he didn't know by whom.

The thought made bile rise in his throat and a shiver run down his spine because he remembered those blackouts all too well, still fresh in his mind even if years separated then from now. He knew it could not be, rationally, it couldn't – and yet, he was afraid to open his eyes, lest the nightmare become reality, but the muffled voices of harsh-sounding Akielon forced him to realize he was in the middle of a new sort of horror. One he couldn't will away or banish into the deepest recesses of his mind as dawn broke and he began preparing for navigating the webs of lies and intrigue that is the court at Arles.

Because he wasn't at Arles, and the thought was not as reassuring as he might have once imagined.

“Or perhaps a criminal, with his area of expertise being honey-trapping. Would be very Veretian, wouldn’t you agree?”

He barely registered the words, his mind splitting and threatening to burst his head open, the lapping of waves crashing softly against the far-away cliffs unbearably loud like merchants screaming their best prices at the top of their lungs at the Sunday market. With great effort, he opened his eyes and was immediately assaulted by the harsh light of omnipresent whiteness, blurred outlines of white columns, and men dressed in white chitons distorted in his vision, swimming like water splashing in pools and fountains all around him.

He couldn't remember. He had to remember.

“With due respect, honored kyros, I don’t believe the esteemed Regent of Vere would slight you so, Exalted. While I was not told anything of this one’s provenance, this generous, personal gift is to strengthen the amicable relationship with our northern neighbor, I am sure.”

The cool evening breeze billowing a curtain, turning pages in the book he had been reading. The silver chalice, its surface warmed up by his fingers, holding the cup nonchalantly. The unexpectedly sugary, tacky taste, and then the fog rising in his mind, making his head light and legs heavy like lead. There had been men there, strong men, ones he could have fought off if not for that sticky feeling in his body. They had manhandled him, pulling him up and dragging him through the corridors of the palace, empty this late in the night. Had they been empty? Or had everyone just ignored whatever had been happening to him?

Everyone always turned a blind eye.

“Very generous gift indeed. I have to admit, this kind of face would surely earn a small fortune on the slave block. And he does suit your preferences eerily perfectly. Do the curtains match the drapes? This is quite important, you see.”

But no, the halls hadn't been empty. There had been someone in the room. A familiar voice. Kind, weakened by the years, warm like the calloused, wrinkled hands that had cupped his face in comfort and brushed his hair away. The voice said, I’m sorry.

“Nikandros.”

There was authority in the way the name was spoken, an admonition, and a reprimand. His arms shaking like leaves from exertion, Laurent lifted himself off the floor, ignoring the way his mind was spinning, and forced his eyes to focus – and when he did, the confirmation of what he had feared was almost enough to knock him back onto the cold stone.

While Arles was a golden cage, stifling with its opulence and reducing the greatest of men into a single speck in the maximalist grandeur, the great white halls of Ios were simple, unadorned, and utilitarian, but no less imposing. They reminded Laurent of prison cells.

And, in the middle of the vastness, splayed on the monumental throne, sat Damianos of Akielos, the prince-killer, coldly looking at the audacious man with quiet reproach.

His stare then turned to Laurent, and he was thirteen again, scared and trembling in the wet tent pitched up in the bloodied fields of Marlas, fearing he was up next, and there was no Auguste to protect him anymore. There was no His Majesty. There was no Mother. There was just Uncle, oh so eager to protect him from the Akielon slaughterer.

There wasn't even Uncle here, now, and he wasn't facing the man of his nightmares with his head held high, a sword in his hand, about to deal the final blow and exact his revenge. He was curled on the floor, beaten, dirty, and powerless, not above begging for all of it to stop, all dignity forgotten in the face of terror – if anyone would listen.

No one ever listened.

“Your affinity for blondes is hardly a secret, Exalted. Everyone who has spent an hour within your presence would learn of it, and I have been here substantially longer than that.” The tall man, who Laurent assumed to be Nikandros, pointed out. "I take it the resemblance is accidental, then?"

Was this what Uncle wanted for him? Humiliation, prolonged before he was ultimately murdered by savages, just so he can keep his hands clean? Was that why he had been sent here, to be raped by barbarians, because he himself couldn't stand the thought of it now that his voice had deepened?

Did he hate him so much that he wouldn't even offer him the simple courtesy of a swift death?

"Nikandros."

The name rang a bell, and if Laurent's brain was less hazy, he would probably be able to place him. His knowledge of Ios' politics wasn't as intimate as it was of Vere, obviously, but being a firm believer of the 'know your enemy' principle, Laurent was aware of the main players on the Akielon stage. Even if he wasn't, though, the way Nikandros held himself, voicing opinions to his crown prince openly in front of the entire court, spoke of his rank, and possibly familiarity between them.

And, if life at Arles taught Laurent anything at all, the way every single head seemed to turn in the direction of a woman standing on the side, also spoke of drama.

Even though his interests laid somewhere else entirely, it didn't take a genius to come up with a possible scenario of the likely Akielon court scandal involving her. Such heavenly features he could imagine more uncomplicated men waging wars over, blonde hair cascading down her back in elegant coils, painstakingly washed in chamomile and styled every single day, and yet to every single warrior present in the room appearing natural and effortless, he was sure, just like her practiced poise. Surrounded by olive-toned, rough barbarians, she was shining like a beacon.

Laurent knew the type, intimately. He saw it every day in the mirror, right from the top of the golden head to the ridiculously long legs, even though he didn't need to resort to cosmetics and optical illusions for such an effect. He recognized the seemingly nonchalant set of her lips, at odds with the cold, calculated glint in her eyes, all too well to be fooled by it in the least. That woman was a soul of hellfire fuming in dark smoke within the body of an angel, and regarding her was a truly eerie experience – like gazing through the looking glass, the reflection staring back in seething distaste.

He never thought a kindred spirit would be sauntering the heart of an enemy's territory, and in an instant, Laurent recognized her potential – either as a powerful ally, or someone in many ways more dangerous to him even than the prince-killer himself. 

The courtiers probably noticed only the physical similarities, but even with this, he couldn't blame them for the careful way they glanced at him, and Nikandros for his hardened, assessing expression. From where they stood, an unexpected gift from an enemy nation arrived at their door, meant for their crown prince and coincidentally resembling his (former?) paramour. One would need to be truly naive to not look out for a trap in such.

Gears in his head jerked and shifted, struggling against the sluggishness clogging his mind still, slowly but surely setting into motion once more. Perhaps this was his saving grace. He had been sent here to die in a horrid way – but they didn't know this yet. They saw him a Veretian, and so, inherently, a snake – and a viper thrown into a pit with a pack of rapid wolves can do quite a bit of damage, indeed, even if its fate in the end is being torn into scraps by their vicious jaws.

Humiliation, rape, and a gruesome death might be awaiting him, but ultimately, this was what was fated for him in Arles, too. The past six years have been a constant dance of reversing his fortunes by sheer force of will in a game of wits in which he had always been at a disadvantage. The stage might have changed, but the principles haven't, and the new dire straits come with their own set of advantages.

Achilles hadn't slayed Hector from halfway across the globe, after all.

Perhaps when it's all done, he should thank his Uncle when he sees him in Hell.

A pregnant moment passed and Damianos sighed, leaning back against the throne. “Is he trained?”

In a way, Laurent thought to himself in bitter irony.

“An opportunity to verify hasn’t arisen yet, but originating from Arles, I am highly skeptical," the slave handler bowed slightly, as if in apology for his oversight. "This can be amended easily, though. I have been warned that this one isn't used to being handled. A gem in the rough, one would say.”

“A sapphire.” Damianos rose, the sound of silk chlamys gliding against the marble quickly followed by a murmur of creaks as the court members stood up from their seats. Despite his imposing bearing and size, the prince-killer moved with grace, not stomping heavily like Laurent might have imagined, but sauntering towards him with the easiness of a man born to rule others solely by his presence. He crouched, reaching out to tilt Laurent’s chin with his fingers. By sheer force of will, he didn't tremble. “Does he speak our language? He doesn’t seem rough to me. Quite docile and soft, actually.”

“Like your dick.”

Well then.

That's one way to make a first impression.

Laurent groaned internally in frustration. Admittedly, this wasn't his proudest moment and hardly the wittiest of his comebacks. It certainly wasn't one living up to his famed proficiency in the art of being a mythic bitch – much to his dismay – but he supposed such couldn't be helped when one could barely remember their own name in the state of consciousness altered by whatever junk he had been drugged with. The only saving grace is that he hasn’t resorted to reverting to Veretian – because all gods his witnesses, he would die before giving the prince-killer that satisfaction. Even if, for all intents and purposes, the brute Akielon didn't seem to realize just who he was.

All the better.

“Ah! I’ll take that as a yes.” The slave handler paled, but Damianos smiled sweetly – and rather satisfied, damn it – right in Laurent’s face, continuing in Veretian. Infuriatingly flawless Veretian. “The fierceness and effort are recognized, however, if you were going for intimidating, maybe work on your accent first. But don’t worry sweetheart, I speak your language better than you do mine,” his smile widened, a dimple appearing, “and as for my dick, I promise it will be up to the task. Tonight?”

The momentary widening of his eyes happened without Laurent's will, the fear he had just managed to stifle returning. He froze, his mind helpfully filling with scenarios of how that might happen, how easily it would be for a man like Damianos to overpower him in sheer strength and take what he wanted and Laurent didn't want to give; never wanted to give. Not to anyone.

But either his reaction wasn't taken for what it was, or the prince-killer was a monster truly worse than even his uncle because his smile didn't falter one bit when he glanced at the handler again, not sparing Laurent a second more of his attention.

But the stares burned, burned like they didn’t before, in Arles, when he was clad in severe, dark garments like armor. They burned through his gauzy clothing, less covering than his old night robes, with disdain and lust he could not shake off, could not pretend to be above it and untouchable, because he wasn’t. Not with the pretty, shiny trinkets weighing him down, down, down, the collar and cuffs so heavy they might very well be cast-iron shackles, pulling him under and suffocating him.

The only cast-iron thing left about him was the emptiness right where his heart should be.

The rhetorical question wasn't meant for him; presumptuous and maladjusted still to his new social standing, he shouldn't have assumed it was. His opinion, or even simple willingness, didn't matter.

They never mattered.

The bow of the slave handler was so deep it was almost comical, and if the schedule of his rapidly approaching rape wasn't discussed, he might have even laughed. “Of course, Exalted. This one will be seen to.”

And just like that, he was no longer a prince or as little as an illusion of one. He wasn't even a person, as far as anyone was concerned. He was just an “it”, an item in servitude of the man who slaughtered his brother in cold blood and was to do the same to him.

He was a slave of Damianos, the prince-killer. The instigator of all of Laurent’s misery.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

It was heady – the whiff of potent fragrance of flowery perfume inundating the air, swirling, dispersed by men and women clad in gauzy linens waving exquisite fans, luxuriating in the breeze of the milky open baths. Meek, mild smiles graced their lips, but their gazes were plastered to the floor, not lifting an inch without permission from the slave handler, or another one of their "betters". Devoid of free will, any resistance ripped out from them long before any thought of it could occur. Perfect, flawless decorations in an illusion of paradise.

If Arles had pets, then Ios had plants – and it made Laurent sick.

But there were cracks, and he saw them – the heavy chains hanging from the ceiling, not made from filigree gold like the one wrapped around his neck and wrists in a strangling grasp, but solid iron. The velvet flogger and a leather whip – for greater offenses, he supposed – hidden between multitudinous glass vials of all shapes, sizes, and colors, imported from the furthest edges of the Empire, he was certain.

The supposed asceticism and honesty of Akielons was nothing more than a rouse. The opulence of the slave baths rivaled many a hall he knew from Arles, and it was duplicitously hidden just below the surface of what was presented to the outside world.

Laurent wouldn't be able to think of a better allegory to the moral filth and depravity of the Akielons, the gluttony hardly concealed in philosophies of epicureans and hedonists, even if he tried. Whatever they preached to be, just a front, a dissimulation, no better than the one they oh so despised in Veretians.

Who is worse, he thought to himself, taking a step further into the eye of the storm, a canaille who’s aware of their depravity, or one who’s convinced of their virtue?

“Damianos-Exalted is a man of high standards,” Adrastus’ croaky, grating voice called him back from his rumination, “and rarely takes male slaves, preferring his partners to be gladiators or those of noble birth. However you are neither,” Laurent couldn’t stop the rise of his perfectly shaped brow, the result of hundreds of years of selected, blue-blooded breeding, but being well-versed in the ways of deceitful courts, hadn’t commented, “with your… fair looks, I suppose an exception could be made. Small mercies.”

He heard a varying degree of the same sentiment so many times before that he was hardly moved by it. I would fuck him, if only not for his bitchy mouth. Oh, I would love to fill his ass with my cock, but I’m afraid the cold whore would cut it off. Who would want to put it in the jaws of a panther?

The remarks usually stopped the moment his presence was noticed, and that was a small mercy, indeed. One of the very few advantages of his station.

They took a few steps further but didn’t join the slaves lounging around the pools. Laurent found himself in an alcove, hidden from sight in an illusion of privacy, Adrastus lowering his voice tête-à-tête. Beside himself, on instinct, Laurent leaned in.

Without further ado, Adrastus asked, “Are you vestal?”

“Excuse me?”

This wasn’t the right thing to say. Out of nowhere, there was a swish, and a thin piece of velvet whipped against his skin. Involuntarily, he hissed and turned his arm around to look at it, and just as he thought – it hurt, but hadn’t left a scar. A simple, but effective device for disciplining those who have to stay unblemished, lest they want to be deemed useless.

“I don’t know what you were used to in Vere, but here, irascible remarks are not desired, and there’s no room for lecherous displays of pet carnality.” The handler straightened the whip and then coiled it back up, the few slaves daring enough to glance at the display quickly turning their gazes away in fear. “Any such instance will be punished. Is that clear?”

The words he would like to spit right in this haughty rotund fossil's face burn in his throat like a bunch of hot-glowing pebbles, seconds away from being dropped – but as strong as the urge was, Laurent knew better than that. If he knew one thing, it was no matter how strongly he wanted to go off, if he wanted to play the long game, he would need to be patient; and so, he stayed silent, letting the burning hatred smolder the daring slave handler through his gaze alone.

“Let me ask more simply, then,” Adrastus lowered his voice, his stinking breath chafing his ear, “are you a virgin? While still in that land of filth, has anyone ever fucked that blond hole of yours?”

Laurent’s head drove back quickly, and he took one step back from the sheer crude obscenity with which the Master of Slaves probed him now when no one could hear.

Being an object of fetishization wasn’t a novelty to him at all. But, in Arles, while everyone seemed to have nothing else on their minds aside from sticking their pathetic little pricks in him, either the scarce manners their mothers surely tried (and failed) to hammer into their heads or perhaps a dwindling thread of survival instinct prevented them from spewing such obscenities to the crown prince’s face. Likely it had little to do with patriotism, and plenty with his reputation of having reactions as swift as adequately brutal to disrespect, but alas – it was the silver lining to his precarious position. Foul comments were as far as he had to worry about the lecherous urges of some of the more wretched courtiers.

He wasn’t a crown prince anymore, and his reputation was of a despicable Veretian trembling in fear before their heir to the throne.

The dirty jokes and drunken jests might very well not end up as those, and no one would bat an eye; not even due to moral apathy, but because to Akielons, as a slave, he wasn’t a person anymore. Not as long as he remained a defenseless slave.

If he wanted to survive, for at least as long as he needed to fulfill his only purpose left in life, he had to play along still. Do what they wanted him to do. Say what they wanted him to say. A perfect little marionette.

“Yes.”

A sharp strike almost whipped his head to the side, precise and calculated, dealt with practiced velocity Laurent did not see coming. His cheek burned with stinging pain and humiliation, but he didn’t move an inch, standing his ground and staring coldly right into Adrastus’ eyes.

Clearly, he needed to work on lying straight to other’s faces. 

He smiled, and it wasn’t like the smirk Damianos gave him. There was no doubt about the wickedness of it, and it spoke of this man’s capacity for cruelty.

“You’re lying, but don’t worry. We will breed that filthy habit out of you.” Adrastus reached out to pet his reddened, throbbing jaw, and Laurent recoiled, the Master of Slaves suddenly a few years younger, dark-haired with a fashionably clipped beard and eyes treacherous like sea before a storm – calm, but hiding brutality capable of swallowing up a careless one, suffocating, drowning. “You’ll be made into a picture of a perfect slave worth of the crown prince in no time. I’ll see to it.” 

The promise was nothing short of ominous, a blood-chilling threat which Laurent was not looking forward to withstanding. The perfect obedience of Akielon slaves was world-famous, but the methods of molding men into will-less puppets were kept shrouded, a point of national pride and a trade secret.

Laurent would probably be one of the few foreigners who would be made privy to them, and he hoped to be the first to go out of it with his brain and sense of self unscathed. 

“Aside from you, there is one more male slave in Damianos-Exalted’s household,” Adrastus informed him, looking around the baths, until he spotted…

Nicaise?

But the boy’s curls were a shade lighter, strands of gold shining in the tresses. His skin wasn’t littered with perfect little constellations of freckles, but pure as the driven snow, if only a bit more olive and dark. He was a foot taller, too – but the way he stared at him with those huge doe eyes was the same.

Even if they weren’t sapphire, but rich and hazel.

They looked nothing alike, and yet their essences were the same, enough to throw Laurent off and make his hands spasm. Whoever spent approximately five seconds in Nicaise’s company would likely disagree with the notion, however, Laurent kept him company for much more than that. Enough to know who this boy was, Nicaise used to be. Whom he should be. And, when no one listened, not even his own bruised soul, whom he hoped he could still be, because when no one else was looking, Laurent saw the flickering flame of carefree childishness quivering within him still.

Nicaise, for whom there was hope. Nicaise, who was alone now, at the mercy of a monster, without the only person who dared to oppose him, believing he was abandoned by his brother, not of blood, but something much stronger. Thinking he wasn’t enough when he was everything.

The fear struck him like lightning, tearing through the darkness of any other trepidation burdening him.

He had to get back, because there was one thing more important to Laurent than revenge, and it was waiting for him in Arles.

Please, be waiting.

I cannot lose another brother.

“Erasmus.”

“What can this one do be of service, Master Adrastus?”

Even Erasmus’ voice was charming, high, but not like one of a child. Despite his youthful appearance, he must have reached adulthood, then – and the great relief and surprise Laurent felt because of it was concerning in itself.

“This one is the newest addition to Damianos-Exalted’s harem. You will be accompanying him at all times as he learns the ins and outs of the trade, showing him around the palace and preparing him for the Prince’s enjoyment,” Adrastus turned to look at a sundial located a few feet away, in the slave gardens. “He has requested his presence tonight.”

So, he’s meant to be a spy. Laurent gave one long, appraising look at the young slave, and when their eyes met, the other one yelped, startled. He wouldn’t make a good spy.

Erasmus’ irises turned into saucers as he stared at the master, disquieted. “But... forgive me, Master Adrastus, but is it wise to send this one to Damianos-Exalted’s rooms on his first night here? This one hasn’t yet got the time to adjust, to say nothing of training, and—”

“Erasmus dear, are my fears correct, and being the only male slave in the Prince’s harem has gone to your head? Gods praised be, perhaps it’s good this one here will be joining you.” Adrastus shook his head with pursed lips, disapproving, and Erasmus would have dropped to the floor to prostrate himself in apology, if not for Laurent’s hand reaching for his shoulder to stop him. The master of slaves didn’t remark on it. “Questioning the prince’s wishes, tsk, tsk. Perhaps you aren’t as ready to enter your service as we thought.” 

Erasmus yanked his shoulder out of Laurent’s light hold, throwing himself onto the marble and nearly slipping on the surface wet with spilled perfumes. In one swift, practiced move, he knelt with his forehead pressed to the floor, begging Adrastus for an apology.

Slaves weren’t allowed to have opinions of their own, but clearly, they did. Laurent took a step forward, coming between Erasmus and the master of slaves.

“Curious how for some, no training is required, but for others it is being held over their heads. Could you perhaps explain that to this one,” Laurent stressed, purposefully faking demureness in the manner least convincing, “since I am so intirely unacquainted with your ways still?”

For a moment there, he was tempted to call for a feldsher to gather Adrastus’ jaw off the floor, but the master of slaves got the hold of himself admirably fast, only the red shade of his face giving away the seething anger boiling within him. His voice was but a low hiss, like of a rapid cat or a snake, meant for his ears only.

"Sharp-tongued. How adorable. Perhaps it was attractive in Arles, but here, don't worry – Damianos-Exalted will fuck that attitude out of you in no time." Laurent shuddered, and Adrastus smirked in triumph. Then, he raised his voice, addressing Erasmus. "As for your reservations, the lack of training of this one shouldn't be much of a bother. With his men, Damianos-Exalted likes a little challenge, after all, doesn't he?"

Erasmus bowed his head further, being smarter than to challenge the master of slaves any more. Satisfied, Adrastus nodded, continuing, "I believe we are understood?"

"Yes, master," acquiesced Erasmus in model obedience, back in his little perfect pigeonhole which was crafted for him so masterfully. "This one will see to it that Damianos-Exalted's new slave is ready for when that one is called."

"Good."

There were no further words, only a light, seemingly accidental kick to Erasmus' prostrated form as Adrastus moved to attend to some more pressing affairs. A while still the slave stayed in the humiliating pose, only moving when he could be certain the keeper could be nowhere nearby.

The moment he did, his hazel eyes focused right on Laurent, assessing – but not in the condescending way the courtiers did, but rather like a boy who just found a new playmate, but wasn't sure how to approach them, and where to start. Erasmus cocked his head a little, narrowing his eyes, looking fixedly as if Laurent's very face held all answers to his questions.

Clearly, it didn't, because the onslaught of them started soon enough.

"You speak funny. Are you from Delpha?"

He could have jumped on the deception, an idea offered to him on a silver platter. He could, but the risk of such was much too great; while he doubted anyone knew his identity, the ship on which he arrived must have cast off from Arles. If he was from Delfeur, such a route would make no sense – not to mention that anyone actually from the region would see right through his posh, Arlesian accent he couldn't shake off.

"No, from Arles, actually."

"You're... Veretian?" Here we go. "Why are you Veretian? What are you doing here, of all places? Not that- not that we aren't happy to have you, of course! You're really pretty and it's no wonder you were chosen for Damianos-Exalted—"

"Oh my god, Erasmus, you cannot just ask people why they are Veretian!"

The high-pitched, musical voice belonged to a girl who was – who would have guessed! – blonde, however, the shade was quite dark and what back in Arles would be categorized as bronze. It was, however, natural, as far as Laurent could tell – and so was her quite impressive décolletage, without any corset or any other enhancing device women used.

Nonetheless, perhaps she would appreciate some of the finest of Veretian inventions in the area of fashion, because without any support, her back must be aching quite a bit, holding up such luscious, perfectly round, and perky weights at all times. Laurent took a cautious step back, his mind only partially jesting when it warned him of potentially being slapped by one, with how overzealous the girl acted, leaning against Erasmus' shoulders and swinging from one side to the other with a comedic pout.

At this point, Laurent was glad his dear Éclair was left behind in Arles, because it seemed the prince-killer would fuck anything as long as it was blonde, and his perlino gelding was indeed quite beautiful if he dared say so himself.

No offense to the slave girl, of course. Her vivacious attitude was refreshing if a complete contrast to the coldness of Damianos' paramour he saw in the throne room.

Honestly, he liked this girl over here much more.

"I'm half-Kemptian if that makes it any better. My mother's side," he clarified, as if it changed anything. "As to what I'm doing here, I'm... not sure."

"Don't worry. We all come from many paths of life here," she reassured, putting all of her weight on poor Erasmus, who was now struggling to stand straight and not fall over. "You'll have a lot of catching up to do, though. You're quite old."

Seems the standards in Arles and Ios indeed aren't too different, after all, Laurent thought bitterly, a picture of Nicaise appearing in his mind once more, surrounded by other boys not much older than him. Then, he thought of himself, at the ripe age of fifteen already too old to be fucked, but at the very same time a child unable to make decisions for himself. According to his accursed council, ten months away from his twenty-first birthday, he still wasn't.

The prince-killer was leading armies at seventeen, and Laurent, despite his eighteenth birthday being a thing of the past, was never given a chance to even try.

All the same. A slave now, he wouldn't be allowed to make a single decision in his life, no matter what age he reached.

"Have you been given a name yet?"

Laurent blinked, the question throwing him off track.

"Given a name?"

"By Adrastus," Erasmus helpfully supplied. "Or maybe," he gasped with shining eyes, covering his mouth in a way the courtiers at Arles used to, when they discussed something particularly scandalous. “Damianos-Exalted?”

Laurent puffed up. “Why would they give me a name?”

"You really don't know anything, do you?" Yes, and that was new and vexing more than he could express in words. "Don't worry. We'll teach you the ropes, and Adrastus and  Tarchon will do your training in no time. But, your name, perhaps Damianos-Exalted did choose it?"

"No. I believe His–" he almost said it. "My father did. Or maybe my uncle."

"Hmm. Since you're so old, maybe Damianos-Exalted will let you keep it."

"I'm twenty, so that's hardly old." Laurent pointed out, to what the girl blew a raspberry stealthily, getting only a few surprised glances from the other slaves, most of whom smiled indulgently when the handlers seemed to be otherwise occupied and not watching them like a bunch of hawks.

Perhaps the famed Akielon methods of producing slaves aren't as fool-proof in wiping out men's humanity, after all.

“At twenty, a high-quality slave would have already finished training and be ready for his First Night. Maybe even sooner. This one,” the girl said, “is twenty-one and has been in Damianos-Exalted’s service for four years.” She straightened a pin gathering her sheer garments in place. Made of gold and masterfully artisanal, it was adorned with an intricately designed lion head. “That one is eighteen and should be called for his First Night within days.”

Erasmus flushed, lowering his eyes abashedly. Ah, Laurent thought, so it indeed is exactly what it sounds like. He took a second to study the boy’s reaction further, and it only baffled him further: Erasmus looked excited, genuinely thrilled at the prospect of having someone’s dick tear through his body, leaving him sore and potentially bleeding, and all that done by a person he didn’t even choose. Someone to whom he was as important as any other replaceable piece of furniture.

This was beyond Laurent’s comprehension, because the thought of it happening to him, happening to him again, and now at the hands of the prince-killer, made him want to vomit whatever contents his stomach still held and run to the palace seamstress to grab a needle and thread to sew his asshole shut before Damianos can even attempt to put his cock anywhere near him.

But even if it wasn’t just a figure of speech, he knows he wouldn’t be able to do anything of the sort; not with how closely he was being watched. The stares burned his neck, his waist, his entire person – he knew he wouldn’t be able to take one step without Adrastus, or worse, being informed within seconds.

It was going to happen, willingly or unwillingly.

He didn’t want to think about it.

“‘That one’. I keep hearing it,” Laurent pointed out instead. “I do admit, my command of Akielon isn’t what I would want it to be, but why do you use this form of address?”

Erasmus and the girl looked at each other, confused.

“How else would we be referred to?”

“I don’t know, with third-person pronouns, perhaps? With names?” 

For a moment there, Laurent considered he might have unwittingly switched back to Veretian because the gaping expressions on the slaves’ faces did not indicate a shred of understanding to his question. Erasmus’ brows squished together and he puffed his cheeks a bit, tapping a finger against his fingers, deep in thought, while the girl grimaced, scratching the side of her face. She caught on first, though.

“We don’t have pronouns.”

He has heard this phrase before from radical bonnet-rouges, the same ones who ridiculously preached relationships between members of the same sex are unnatural, and thus relationships between men and women should be the standard, rather than an exception under particular circumstances. How absurd, just like the notion people ‘didn’t have pronouns’. Linguistics was not his specialization, but as far as he knew, the concept of pronouns existed as long as languages did, and besides – weren’t they just using pronouns, simply skipping the first person singular? How strange. Apparently, Akielons are so backward the age of civilization skipped them altogether.

Laurent couldn’t say he was surprised.

“You just said, ‘we’. This is a pronoun. Therefore, you do have pronouns.”

“That’s silly. Would you say a pot of flowers has pronouns? Or a sun? Or a jewel?”

Yes. All of them are male. Well, except for a flower. That one’s obviously female.

“I would, actually.”

“Veretians are so strange,” Erasmus cut in, giggling quietly. “Oh. Oh, this one is so sorry! This one didn’t want to offend you!”

“None taken.”

However, this didn’t seem to appease Erasmus, who jumped up in horror, bodily slamming into the slave girl. She didn’t budge; apparently, her natural weights truly did wonders as an anchor, tethering her down. “Lykaios! We’re so rude! We haven’t even introduced ourselves!”

“I don’t think it’s necessary right no–”

“This one’s name is Erasmus. That one’s name is Lykaios,” Erasmus announced proudly, as if Adrastus didn’t reveal his name a while prior, calling for him, and he didn’t out Lykaios a second ago.

“Um, Laurent,” the name sounded strange, so plain, without his title; but for some reason, more… him. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Both of them stared at him open-monthly with blank expressions, and Laurent couldn’t be sure of what he said this time around confused them so. Was it his name? There was no reason for a change, since it was quite popular back in Vere, thanks to his numerous royal predecessors bearing it with pride. Was it his phrasing?

Probably the phrasing.

“This must be strange for you, to be so far away from home,” Erasmus said carefully, leaning closer to him in a gentle manner like one would to a confused animal. “But don’t worry, this one will take great care of you! And Damianos-Exalted too. We are so lucky to be in his service.”

Laurent’s lips pressed into a line. “I find it hard to believe anything about being enslaved can be considered ‘lucky’, much less to a prince-killer.”

To Erasmus’ credit, he didn’t even flinch hearing his master being referred to with such a derogatory term. His brows only furrowed and he reached up to bite at his fingernail, eyes focused somewhere above the floor.

“Oooh… it must be different to a Veretian, yes,” no shit, Laurent thought to himself, but found himself unable to be cruel to someone no less innocent than a kitten. “But this one swears, Damianos-Exalted is the kindest master out of everyone in the palace. He is said to be gentle and considerate, so truly the Gods have blessed this one to be promised a First Night with him,” Erasmus sighed, closing his eyes and placing his hand on top of the pin securing his chiton. Just as Lykaios’, it was adorned with a golden lion head.

Pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and Laurent was embarrassed by how long it took.

“Is this… a sign of ownership?”

“It’s a promise,” Erasmus clarified, still with that dreamy expression that made Laurent want to dig his own eyes out, just so he wouldn’t have to look at it and think of what this poor boy must have gone through to be so indoctrinated, “that Damianos-Exalted would be the one to do me the honor of my First Night. Other royal slaves, they have pins of plain gold. Like Kallias, see?” his cicerone tilted his head towards a brown-haired boy regarding them from a distance, instantly averting his gaze when he realized Erasmus has spotted him.

“He’s Kastor-Exalted’s, and have recently been granted his collar. As Lykaios said, this one thinks… this one thinks my First Night will be coming soon, too. In a few days time, at most.” Erasmus blushed coyly, playing with the golden ribbon tied around his neck like a filly babbling about her paramour, much to Laurent’s bafflement. 

Laurent didn’t want to recall his first night, the downpour of tears cried, for his brother, then for comfort, and then because of the comfort he did receive on his request. It had scored tracks on his face, and his eyes were red, and irritated, just like everything else was – the bruises on his arms and legs where he was held down, the blood smeared on his inner thighs, the burning shame.

He didn’t want to recall that night, and yet, it seems he never stopped harking back to it. He wasn’t able to.

His pulse quickened as it always did when the nightmare was brought to the forefront of his mind, and he pressed his nails into the palms of his hands, the burst of pain helping to banish the memory and collect himself. He wasn’t in Chastillon. He wasn’t at Arles.

And he wouldn’t let that happen to him ever again.

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.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

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.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

“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?”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

“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.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

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.

Chapter Text

Whoever poetically described the morning rays as delicately caressing their face or anything along those lines, never had to face daylight still far from rejuvenated and hoping, begging, for nothing more than just one more hour of darkness. Half an hour. Fifteen minutes. Laurent would be inclined to haggle, if necessary.

No – if you asked him, the more accurate word for what the accursed light was doing would be “assault”. But, however much he would rather not move and stay comfortable like this forever, such wouldn’t end up well. With pressure ulcers, he guessed. That’s a bit of a turn-off, honestly. 

He yawned, loudly, stretching his arms and legs wide like a starfish – and noticed in wonder that the softness was endless, his feet not sticking out of the bed frame and from underneath a duvet, exposed to brisk morning air.

And then, just like that, the content smile was wiped from his face, and he froze.

It was the morning.

He had slept.

Realizing that, Laurent jumped up on the bed as if the soft pillows suddenly turned into hot coals, the sleep crust in his eyes forgotten as he scanned the room for imminent danger.

It didn’t look any different than it did the day before. The curtains swayed in the breeze, shining in the golden light. The few books still sat on the bookshelf.

He was alone, and there was no Damianos.

Laurent turned to look at the bedside table. The correspondence was gone, but the knife was still there, back at its rightful place, now accompanied by… was that a charcuterie board?

Half-certain he must have been under the influence of those accursed Akielon drugs and hallucinating still, Laurent leaned over the nightstand, inspecting the plate. To the brim it was filled with cheeses and fruit, some of them already peeled for his convenience.

He lifted his head and took a glance at the room again.

Nope, still not Arles. Still very much the Iosian crown prince's quarters.

Laurent wouldn’t take the prince-killer for someone enjoying beignets for breakfast – he struck him more as an ‘I eat bloody, raw steak for breakfast, lunch, and dinner because I’m just so manly’ type – but clearly, looks could be deceiving. Except, there was no Damianos anywhere near to account for.

There was only him.

The temptation to try the delicacies was strong because not only was a sweet tooth one of his greatest vices (probably even greater than his attitude), but his stomach was very insistently reminding him it didn’t remember when it was last filled. Nausea was rising in his throat and he tried to ignore it – hardly for the first time in his life.

Just because the breakfast looked great didn’t mean the treats flaunted in front of him weren’t drugged. He’s spent enough time with his mind fuzzy. He must be more careful from now on.

But they all looked so delicious…

Well, just one won’t kill him. Probably.

He raised one of the pastries, curiously inspecting it between his fingers. It was a beignet, but then it wasn’t – rather than rectangular, soft, and airy, it was in the form of a heavier ball of dough. There was no powdered sugar to be found and it was quite a sti— was that honey?

The thick molasses glazed his lips, sticky and oh so sumptuous, impossibly sweet under his tongue. The confectionery was alike nothing he knew, chewy and soft in texture with a gentle crunch of crushed nuts, but unbelievably succulent. If this was the way he goes, he would happily go ahead and meet Cerberus at the gates of Hell. He would even share some of that deliciousness with him. Wasn’t the guardian dog of Akielon Hades fond of honey cakes?

Yet one more thing he had in common with all things evil, it seemed.

Laurent would scratch him behind all six of his ears, too, for good measure.

“Excuse me…”

Slowly, the doors creaked, announcing an intruder to the space. Promptly, Laurent pulled the duvet up to cover himself, in a gesture of bashfulness so unlike a Veretian, only to discover that he was dressed – he would still argue whether the gauzy fabric could be called a garment, but alas, his state of wear wasn’t any different than when he was brought to these rooms the day before.

Against all odds, against what he was sure would happen, he remained untouched.

It was quite baffling, and Laurent didn’t know what to make out of Damianos’s reactions. He was aroused, there was no doubt about it – with the wooden stake he exhibited one could murder not one, but at least three vampires, and then some – however the moment Laurent pushed him away, the prince-killer stopped whatever atrocities he had in his mind when he saw him defenseless on his bed. More than that – without one word of arguing, when Laurent asked, he left, even though those were his chambers, ones of the heir to the throne. Where did he even spend the night? On a chaise longue, like a meek husband facing the scorn of his wife?

What a ridiculous notion.

Still, whatever the reason for such considerate, albeit thoroughly baffling behavior, something was telling Laurent it had little to do with the pathetic letter knife pointed at his throat. Nonetheless, he allowed himself to borrow the blade. One didn’t know when such would come in handy, and it was easy enough to hide. Damianos wouldn’t miss it, either – and if he did, frankly, Laurent didn’t care much.

“This one didn’t wish to intrude, however, it’s past noon, and this one was asked to forward a message that, um,” Erasmus avoided looking at him, suddenly the pattern of marble at the floor the most occupying thing in all of the universe, “unless Damianos-Exalted had fucked the legs off your blond arse, you are expected at the baths, and promptly. This one is to carry you if it comes down to it.”

The boy appeared prepared for the task, albeit intimidated. Perhaps trembling underneath the unnaturally gigantic prince-killer Laurent looked delicate and ethereal, but without such an unfair point of reference, he was quite formidable himself. With his naturally lean and slight build, the severe Veretian clothing might have been enough to conceal the physical signs of relentless sword work he subjected himself to in secret, however, the transparent robes Akielon slaves wore left little to the imagination. A willow like Erasmus would be facing quite a hassle if he was made to haul Laurent anywhere for more than a few feet – and so, he would be certainly happy to learn there was no need for such sacrifices.

Right now, though, Erasmus was still tense. “Those were Master Adrastus’ words, not this one’s,” he quickly clarified, gulping, worried the crudeness might have offended Laurent. As if it wasn’t one of the mildest insults he had ever heard directed at him.

In truth, he hadn’t put any mind to them, because something else entirely grabbed his attention.

He did notice the sun was a bit too aggressive for the hour.

When was the last time he had slept until that late, undisturbed, he didn’t know – probably back when Auguste was still a crown prince and the 'lucky dog' who had to be up at the buttcrack of dawn every single day to take care of numerous duties that could have waited until more godly hours without an issue. Since becoming the heir apparent, Laurent had been chronically insomniac – with nights filled with plans of counter-attacks, and tiredness that was too overwhelming to allow him any shut-eye.

It was a welcome change, to be allowed to sleep in, even if, as a result, the most substantial part of his day was gone. But then again – what would he be doing now that the fate of the entire nation wasn’t resting on his shoulders? It was a whole load off – now he only had to worry about surviving for long enough to exact his revenge on Damianos, and perhaps to get Nicaise out of Arles. Neither of which were particularly new tasks, just the rank of them might have moved up a few places on his list of most pressing worries.

Breakfast eaten in bed for no reasons other than hurry, not allowing him to sit down in the dining hall, was a novelty as well. One he wouldn’t be opposed to repeating in the future.

This gave him a pause.

“Are you alright?”

He had been asked this question more in the last twenty-four hours than in the last six years, he realized. More by strangers, either truly concerned or having at least the decency to pretend, unlike his now-dead family members and those who used to proclaim themselves friends of theirs. He experienced more respect and consideration from his enemies, than he did from his countrymen, his council.

Akielon slaves were those who spent their days lounging around perfumed baths, talking about literature and politics. Learning languages and playing instruments. Could they go horse ride, he wondered, or would that be deemed too dangerous too, like the physical training Laurent so longed for just a day before?

Suddenly, this life didn’t sound too bad, and that terrified him more than anything – because truly, was he so weak-willed to give in to the mirage this soon? Was he this desperate for comfort, that he could ignore the abuse hiding just beneath the surface? And one would think he had enough of deception, living under the thumb of the king of it, who had dangerous ambitions of becoming the ruler of much more.

But in Akielos, there was no Nicaise. No boys whose voices didn’t yet manage to break in. And he himself, after the night spent in the private quarters of a famously lecherous prince-killer, was still dressed, even if the silk robes concealed less than a nightgown would. He wasn’t touched – not after he fended him off, and Damianos recognized his unwillingness. The barbarian who respected the integrity of a slave more than Vere did of its own king.

Because that’s who he was, and that the Regent was conveniently omitting, insisting on addressing him as the prince. Even though, by law, he ascended the throne at King Aleron’s death. Vere didn’t magically lose its status as a kingdom and returned to the days of princedom just because the heir apparent was a minor. 

And now, the only minor thing about him in the all-powerful Regent’s eyes was a minor inconvenience.

“Has Adrastus already missed me this much?” Laurent asked, stretching. Erasmus bowed his head slightly, both out of habit and in confirmation.

“That may not be the most correct term,” his companion pondered, “but it’s already past the first training session, and you did fail to show up. If for, um, a very good reason.”

From where Laurent stood, the first good night of restful sleep was a very good reason, indeed. However Erasmus didn’t need to know it was just that, and neither did Adrastus and the other trainers – because something told Laurent the slave was, as always, using gentle words to describe what certainly wasn’t this demure.

“What term would you use, then?”

Erasmus looked around as if there was any possibility of another intruder in the crown prince’s quarters. He skedaddled to the bed, leaning over to Laurent to whisper in his ear conspiratorially. “Fucking itching.”

Hearing that in Erasmus’ sweet voice say such crudeness nearly caused Laurent an aneurysm. Taken by surprise, he choked on his saliva, a coughing fit lasting for a few seconds, all the while the slave boy patiently patted his back. With eyes teary from exertion, Laurent glanced in Erasmus's direction to see him smirking mischievously.

He smiled, too.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The palace life was in full swing at this swell hour of the day. Damianos’s quarters were curiously empty – no guards to account for, safe for an old vilicus dawdling about, inspecting the work of a few servants making sure the royal quarters were spotless. The crown prince’s rooms were quiet – so the clunk of armored boots against the marble floor and the chatter of courtiers walking around the corridor right outside of it, the part leading to Kastor’s set of chambers, was nettling, albeit expected.

As narcissistic as Laurent could be, he didn’t think the disparity was due to the prince-killer making sure he could get this beauty sleep. Perhaps Jokaste was currently at Kastor’s quarters? He could imagine a lone lady needing tightened security in this day and age, even if to him it seemed a tad excessive. Not to mention, it would make sneaking in and having a private talk with her all the more challenging.

Not a completely unsurmountable obstacle, though. He would figure out a way.

The further down and close to the slave gardens they went, the louder the murmur following them was becoming, the soft flutter of waves in the morning turning into a thrumming storm. He couldn’t understand a word – his Akielon was not practiced enough to be able to lip-read phrases spoken at such a rapid speed – and it annoyed him greatly.

Was it still the shock of seeing a natural blond in Ios? Or to hearing Damianos acquired a Veretian slave? Truly, in Arles, it would be such old news after more than twenty-four hours.

“Have I grown a second head in the meantime,” Laurent mumbled to himself. “I could use another brain, honestly.”

Erasmus must have heard his grumbling, because he tilted his head, looking at him with furrowed brows. “This one doesn’t believe so. Why?”

“Everyone keeps staring at me. I thought the novelty of a Veretian captive at the heart of Ios would wear off, but clearly, it wouldn’t happen as fast as I would have thought.”

“Oh, it’s… this one thinks there is more to it than that.”

Laurent’s gait came to a halt and he turned to look at Erasmus, finding him nervously fiddling with the edge of his chiton. A blush was spreading over his cheeks and shoulders, and he was avoiding looking Laurent in the eye.

It was a lot even by his standards. Heavens, has Damianos spent the morning spreading lies and slanders about what a fruitful night the two of them had? That would happen if Laurent was stupid enough to take any pet at Arles to bed, but it was unthinkable in this case. Not with how the Akielon reacted, so much that at one point Laurent thought of the barbarian as thoughtful, if even for a split second.

Turns out Laurent was more than stupid. He was fucking moronic, and must have lost a substantial part of his brain cells with the abuse of those god-forsaken drugs Adrastus has spiked him with.

Finally, it seemed Erasmus had found his words. He nodded at the sky, still staying clear of eye contact. “It’s noon.”

Yes, they have established that already. Along with some threats about his legs being cut clean off his torso. Was sleeping in this much of a taboo in Akielos to justify gossip of this scale? Weren’t they the nation of prolonged midday breaks? Oh, the hypocrisy. “If not expected, then it should at the very least be an understood wake-up time for a slave after a truly fertile night of work. One would need rest after a job well done, wouldn’t they?”

Erasmus’s blush turned deep scarlet, and he yelped at Laurent’s blatant directness. “N-not commonly, no,” he stuttered. “There are more duties than that to be taken care of, but, um, it’s more than that. It’s noon, and you were at Damianos-Exalted’s quarters.”

Did he skip a memo? “Where else would I be, with Nikandros of definitely-not-Delfeur? I was made to believe the prince-killer was supposed to have the questionable pleasure of fucking me, so why would I be killing time anywhere else?”

The poor boy’s jaw went slack. He blinked a few times as if that was supposed to help him hear somehow, and when this approach turned ineffective, he tapped at his ears a few times with open palms. Laurent was quite confident Erasmus heard more calamities from him within the last day than he heard most of his life, but couldn’t feel guilty. Not when he had proof the attitude, one that would be necessary to recognize the concealed evil of the institution of slavery, was already rubbing off on him. Coming in short-lasting bursts of confidence. Small steps.

“You were expected back at the quarters, of course,” he explained as if it was obvious. Perhaps, it was. “It’s… been a while since anyone other than um, other than Lady Jokaste was allowed to stay the night. It’s causing an uproar and spiking curiosity, if there are maybe, um, some, some,” Erasmus stuttered, embarrassed, “some Veretian techniques we might not be aware of. This one won’t lie that this one is curious, too.”

Oh, willing a cultural exchange! Who would have thought?

Laurent had a few tips and tricks he could share, actually, as inexperienced as he was. For example, how to dissociate enough not to vomit when a man thrice your age is forcefully pushing his pathetic cock into your throat. However, he doubted Erasmus would be interested in that, and hoped to Heavens he never would need this sort of knowledge.

Not to mention, Laurent wasn’t particularly willing to describe the details of those wonderful encounters.

“They are confidential,” he said instead, hoping it would sound mysterious, rather than dismissive. “But, I would say, my legs were essential to the night’s excitement,” Laurent revealed slyly, skipping the small detail of them being used for kicking Damianos’s guts with a strength worthy of the brattiest of ponies, “and so, we probably shouldn’t keep Adrastus wait any longer, lest I lose them both.”

Erasmus looked him up and down, probably calculating the limb-to-torso ratio of Laurent’s. “They really are an asset,” he then nodded solemnly and briskly trekked forward.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

“You’re late.”

If an ingenious engineer found out a way to harvest the fume coming out of Adrastus’s ears, Laurent was sure the slave baths could be turned into relaxing saunas and for a fraction of the usual cost at that. Both his face and the fist in which he was holding a velvet flog were red, like the rashes Laurent got from scarlet fever as a child. He was fully expecting a strike to land, but it didn’t, and the effort this took from the old slave master was visible to the naked eye.

“In Akielos, punctuality is a virtue, and a slave is to be an epitome of purity. If you fail to show up at the next training session, there will be consequences.”

“Such as?” the devil in Laurent’s mind told him to ask. It wasn’t the right question, judging by the malicious smirk spreading on Adrastus’s lips.

“The correct answer is ‘yes, master’, completed with prostrating on the floor with your forehead pressed to it. But don’t worry. You will understand the manners in no time, with the training starting tomorrow. Until you are of an acceptable standard, you are not to meet with Damianos-Exalted without an escort. Is that understood?”

Oh, what a pity. Laurent didn’t know how he could possibly recover after such a great loss. He would miss the company of his brother’s murderer thoroughly. 

“However, the prince was greatly satisfied with your presence the night before. He requests you attend the lyrical gathering, organized this evening in honor of Kastor-Exalted returning from the country, as his personal attendant,” each word leaving Adrastus’s was scratchy, as if it grated him just to say them. “It’s an honor one does not refuse.”

Well, shit. Damianos truly tended to hang on like a leech, didn’t he.

“Is it the exact wording he used? That he was ‘satisfied with my presence’?”

It seemed not only Laurent’s clothes were transparent – his very person as well because his question wasn’t acknowledged in the least. Adrastus turned to Erasmus, who instantly straightened his back.

“You are to accompany this one and ascertain the Veretian won’t disgrace all of us. Also, make yourself presentable as well, won’t you? Your First Night is coming, and Damianos-Exalted needs to be shown the most beautiful of buttercups are still grown in Akielos.”

If that was Adrastus’s idea of a backhanded insult, he truly wouldn’t last three minutes in Arles, and Laurent would love to watch him burn. Three-year-old Veretians had more wits to them than high-ranking royal household members in Akielos, it seemed.

But, to a certain degree, Adrastus was right. As far as flower comparisons went, Erasmus was the cutest of buttercups there were – so common and perhaps overlooked, but at the same time so stunningly beautiful and plain endearing. Meanwhile Laurent, if he were to liken himself to a plant, he would say he was an ipomoea – stunning, but short-lived, and poisonous enough to take anyone who would dare kill it even before its time with it.

Laurent wasn’t grown in Akielos, and wouldn’t want to be; he would leave that field to Erasmus who – a perfect product of rigorous training – in one fluid motion prostrated himself in front of Adrastus. Whether it was out of habit, or an example for Laurent to follow, he didn’t know – but if it was, Laurent didn’t move an inch still.

“Yes, master. Thank you for this opportunity, master.”

The stubborn lack of obedience in Laurent chafed Adrastus, whose little glassy eyes were popping out of his head as he stared at him as if his mere irritated gaze was enough to bend Laurent’s will. A while passed, and when it was obvious Laurent wouldn’t budge, he released one of his fists to reach into the pocket of his robes, to pull something out of it.

The moment the item was revealed, Erasmus’s eyes shone with happiness and pride. A few other slaves, curious, got closer, and when rays of dusk approaching reflected on the item with golden illumination, their faces momentarily twisted into grimaces, squeaking noises leaving their throats from behind tight-pressed lips.

Jealousy.

Laurent wasn’t certain what the prevailing feeling in him was upon seeing the lion pin outstretched towards him, but it certainly wasn’t that.

The golden pin was intricate, perhaps even more than the one Erasmus proudly wore on his shoulder. Although small, the goldsmith must have been a true master of his trade, managing to craft every lock of the lion’s mane into the miniature wild cat. It even had tiny, bright sapphires set into the metal as its eyes – and if it was supposed to be any sort of a compliment to Laurent’s irises, or a nod to how Damianos likened him to the blue stone the moment he saw him, Laurent would vomit right on his shoes.

It was a split second when the light shifted, and the metal clinked softly against the floor in the silence that had filled the room the moment it had happened.

Dazed, Laurent stared at it – the last artifact of making him the lowest of the low in society, the final visual token marking him as an object for another’s use. Laying just at his feet, it still didn’t seem real to him. Here, within reach, but so dissociative.

Adrastus didn’t budge to pick it up, either. His eyes were focused on Laurent, with a malicious sneer spread on his lips, not sparing the symbol of his crown prince’s authority a single glance.

It would be blatant disrespect, and probably still was if the quiet gasps of the slaves surrounding them were any indication. It would be, if only it wasn’t intended as a lesson in humiliation for Laurent – a Veretian made to bow down right in front of an Akielon slave master, to reverently pick up a symbol of enslavement to a person he hated most, and affix it to his person.

All Laurent was thinking about was how sharp the pin was, the point so tapered that if he had it at hand the night before, rather than a blunt letter knife, he could have done much more damage if he only so desired, and Damianos would know.

Truly, how poetic it would be if a slave owner was stabbed to death with a sign of their ownership.

The person who ultimately picked up the pin was neither Laurent nor Adrastus. It wasn’t even Erasmus. It ended up being Kallias, who appeared out of nowhere, picking it up with two dark fingers – a gesture that could be either reverential, or disgusted, and Laurent wasn’t too sure which one it was. Curious.

“I heard Veretians were masters at playing games,” Kallias said under his breath, meant for Laurent’s ears alone. He affixed the pin, making sure the point would scratch against Laurent’s skin as he went. Blood was drawn, but Laurent didn’t as much as hiss as the cut was made. “Probably not all of them, because then they would know how to pick their battles. Unless they want to doom every single player on the board, that is.”

Kallias threw a glance in Erasmus’s direction, the poor boy still prostrated on the floor, trembling. Made responsible for Laurent, and having developed some sort of an affinity for him, he must have worried any Veretian transgression would project on him in the vulnerable pre-First Night period he was in. Ruin the effort he had made to get as far in the hierarchy as he did.

Laurent understood, and looking straight into Kallias’s eyes, straightened the pin with a nod.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

There were clear advantages to playing the game as masterfully as Kallias seemed to do. With a reputation like his, there were no consequences for him stepping in and interrupting Adrastus’s lesson in humility. There couldn’t be – not when he was the most prized of Kastor’s slaves, a true jewel within his household, and apparently, the star of the evening.

“This one is sure you have never heard anything like this before,” Erasmus assured with fervor, glancing at Kallias sitting right underneath the throne, pulling the instrument’s strings and turning the strange disks on its sides, tuning it and adjusting the pitch. “He is a true master of this art. The moment Astacos heard him play during his first music lesson, it was decided Kallias would replace Ianessa as the designated performer. This one heard that one still hasn’t made peace with losing such a prestigious position,” Erasmus's whisper turned lower, and while he tried to aid for an understanding tone, the pride in his voice was unmistakable.

Laurent nodded, but to be fair, he didn’t particularly share Erasmus’s excitement for tonight’s activities. It wasn’t that he doubted Kallias’s talent – one had to be good to perform before the royals, and frequently, from what he heard – but being, up until recently, a crown prince himself, he was hardly a stranger to court entertainment.

And in Arles, it was truly lavish.

Even if the exhibitions weren’t exactly his cup of tea, they were always a welcomed interruption to his tedious duties and strings of endless meetings with men who should have retired approximately two hundred years earlier. Personally, in his downtime, he would rather go horse riding or at most watch a tournament, but his uncle’s tastes were far more sophisticated than that. Thus, Laurent saw everything there was to see – courtly dances that would scandalize any of the Akielon men and women currently surrounding him, through mystery plays and cabaret performances.

Frequently, there were even fire shows – courtesy of Ancel, Lord Berenger’s pet. Having been part of a circus in the past, he had quite a few impressive tricks in his repertoire. Still, back then Laurent’s greatest entertainment was placing bets with Nicaise on whether it was finally the time Ancel’s fiery mane of hair would caught on fire. Nonetheless, he recalled them fondly now. Neither he, nor Nicaise, actually wished the ginger pet harm; if anything, he quite liked Ancel, and missed his unconventional, yet very effective methods of navigating court life.

It was taking all of this into account that made him doubt any feat of Kallias’s could stun him much. If anything, he hoped for some nice strumming on his weird-looking lyre as an ambient for far more absorbing engagements, like studying his surroundings. Being Damianos’s personal attendant, along with Erasmus he was seated on the dais, right amidst the royal family – for the first time, present in full attendance. And so, plenty to study he would have that night, indeed. 

Just one look at Theomedes was enough to understand why the king barely appeared before the court himself, most – if not all – of his duties relegated and divided between his two sons. The decline of his health was an open secret – he had heard of it already when back in Vere, much to his delight. However, whatever the intel was, it could not capture the reality at all.

Laurent had never seen the Akielon Scourge, the Conqueror, in person before. Sparing him the meeting right after Marlas was one of the few good deeds his uncle had done for him. Back then, Laurent was afraid of the demon haunting his nightmares enough, and he didn’t know how his thirteen-year-old self could manage standing face to face with the man responsible for the military campaign that ended with a part of his kingdom stolen, and the remaining part of his immediate family dead.

Seeing the frail old man, thin and weary, barely sitting up on the throne too grand for his posture, the reality of now was had to reconcile with what was only six years ago.

“Music eases his mind,” Erasmus explained to Laurent, leaning in to whisper into his ear after he noticed him staring at the legendary ruler. Theomedes then stood up from his seat, meaning to welcome everyone, as it was customary. However, the old man's pride refused when a slave of his offered him a cane, opting for clutching to the throne's armrests instead. It wasn't a good choice – soon enough, his legs gave way, the once formidable ruler swaying, moments away from crashing down.

But before that could happen, both Damianos and Kastor sprang from their seats and rushed to his side. It was done as inconspicuously as it could be, but especially with the prince-killer’s size, any sort of stealth would look comedic at best, and not at all convincing.

“What is his ailment?” Laurent asked, watching the situation right next to him unfold. Theomedes leaned into Kastor, whispering to him in a whistling, breathy voice, while Damianos – just as close, just as eager to aid his father – remained mostly ignored, even with his huge arm extended to allow the king to support himself on it if the need arose. Still, Theomedes took Kastor on his offer first, and Damianos left out in the cold, standing awkwardly. The fake smile didn’t budge on his lips, and neither did the deep concern in his eyes as he saw his only remaining parent collect himself, returning to a posture as royal and kingly as he could in his affliction. 

The jumble of conflicting feelings about one’s father was something Laurent knew intimately. No matter what he did, to Aleron, he could never be the pride and joy Auguste was – and it was only right, because his brother was one of a kind, never before and never again seen in Vere. The perfect crown prince and everything Laurent was not: strong, handsome, commanding people with his sole presence.

Just like Damianos was.

The comparison touched a sore spot, but he couldn’t deny that Auguste’s killer to the barbarians was their version of a golden prince. A living paragon of what an Akielon man was supposed to be – and yet, to his father, it still wasn’t enough. 

If he didn’t hate Damianos so, Laurent would pity him. 

"Theomedes-Exalted has missed Kastor-Exalted so much," Erasmus oscillated around the question Laurent asked, the topic of the ruler’s health not one to be gossiped about. From the gushing tone of his hushed voice, it could be believed the slave boy filtered the inquiry out completely, focusing on something else, only loosely connected to it. “He has been away for so long, all the way in northern Sicyon, as the royal envoy. It must have been so hard for Theomedes-Exalted and Lady Hypermenestra; they have always been close. She must be so happy to have him back, too.”

'Happy' would be the last adjective Laurent would use to describe the royal concubine. Her lips were red, not from the rouge, but from being bitten time and time again – even now, they were pressed into a straight line. She was tense like a string – both hands gripped together tightly, only the forefinger and thumb moving almost unnoticed, pinching the corresponding skin on the other hand. Her eyes were fixed on the man who should be her husband, but never wed her – but her look was far away as if she was seeing something that no one else could; not yet, anyway.

Perhaps, she was. Perhaps she also knew of the regicide brewing just underneath the surface, naturally on the side of her kin, but perhaps less cold-blooded than Kastor. According to Erasmus, she did raise Damianos. Even if he wasn’t her actual son, knowing of a plot meant to kill him could be quite burdening; especially with her life partner reaching the end of his earthly existence.

For a moment, she turned to look at Damianos, who finally gave up and sat back on his smaller throne, expression unchangeably fixed in a smile downplaying the entire affair, as if nothing substantial transpired right in the face of the entire court. As if everyone hadn’t just seen weakness so blatant that Laurent didn’t wonder in the least how it could travel all the way to Vere.

It was no surprise that Kastor was constantly in delegations in recent months, especially to the border kyroi, parleying with them and ensuring their loyalty. It was only under Theomedes that Akielos made the painstaking transformation from a confederation of loose alliances to something more like a federation, and no one could know what would happen once the king died, or was deemed incapable of ruling by his kyroi, whose only true alliance is to strength. And so, sending out the older son to show the Akielon aristocrats the power didn’t only lie with Theomedes personally, but with his house united, was of the essence.

Even if it couldn’t be further from the truth.

In fact, with the suspicions he had, Laurent doubted Kastor truly was ensuring the kyroi’s loyalty to the crown. If he were in his shoes, he would use the opportunity to sway as many provinces onto his side as he could. However, it wouldn’t be an easy task – not when Damianos was a war hero, universally admired, and Theomedes’s chosen successor. Akielons were simple-minded, but they respected the laws and natural order of things. 

Perhaps the fruit of the meetings wasn’t what Kastor had hoped for, and this was the reason for his sour mood. Laurent wouldn’t blame him – no amount of regicide would do him any good if he had no internal support. Even with Damianos dead, his head would end up on a spike – neverminding the lack of any other immediate heirs. They wouldn’t let such a man guide them but rather try their luck at snatching the then-void throne.

In those circumstances especially, but even if the situation between brothers wouldn’t be so precarious, it would be better if Damianos himself could make the travel. But, it wasn’t possible – he couldn’t be in two places at once. The capital needed him much more – not only because the majority of the crown prince’s duties would be inherently tied to the palace, but also because it was the most representative place. It was capable of utilizing Damianos in all of his barbaric, giant animal glory, the allegory of true Akielon toughness, a living symbol of their dynasty still being formidable and having its greatest days ahead.

But even the strongest oak could break, unprepared for the upcoming storm. Damianos still didn’t seem to realize the obviousness of his brother’s resentment. Even with being cast aside by their father just moments prior, the prince-killer didn’t seem to internalize it much. He only moved closer to Kastor, extending a few words with him, the worried expression not leaving his face.

Damianos wasn’t the only one looking concerned. Now and again, Nikandros – seated just below the dais, signifying his high status – glanced at the royal family. Just like Laurent, he seemed to observe everything closely, no doubt trying to compensate for Damianos being blind to what was happening right under his nose. He grimaced at Kastor’s closeness to the king, his expression pinching and souring further at the blatant display of negligence towards his crown prince. Damianos avoided eye contact with Nikandros, but when it happened, the pleading in the otherwise insufferable kyros’s eyes was tangible. 

Damianos looked away, his bearing unchanged, if only more terse. He pretended not to notice, and Nikandros grunted, even though he probably was more inclined to sigh in defeat and frustration. Pallas, seated right next to him, must have realized – and more like a friend than a subordinate, placed a hand on his shoulder, moving closer to say a few, probably reassuring, words. Nikandros didn’t react much, only straightening his back, his sense of pride not allowing him to let the resignation show in his body language any more than it already did. The stubbornness seemed to be ingrained in Akielons, or at least those two men – and a great source of exasperation to those who wished them well.

Pallas, younger than them by a fourth of a generation, was cut from a different cloth. He made no effort to mask his vexation with the stubborn old mules; he sighed audibly, shifting Nikandros’s frustration from blaming himself to scolding him instead. Seeing his superior at his more natural state, despite the chastising, Pallas was smiling beatifically – his expression growing a bit more reassuring, maybe apologetic, when he noticed Laurent watching him, accented with a gentle shrug of his shoulders.

The hall was a whole menagerie of temperaments and affiliations, the murmur of conversation more grating than the abrasive noise of Kallias’s last fine-tuning of his instrument. And then, he was done, and the penetrating, nasal sound of the oboe accompanying him brought the room to a hush.

At first, it was familiar – the mellow, soft songs of a lyre, rocking them like a ship on the open sea, waves shifting them back and forth as they embarked on an adventure, hopeful and sanguine for what the future may hold. Kallias’s posture was one he recognized, too – poignant, he leaned over the instrument slightly, one hand hidden behind the strings to mute the jarring tones, letting the dulcet ones shine. A true master, deferentially bending the lyre to his will.

The respect showed in every single touch of the strings, and Laurent realized he didn’t get it quite right because, in reality, Kallias wasn’t the one controlling the kithara. The music spoke through him, the muses choosing the boy as their vessel, just momentarily, as an instrument of their own. A perfect harmony of earthly and transcendental.

As closer as the union became, the sound changed too, to something more unfamiliar, but no less entrancing. Behind Kallias, an oboe player sat, the deep echo of the instrument created a canvas on which Kallias painted, a gamut of colors they couldn’t quite see, but could feel washing over every cell in their bodies, over their very souls.

Then Kallias voice joined, melodic and haunting, vocalizing a song of old. It spoke of duty and it spoke of love, of despair and need, so overwhelming and grand nothing could stand between two lovers – neither the hostility of their nations nor the hatred filling their past. Slaves to nothing more than their love, and the fate that had tied them together for each life they would walk on this Earth.

The stories of Odysseus and Medusa suddenly became reality when Laurent couldn’t remember the moment he got under Kallias’s spell, and neither could the rest of the audience, watching, entranced, the graceful dance of the slave’s deft fingertips on the strings. No one was mighty anymore, everyone  equal as they waited with bated breath for the next note. Never what was expected, and yet so perfectly harmonized. Ethereal. Otherworldly. A perfect dissonance of beauty beyond comprehension.

There was an intrusion then, the doors creaking and a dark shadow slipping past, gliding by to Kastor’s side. A messenger, with a scroll fixed closed by a wax seal in his hands. Laurent couldn’t make the crest out – too abrupt the return of reality was, too shocking. With the majority of the audience still enthralled by Kallias, Kastor took the opportunity to break the crest and read the letter, Jokaste peeking from over his shoulder. The paper crumbled in his closed fist and the woman whipped her head towards him, her fingernails digging into Kastor’s shoulders painfully. 

The last sound vibrated, leaving an echoing silence in its wake. The spell was broken, and just like that, from the heights they were taken to, they crashed back into the mortal coil. It was grating – the cold floor underneath his sandals, the quiet sniffing of ladies thrown back into the valley of tears, when a moment before they were flying.

But it was still less jarring than how the void left in the tranquility then filled with clapping, the applause – although well deserved – loud and boisterous, so mundane when what they experienced wasn’t the terrestrial at all. One didn’t clap after organ hymns in the tall halls of a temple, and for this short moment, this was exactly what Kallias transformed the palace into. Effortlessly. With grace not seen anywhere else.

And yet, Kallias only bowed his head demurely, as if it was his honor to play, rather than for them to have a chance to listen to such craft.

“You were right.”

He needn’t say anything further. Erasmus simply smiled in response, his eyes returning to Kallias, shifting in place and reaching out to his instrument again – this time to play simple ambient for the conversation, not taking the audience captive, but rather blending the divine with the mortal, building something that was essentially – human. 

In the long night, I wait…

Unassuming under the murmur of voices, Laurent recognized the wistful lyrics, the yearning inundating every word. The Ballad of Laechton, speaking of his doomed love – the favorite tale of Erasmus’s.

Arsaces, undone.

Laurent felt the gaze on him, and the moment his and Damianos’s eyes met, he almost doubled over under the weight of silent questions. He turned away, but the pressure was still there – unwavering, unchanging. The presence hadn’t lifted, no matter what he did to ignore it – but he still tried, not gracing Damianos with a single glance, opting for looking around the room, as if looking for someone in particular. He wasn’t, but even so, he still realized a notable lack in the guests gathered.

“Where’s Guion?” With brows slightly furrowed, he asked into the thin air.

“Who’s Guion?”

The worst sort of man a person could be – a snake, and an idiot. A sellout with a thousand times more coins to his name than the brain cells, neither of which were deserved. 

“Lord Guion of Fortaine,” it grated Laurent just to say it. “Vere’s Ambassador to Akielos, and back at home, a Councillor.”

If they weren’t in public, Erasmus would probably slap his forehead, as if that gesture could smack the realization back into his mind. Laurent didn’t blame him, though – it was impressive that a slave who wasn’t even in active service yet knew anything of politics, and names of every ambassador there was would be too much to ask for. That, and it hasn’t been a long time since his uncle decided to reward his loyal dog by giving him this cushy job at the other end of the continent in an enemy country. Laurent wondered sometimes if Gouillon¹ was bitter about it, or if the money which came with the job was enough of a compensation for any possible inconvenience

"This one apologizes for not knowing his esteemed lordship by name," Erasmus bowed his head, and Laurent had the urge to vomit at hearing this deference to someone who did not deserve it in the least. That, and to grab the slave boy’s chin and hold it up, so he would stop lowering his head for the worst scum of this earth, who just so happens to have been born into a better station than he had. "He hasn't graced the court with his presence a lot, and had departed already, and very abruptly at that." His tone turned low. "There's all sorts of gossip about it."

Oh, Erasmus. You would have loved the Veretian court with your penchant for gossip, which revealed itself so very promptly after the initial meeting. Unfortunately, the boy would also need to be watched at all times in Arles, to be made sure he wasn't being the subject of a plan to ensure his downfall, rape, humiliation, or another vastly unpleasant experience – Veretian courtiers could get very creative when they wanted to. Still, the superficial? Erasmus would adore it.

Laurent would lie if he said he didn't share this affinity. So what! He was still Veretian, bred and born, with ingrained knowledge that one had to keep up with the news to have a vague chance of ensuring their head stays on their shoulders. But, for less unfortunate reasons, more often than not, tittle-tattle was simply fun. The drama happening in real time was usually better than anything he ever saw on the stage, and no surprise there – life, after all, writes the best stories.

He didn’t need to turn around to know his own theatrics awaited him, as soon as they were gone out of the public eye. 

"How so?" All they were missing were some fans and ridiculous hairstyles, to be the very pictures of stereotypical gossipers.

No matter how engaged he was in the conversation with Erasmus, no matter what else was happening around them – the burning gaze on him hadn’t lifted, as if the prince-killer truly had nowhere better to gape at, or no one else to entertain. He hoped that after a while of being blissfully ignored, Damianos would give up, at least for a moment, and just – wait, for a different opportunity, rather than risk everyone noticing he’s staring like a beaten puppy after a being denied a treat.

But perhaps, he knew the Akielon courtiers hardly noticed such subtleties. He was lucky – because his face was truly an open book, longing to be read.

He wasn’t on Laurent’s extensive ‘to be read’ list, not anytime soon. He still didn’t turn around – and yet, the gaze remained.

"Well, this one doesn’t know much,” Erasmus leaned in to whisper into Laurent’s ear, covering the space with one hand, “but apparently, there’s been an urgent situation in Vere needing his immediate attention. People have been saying it must be connected to the Prince’s sudden passing.”

“Sudden… passing? The crown prince of Vere is dead?”

It was strange, talking of himself in the third person, talking about his own death as if he wasn’t standing right here, right now, maybe not perfectly well, but very much alive.

The rumors probably shouldn’t shock Laurent as much as they did. Of course, Uncle would speed things up a bit in the eye of the public, declaring him dead even before the Akielons could do their thing. Still, he wondered how he had, apparently, met his end, so it would be convincing enough and wouldn’t paint the Regency in too bad of a light. Exculpating himself completely would be tough – after all, his only job was to keep Laurent safe from harm until he would reach maturity – but leave it to Uncle to come up with circumstances no one could have possibly prevented.

“Haven’t you known?” Erasmus seemed surprised. “But, you’re Veretian.”

“Yes, we established that already,” Laurent smirked, recalling Lykaios scolding Erasmus for his inappropriate questions. Judging by the blush spreading on his face and lips already parting to spew out apologies, the boy did too. “We aren’t all-knowing, and for the last few weeks I might have been slightly out of the loop.”

When he was embarrassed, Erasmus’s ears turned bright red, too. He looked like a ripe apple, at that moment. So very sweet that it was always too much.

“Y-yes, you must have spent a long time on a ship…” he mused, tapping a finger against his lips, thinking. “This one only knows that the Veretian crown prince was assassinated while at the palace, but nothing more. It’s just so morbid, can you imagine that happening here, to Damianos-Exalted?” You have no idea, you sweet summer child. “Or to Kastor-Exalted?”

“That would truly be terrible.” Or rather, that would be terrific. To be even more precise, that will be terrific. Laurent personally hopes to live long enough to see it, preferably to have a hand in it, and if not – he’ll be sure to have front seats at the viewing of this show from hell. No fire would burn him enough to make him skip on such an occasion.

Not even the fire warming his neck right now. Won’t he ever give up?

“Sorry, out of all of us Kallias would probably be the best to talk to, rather than this one," Erasmus advised. “He is the most well-versed in politics out of all of us. If anybody knows anything more about the prince of Vere, it would be him."

The ability was not what Laurent doubted; Kallias had a set of beautifully working vocal cords, and Laurent even knew Akielon, so the technicalities wouldn’t be an issue. What was more of a pickle, though, was that Erasmus’s doomed beau would probably rather cut out his tongue than tell Laurent anything, and then gauge out his eyes for good measure, just so he wouldn’t see him. The thread of understanding was so tangled it might as well require being cut entirely and retied again.

Indeed, Kallias was yet another person with whom Laurent needed to talk to, and soon. Nevertheless, something was telling him the slave would be the least willing to share anything, and most difficult to crack – even when compared to Jokaste.

Laurent was up to the challenge.

But, even with what Erasmus could share, there was plenty Laurent could learn. Most notably, in the end, Guion heeded Jokaste’s orders. As always, a dog with a tail between its legs, yapping to no end, but when push comes to shove, running wherever commanded.

Laurent wanted to thank Erasmus for his input, however, he didn’t manage to open his mouth before a loud, horrifying noise stopped him in his tracks – wheezing, guttural, choking.

This time, there was no discreetness about it. The hackling cough racked the king’s body, doubling him over, breathless. A ripple of shock swept through the crowd, courtiers gasping and stirring, fidgeting and whispering fearfully to each other. Dozens of eyes were on them, everybody gossiping, but no one having enough integrity to do something, to call–

“Medic!”

Damianos was at Theomedes’s side before anyone else could be, faster than Kastor, who was gently held back by none other than Hypermenestra and Jokaste. “He needs air,” the royal concubine said, pulling Kastor back, freezing Nikandros in place with the cold power of her gaze alone. “He needs air.”

He needed more than that, but within moments, the palace physician was there, holding a shining vial in his chubby, sweaty hands, handing it to Damianos, who was refusing to let go of his father. He then administered the medicine himself, his huge hands gentle as he coaxed Theomedes to take it, waiting until his heaves would become more regular. They didn’t – just their shrill wheezing turning more silent but no less concerning.

Jokaste didn’t say anything, not to the small gathering; she leaned into Kastor, the sharp words she spoke, however incomprehensible to anyone other than the man himself, more than enough to push him back in place. He wasn’t happy about that, his lips a firm line and muscles tense, and something told Laurent it wasn’t just out of concern for his parent. There was no relief in his bearing as the spasms were subsiding, leaving Theomedes slack, but safe in Damianos’s strong arms. 

Perhaps his disdain reached further than towards his brother. Perhaps it wasn’t just him he harbored a grudge towards. Perhaps denying him one thing – the heavy duty of the crown – outweighed everything else: the love, the favor, the full family. Things others would give everything for. Damianos. Laurent, too.

Perhaps, what Theomedes gave him, wasn’t enough for Kastor. Because for some men, dreams of another were just inborn rights for them.

Some men were just that greedy.

“There is nothing further to see here,” Kastor snapped at the courtiers, still watching the scene unfold, not knowing how to react. “You can disperse.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Disperse they did – just the one order, barked out by the royal brother, was enough to clear out the courtiers within seconds. Whether it was out of fear, or out of discomfort, Laurent didn’t know; but the truth was, soon enough the grand throne room was occupied only by those previously seated on the dais and a few stragglers who hadn’t yet managed to make their way towards the door. In the last group was Nikandros, who seemed to be finding excuses just to stay, and not leave the crown vulnerable in the presence of its enemies.

Laurent wasn’t sure whether the foes constituted of him, or of the crown itself.

What he was certain of, however, was that it was past the point of no return, and whatever sword Nikandros could offer, would not help the current ruler. The Conqueror was now facing an enemy that could not be vanquished with lethal weapons, with steel and spears. No choice other than to surrender himself into the gentle hands of the physicians, who were best equipped to fight off the ailments – even if their war would always, ultimately, end up with defeat, and death. All they could do was to stall for time.

Eventually, aside from the king, his sons, and the physician, only Erasmus and Laurent were left in the room. They were transfixed as Damianos was carefully reclining his father against the throne, both he and Kastor talking to the medic in hushed tones.

“We should go, too,” Erasmus whispered, pulling Laurent gently by the edge of his chiton. He nodded, turning away to let the events take their course.

He had learned more about the state of Akielon affairs than he could hope for from what was supposed to be a simple night of entertainment. Most importantly that whatever intel he got in the not-so-remote past did not align with reality in the slightest. The Conqueror’s health hadn't just declined – he was moments away from stepping through the threshold of hell, where he belonged.

Regicide or not – the winds of change were coming to Akielos, and the forecast was not favorable. The power shifts would leave it weakened, no matter the outcome. Damianos wouldn't be able to take the throne with the threat of Kastor's hatred looming in the background, while Kastor would have to face strong internal opposition. Most of the lords he could most likely buy out, but some would put on a fight. Laurent couldn't imagine Nikandros bending the knee to the murderer of his best friend, for example.

Then again, Laurent didn't see betrayal coming, either. What his uncle had done, was too brazen to expect even from him. They were family, after all. It must have meant something.

It hardly ever did, and Laurent should know better than to clutch to the remains of some stupid childhood axioms.

“Wait.”

His hands were hovering over the doorknob when the voice called out to him. Now, it wasn’t just heat Laurent felt at the back of his neck – it was the unmistakable feeling of flames so close they were moments away from licking at his skin.

He didn’t turn around but also didn’t rush towards the door to avoid the Akielon prince, simply going forward. He just stood there, frozen in the flight or fight response.

“I want to talk with you, should it be agreeable to you.”

It wouldn’t be, but he would hardly have a choice. He wasn’t the one with a decision to be made – and what a horror it was for someone curated into a thing of perfect obedience to be forced to choose on their own.

Laurent could see the internal battle taking place inside Erasmus’s head as soon as he gathered his wits enough to think at all, first struck motionless in the shock of being spoken to by the crown prince so directly. Laurent hoped Erasmus’s mind didn’t scream loud enough to make him unable to hear his silent pleads in the static sitting heavy between them, but it was in vain. Erasmus was deaf to anything other than the conflicting orders given him to Adrastus and by Damianos-Exalted himself.

Unfortunately for Laurent, in the end, Erasmus chose the precedence of rank, rather than the chronology.

“Of course, Exalted.”

The slave boy bent in half, both of his hands demurely laced against his middle. In this position he stayed, walking backward, until he reached the doorway – and only then turned, heeding Damianos’s wishes and leaving them alone.

The letter knife was cold and heavy against Laurent’s thigh. Would he dare do it, this time? With no honor, just the cowardice of the spoiled princeling?

Auguste wouldn’t do it like this. Auguste wouldn’t want to be avenged like this.

But Damianos’s blood spilling right over the Akielon throne would be so allegorical…

“Could we take a walk, perhaps?”

His gallantness was almost ridiculous, and Laurent half expected the prince-killer to offer him an arm to link as if he was a character straight out of a romantic novel, a prince who fell in love with someone much below their station. Imagining such a scenario, Laurent almost scoffed – he had learned it rather empirically that in Damianos’s case, things were only rising, rather than falling, and things much less romantic. Quite vulgar, actually. And big. Everywhere in proportion.

He knew a handful of oleander flowers, so many blooms surrounding him at the very moment at the heart of royal gardens, would be enough to kill a grown man. But, he might have underestimated how much would be required for a giant animal. Way more than that, probably; but, thankfully, there was plenty to gather, if he so chose.

Do you know you’re surrounded by poison? Laurent thought to himself, looking at the white petals everywhere around them. Recalling Kastor. Recalling Jokaste.

It would be a beautiful place for a tryst, all things considered, with the sunset painting the clouds in pastel shades, soft light dispersed by thousands of flowers around them like in a prism. He thought the slave gardens beautiful, but they didn’t hold a candle to the ones meant for the royal’s downtime. The climate was favorable to the flora, allowing it to bloom like nowhere else – not even in Arles, he would be forced to admit. 

“How do you find the gardens?” Damianos broke the silence, his voice halting and uncertain. His back was hunched, just in the slightest – and it wasn’t because he would have to crouch a bit to be at the same level as Laurent. Nonetheless, Laurent refused to look anywhere else but straight ahead, not letting the limitations of his physique force him to look up at the prince-killer. The only way he would be looking at him would be down. Preferably at his corpse. Or at the very least, in ridicule.

“Adequate,” Laurent replied simply, his national sense of pride and personal disdain not allowing him to admit out loud the artistry of the gardens they promenaded, much less gush about the many plants he had never seen before in his life and was very curious about. Perhaps he could approach some gardeners later; if that was appropriate for a slave, after all, and wouldn’t cause too many problems to Erasmus later.

However much he tried to conceal the slight spark of excitement in him, Damianos must have seen it and decided to capitalize on it immediately. “If you wanted, I could show you around the palace. I think you might like—”

“Erasmus already gave me the tour, thank you,” Laurent instantly interrupted. “There’s no need to trouble your esteemed brawny self, Exalted.”

He was laying it on quite thick, this was true; however, Damianos’s head was thick as well, so it was only right. Nonetheless, the irony of his snarky response couldn’t have gone unnoticed, and if Damianos was a harsher, more irascible sort of man – like Laurent himself was – he could have provoked the prince-killer to anger and have his opportunity for a confrontation much sooner than he was ready. However, the only thing Damianos seemed to get from the remark was, “Brawny? How well-built do I appear to you, exactly?”

Oh, how Laurent wished he could wipe that self-satisfied smirk off his face. But he couldn’t, not really – so in answer, he only raised his brows very tellingly and moved forward a few steps, suddenly very interested in some exotic plants. Damianos snickered, his ego swelled from the unintended compliment, which was nothing more than a statement of fact, and he must have known that well. Ios might not have the abundance of mirrors Arles has, nor the splendid quality of them, but he rather hoped Damianos bathed at least from time to time.

“I’m sure Erasmus was a great guide, but nothing beats a local, and I might have been born in this palace. What a surprise, right?” Laurent was making better jokes when he was less than two years old. “Seeing how new you are here, there must be a lot of places you haven’t seen yet. Many Erasmus wouldn’t be able to take you to. Did anything interest you, when you walked these halls already?”

He was so eager to please. If Damianos was a literal dog, he would be wagging his tail at him, and Laurent did not understand that in the slightest. He always was a cat person, and a panther at heart – swishing a tail for him was a sign of readiness to attack.

Theatrically, he began to ponder for a bit, humming, and with each millisecond he was doing that, Damianos’s excitement seemed to be reaching new highs. Why on Earth would he be so eager to lower himself to be a tour guide for a mere slave? Was he so thirsty for the new, unattainable blond, that he would be playing at a Romeo? How ridiculous. And ineffective.

The palace was too big for Erasmus to show him the entirety of it in one afternoon, but Laurent didn’t need to be playing tourist more than that. Not to mention, being the prince killer’s slaves, there weren’t many places they wouldn’t be allowed to go.

He could only think of one, and he was fairly certain even a numbskull like Damianos would get the gist that Laurent wasn’t keen to stroll around with him.

“The Queen’s Quarters, then.” 

Damianos’s jaw went slack, and with wide-open eyes, he stared at Laurent for a while, before turning away so he couldn’t see his expression anymore. The puppy’s ears flopped, and the irksome barking had ceased. In the abrupt silence, only the chirping of birds could be heard, and it was a welcome change from the incessant yapping of the prince-killer.

It soon stopped to be the comfortable kind of quietude, though. He obviously wasn’t close enough with Damianos for it to have any chance of being one. It grew more than unbearable, fast. Gods – the fateful dinner during which Auguste told Mother and His Majesty he had a preference solely for women and would not keep male pets was less awkward than that.

Laurent hoped to Heavens he would just get reprimanded on his insolence and be sent on his merry way, and not have to suffer a second more in Damianos’s company. But clearly, the Fates didn’t want him to be so lucky, because the prince killer turned around, a dumb smile back on his face as if it never left.

“Did you like the loukoumades?”

Have to give it to him, Damianos was a master of changing the topic. Not that it was in any way subtle, but it certainly worked.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Damianos’s brow raised slightly at the first-person pronoun but didn’t react any further. He hummed instead, pondering. “Really? I did ask the servants to leave some for you in the morning. That, and some selections of meats and cheeses I thought you might like. I never had an opportunity to taste Veretian specialties, but those sounded like the closest Akielon equivalent to what you might know from home.”

Laurent could still feel the taste of the sweet, honeyed dough on his lips, the delightful indulgence of it. It was in no way an equivalent to beignets in nothing but the overall semblance, but it was divine in its own right.

They would be even better if Laurent didn’t have to worry about them being poisoned, but then again, wasn’t that something he knew from home, too? The danger was always there, and could come from any side; and Laurent never had a taster, finding it too immoral, no matter the risk.

The location change didn’t affect this issue much, and indeed being an established gastronome, the taste of Veretian confectionery was something he would miss most. The land might hate him, but he loved it nonetheless, and the culture in which he grew up, food so important to it.

Damianos couldn’t know that about him, but he must have made enough of an effort to not only learn the language, but the lifestyle of Vere as well, at least to some extent. Laurent couldn’t imagine a study this in-depth being done solely out of hatred; animosity didn’t push anyone to read about fluffy, powdered treats, and the cheese industry, and ways to serve them properly. To be fair, Damianos had no reason before today to look into it at all; a peace treaty and re-establishing trade were a long way from royal visits between courts. He would have time to learn if he even found that necessary at all. Not everyone would.

For now, Damianos must have done that for him. Whatever the reason was, even if it was the egoistic want to impress him and to get into his pants without a knife pressed to his throat, it was still awfully considerate.

Laurent hated that.

“They were adequate.”

Damianos chuckled at the clipped response, genuinely amused. “I think I have just found your favorite word. Strange, you seemed to have a much wider vocabulary back in the throne room, the day before. More fiery, at the very least.”

Laurent’s expression pinched, recalling the god-awful comebacks, the trembling racking his entire body, the fear, the confusion. “The day before, I was drugged out of my wits.”

Damianos’s expression fell, but the brief flashes of shame were intermingled with those of confusion. Give it to a prince of a human trade nation to not be able to fully comprehend why perhaps Laurent wasn’t exactly keen to be administered narcotics to render him insensible. He shouldn’t be surprised – seeing how the Akielon prince must perceive a slave as less than human, it was probably the same sort of feeling Laurent would experience if anyone questioned whether the palace animal medic should withhold calming medicines from anxious horses, simply because they numb their senses.

Perhaps Laurent should have thought about it before. He loved his horses, after all. They were friends to him, closer than any person. Worth more than any slave would ever be to Damianos of Akielos.

Whatever impression of thoughtfulness he got from the prince killer, it was gone with the wind, like a bubble burst. Laurent wasn’t sure why it made him feel so disappointed.

Damianos wanted to say something in response, probably a bunch of excuses, so Laurent cut him off before he could. "I don't know what gave you an idea I want to spend time in your presence,” he snapped, head held high, “so you might very well tell me what you want, and we can get going."

The tone of his voice was at odds with his smaller frame, and the haughty way he straightened himself into a contrast from the gauzy clothes and the collar around his neck. Laurent was a slave, but he would also always be a prince, born and raised. He would not take disrespect. He would let his displeasure known before being forced to continue to take it.

He spoke like a prince when his status was taken away from him. The very ability to take on an authoritative tone.

"It may be a bit complicated, with you being a member of my household,” Damianos pointed out, his words calm and leveled. “Tiny detail, I know. Easy to overlook."

Even Damianos’s patience for the pantomime of chivalry had its bounds. Here it was – a master irked when his possession wasn’t “fiery” only when he wanted it to be, and within the bounds of propriety he had set. 

Laurent wondered what would happen, now. Would Damianos have a velvet whip, too, or perhaps it was down to the sword for the offense of a crown prince of this barbaric nation?

The brute was a wild card Laurent would take a long time to figure out, he knew the moment Damianos didn’t do either of those things. He simply ran his hand down his face, sighing heavily, gathering his wits. After that, he didn’t seem to be thrown aback in the least; if anything, he seemed curious.

"You really aren't a slave, are you."

I’m not, he wanted to say, for God knows which time since he arrived in Akielos. I’m not, he wanted to yell at the top of his lungs until someone in Vere would hear, just one supporter who hasn’t yet betrayed him. I’m not, he wanted to scream until it became the reality once more.

Instinctively, Laurent reached up to touch his collar. It was bothering him less than at the beginning, now the press of it to his skin not much different than the one of his tightly laced high collars in Arles. They were choking him, too.

"I suppose that as of yesterday, I am."

Damianos was clearly shocked to hear Laurent admit it. He stared at him for a moment, thinking, before inferring, "You must have stepped on someone's toes back in Vere pretty badly, haven't you."

"You have no idea."

Damianos nodded, not saying anything more to that. Laurent watched him curiously. It seemed every cog moving in the Akielon prince’s head was visible from a mile away, and yet, Laurent could not figure the mechanism out. It was too foreign, too different from the workings of his own mind. Different from the minds of Veretian simpletons he had to deal with, either.

Laurent didn’t understand why Damianos reached up to pluck a fruit from the tree, meticulously cleaning it with the edge of his (no doubt, top-grade) chiton. It was a peach – perfectly round and ripe, red and pink all over, soft and fuzzy in Damianos’s calloused hands. If they closed around the fruit just a bit more, he would squeeze it with no effort – but he was gentle, not wanting to bruise it.

“I would cut it up, but my favorite utility knife seems to be missing. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Laurent feigned ignorance, mentally forcing himself to stop the instinct of shuffling in place, to conceal the piece of stolen property better. It was no use, since Damianos clearly knew of his misdemeanor as it was, and surprisingly, did not care for it much more than as a reason for teasing.

Damianos smiled at Laurent’s telling silence and held half of the peach extended towards him, lush and so juicy, dripping all over his hand. It had to be as delicious as it looked, a few bees already expressing their interest, hovering over the impressive form of the prince. To them, he must have been yet another tree trunk. He even had the coloring of one.

Was this how Adam felt in the Garden of Eden, looking into Eve’s doe eyes, and her tempting offering? He had no reason to expect treason, and funnily enough, neither did Laurent. There was no risk of poisoning at all, this time around; or if there was, they would drop dead, fuming at their mouths, together.

It would be quite poetic, in many ways.

“When I was a child, I used to argue with Kastor a lot,” Damianos reminisced, at first nostalgic, and then with his entire face lightening up for the split second in which Laurent took the offered half of the fruit.

He continued. “I always thought I was right, of course, with the confidence of a five-year-old, and then a teenager who frankly, still had the brains of a toddler,” the Akielon prince snickered, the self-awareness noticed and approved by Laurent, who in the meantime bit into the peach. The juice dripped over his lips and chin, the forbidden fruit tasting sweet, indeed – and whatever Damianos’s story was, it paused for a split second. He blinked and gathered his wits only after a moment.

“What I meant to say is, even though he was justified, more often than not, Kastor would cave in, deciding to win the argument wasn’t more important than the relationship between us. He would take me here, and cut fruits for me, not saying another word. He was never good with words, and neither am I.”

Damianos looked at his sandals for a moment, feet itching to shuffle in a place like those of a child caught being naughty. “For what offenses I caused you, I am sorry. You aren’t of Akielos, and I should have been more mindful of it. It was never my intention to cause you discomfort, and I hope you can believe that.”

Laurent blinked. Once, twice. Then he repeated what Damianos said in his mind, still not exactly sure he had heard correctly.

It was an apology, alright. One so empty that Laurent could hear the clanking void encompassing them both, silence breathless and like a black hole, sucking in the chirping of birds, the warm sun, and leaving nothingness in its wake.

Heed the word of his brother’s murderer, the cause of every misery to ever become him, that he never intended to cause him discomfort? 

From that, Laurent knew Damianos certainly wasn’t aware of just who was standing right in front of him, because then even a barbarian would know more than think a few words and sweet treats would not absolve him of his crimes and the sea of hurt he made Laurent go through, intentional or not. It was unthinkable.

Then again, even for the transgressions he caused just in the short time Laurent has been in Akielos, a walk, and a fruit would hardly be enough, either. He was drugged, multiple times, and if he didn’t wake up in time and didn’t react on instinct as he did, he would be raped and would be none the wiser, like all the times before. Not to mention, the takeaway from Damianos’s little parable of brothers, was that he didn’t genuinely find any fault in his behavior, and was simply indulging Laurent in his stubbornness. Insisting that it was only due to him not being acquainted enough with the Akielon culture.

Laurent’s half of the peach was dropped to the ground.

“I take it my apology isn’t accepted.”

This was an understatement. The idea an apology could fix everything the prince-killer had done to Laurent, in his past life as a part of the Veretian royal family and now, as a mere slave originating from Akielos’s northern neighbor, was despicable to him. It was a lot for Damianos to admit to his wrong, even if it was hardly any acknowledgment; not many have had the honor of being apologized to by a crown prince, Laurent was certain, and even fewer slaves. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was the only one. Yet still, it didn’t mean shit to Laurent. Not when he was a crown prince in his own right mere days ago, as far as his consciousness went. Not when all men were created the same, whatever delusions Damianos and his people believed in.

Not when the only way for them to become even would be with blood spilled.

And so, he blew up, like a slave would never do at a prince. Like a commoner never would at a prince. Like only equals would.

“Of course it is. Why do you think it wouldn’t be? A few words and a little bribe of sweet treats and a walk in the garden, so now everything’s fine and dandy. Why do you seem unconvinced? You put in so much effort, after all.”

Damianos didn’t say anything at first, sifting through the layers of irony. His eyes dropped, for once not being able to meet Laurent’s, when the blue flames were burning hot in them. Almost as heated as the angry blush spreading on his cheeks.

When Damianos spoke, it was hesitant and almost meek. “What would you prefer? I thought after so long stuck on a ship and then in the palace, you would be craving some fresh air.”

Laurent always liked the outdoors, but that was beside the point.

“Oh, I would. Preferably if it didn’t involve me being paraded around half-naked, so every barbarian in the nearest vicinity could look lecherously at every step I took. Or alternatively, with contempt. Or actually, make it both at the same time.” Laurent spewed out, although to be completely fair, this part wasn’t new. Only the physical nakedness was. “You claim to care about my well-being, but it doesn’t reach deeper than perhaps asking your chef to read up a bit about Veretian confectionery.”

“It wasn’t the palace chef,” Damianos chimed in lamely. “I—”

“Culinary indulgences are the least of my concerns when I can hardly feel comfortable in my own skin."

“Nakedness isn’t something to be ashamed of in Akielos," he stressed as if that changed anything. "It shouldn’t be in Vere, either. You are so beautiful, there’s—”

“I would rather have a choice in who gets to see it, and it most definitely would not be you, or any of your people. Also, haven’t you said yourself that I am not of Akielos? You may be a prince, but you don’t get to pick and choose in what aspects I am allowed to be a foreigner, and in which I am not. Conveniently, those details that serve you best. Admit it – you just enjoy seeing me barely dressed, don’t you?”

“I–” Damianos blushed, closing his mouth, as if he was deciding whether telling the truth would be the best course of action in these circumstances. It wasn’t – but clearly, he couldn’t be dishonest, even if the situation was calling for it. Even if anything else would hardly be appropriate. “You are— very—”

“Attractive. And most importantly, very blond, I know,” Damianos clearly wanted to get a word in, but Laurent wouldn't let him. “You would only be willing to do the simplest things, and you would genuinely think they would be enough to absolve you of the worst offenses. There are things that would not be enough, but at the very least be a bit more fitting. Clothing that wouldn’t be this humiliating. Some semblance of humanity. But it would go against the Akielon tradition, wouldn’t it? None can do.”

Laurent whipped around, the silk chiton swishing with the action. He turned his back to Damianos, who was so very obviously out of his depths, and so very confused by the confrontation. Well then, they were caught in the same storm. Disorientation was Laurent’s constant companion those days, there at the back of his mind and weighing heavy like lead on his stomach, the moment he was dragged into Akielos. No amount of tour guiding from sweet Erasmus or even from the crown prince himself could change that.

“Your benevolent gestures were more about soothing your conscience than anything else. My homesickness is only a concern to a master as far as it affects my ability to perform to satisfaction. Very explicit satisfaction, it should be stressed.”

“Laurent–”

A calloused hand hovered over his shoulder, heating the few inches of air between them. It never managed to land, slapped out of the way with all of Laurent’s might. It surprised Damianos – enough to cause him to retreat a step, and clutch the offending hand in his other one.

“Do not touch me. Do not even think of touching me."

The twitch in the prince-killer’s face went almost unnoticed, his imposing body held back, not moving an inch. His expression was serious, and his tone grave.

"I wouldn't touch you without your consent."

Laurent wanted to laugh in his face, laugh until he would have no air in his lungs left, laugh until the golden collar would choke him to death until the fog of the narcotics would muddle his brain again, until he wouldn’t be able to take a step without feeling like he would vomit any second.

"No, but you wouldn't need it to be express,” there was nothing beautiful about his smile now, Laurent was certain. “Drugs don't hinder the ability to give it, after all. At least not in Akielos."

The prince-killer stiffened. “I wasn't aware you weren't cognisant,” he swore vehemently. “Pleasure slaves take chalis out of their own volition, especially before their First Night, to make the experience more pleasant. I thought pets in Vere did that, too—”

You would make such a cute little pet. So willing. Oh, you are so pretty when you cry. Turn around, now, bébé.

Laurent's expression turned stony.

“What gave you the idea that I’m a pet?”

Damianos’s ears turned a deep shade of red, and he rubbed at the base of his neck. He looked everywhere but at Laurent, as if in the white blooms of oleander he could find his answer, his reasoning. He needn’t look that far – it was obvious. No one would expect anyone but a Veretian pet to be in any way suitable to be an Akielon slave. Certainly not someone with no experience.

But it wasn’t true for Laurent, was it? He used to be someone’s bitch, a long time ago. No amount of laces, no fancy poise or a cold-hearted reputation could ever change that. Nothing could bring back his innocence if he ever had any. Such disgusting urges must have been hiding within him forever and only found their outlet. Now, it was not only the ugliness inside, but also the physical state of him fitting who he was underneath all the royal garb.

Perhaps this was what his uncle wanted to remind him of.

Didn’t mean the sentiment would make him any less enraged. “It may come as a surprise, but not every single pretty face in Vere belongs to a pet. Shocking, I know. I am touched that you hold my country in regard high enough to not consider the possibility the sort of looks I have could be wasted on someone who’s not a boy of leisure.”

Laurent didn’t turn around this time. He didn’t back down. He walked back to Damianos, circling him as if he were a predator backing its prey in the corner. And in that moment, it was exactly how it looked – none of the prince-killer’s imposing presence left in him, as his shoulders slouched in shame and embarrassment. He didn’t fight back – and it was better that he didn’t because while he might have a physical advantage when it came to verbal squabbles, Laurent would always emerge victorious. 

“But it’s yet another thing that you assumed to your advantage, wasn’t it? Being a pet would make things better in an Akielon’s mind, that did not understand the workings of Veretian culture. I keep bewildering you, but unlike your slaves, pets in Vere have free wills. Without their explicit consent, they won’t be touched.”

Laurent tries not to think of his uncle's rings, the consent in them at the most very dubious. He tries not to think of the prostitutes getting younger and younger, of his uncle's pets, groomed until they lost any free will of their own and have it replaced by his uncle's.

It was still nothing like what they did in Akielos, Laurent repeated to himself, like a mantra. They were pets, but still not like the little companion animals humans were turned into in Akielos.

Damianos waited patiently, deeming it better to let Laurent speak his mind rather than try and argue with him. When nothing else was coming, other than hateful stares, he sighed and relaxed his muscles. His voice was soft and forbearing when he spoke.

“In Akielon culture,” Damianos started, carefully, “like in Vere, there is a sort of agreement between a master and a slave. For their perfect obedience, slaves are given a life of luxury and safety, permanently, without having to worry about their age becoming a hindrance or their contract ending. It’s a lifelong commitment for both sides. We never… it’s a dishonor to hurt a slave when they did nothing but put all of their trust in their masters.”

Luxury and safety, but only confined to the palace walls. Security, but at the price of a complete lack of privacy and constant supervision. Cushy surroundings, though sacrificing personal comfort for constant vulnerability.

“A golden cage is still a cage,” Laurent responded, putting it succinctly, before advising, “and you are only digging yourself in deeper. Quit while you’re still ahead.”

Damianos didn’t say another word, knowing he was hardly ahead, even with the advantage of home field. He didn’t call after Laurent again, he wasn’t staring a hole into his back as he was leaving. There was only regret and pangs of conscience, remote like the crying of seagulls in the distance.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The crisp air of the evening was cooling down the heat boiling Laurent’s blood after his confrontation with Damianos. With each step he took, the songs of birds and screams of the seagulls were becoming quieter and more fragmented. They left the stage for the cicadas, their chirping tranquil and lulling. He could breathe easier, now – no one in the gardens but him, the peace something he hadn’t experienced for days. He reveled in the quietude and wished it didn’t end, but it was only so long he could slip past unnoticed. He had dallied long enough with Damianos as it was.

The closer he got to the slave quarters, the more silence was giving way to the murmur of the slaves loitering around. It was very alike what he knew in Arles – with days filled to the brim with work, evenings were the only time when people could truly indulge in the sense of community, conversing and entertaining each other before retiring for the night. He grinned; if there was one thing uniting people across divides, was the love for revenge procrastination.

But the moment he opened the doors, the smile was wiped off his face.

Erasmus.

Chapter Text

Laurent’s heart was beating out of his chest, and he was transfixed in place, watching the scene. He couldn’t move – it was as if the weight of his guilt was crushing him into place,  along with the recollection of how Damianos approached them, how he requested Erasmus to leave them alone. There was nothing Laurent wanted less than that, but he was only the cause, not the actor. He wasn’t the one being asked.

Erasmus made his choice.

There was no platform, and yet the way Adrastus stood above Erasmus, who knelt on the cold floor with eyes red and face blotchy, reminded him of the scenes of executions he had seen in Vere. There was no headsman in a black hood, and the crowd was eerily silent – all eyes focused not on an axe, but on the whip resting in the Master’s hands.

It wasn’t velvet.

"Damianos-Exalted just told me the most interesting thing."

As the heir to the throne, Laurent had witnessed more corporal punishments being carried out than he could ever wish for, plenty of them being capital. As a child, he often flinched and squeezed his eyes shut when the criminals shouted out in pain. He used to clutch his uncle’s robes with a pleading gaze when they begged for mercy. They are criminals, he would always explain, they deserve it, he would say.

Perhaps some of them did; but doesn’t violence breed violence? Did they have to sully themselves with such brutality, paying lip service to justice? What if their judgments were wrong, and those butchered on the block were innocent?

He never understood the exuberance of the masses as the executioner made his appearance, wooden planks creaking under his weight as he walked upon the scaffold. Along with the escalation of the crowd’s cheers, this would be the only warning the convicted would be given before the sentence would be announced and carried out. If the offender was lucky, then it would be a split second – before they would know it, their head would be rolling down the platform, blood spurting from the carcass to which it was attached just a moment ago. It would then be grabbed by the hair and lifted, so even those with last-row seats to the show would get to see the goriest part of the display as well.

If they weren’t as fortunate, or if the crowd was hungry for violence, it wouldn’t be as swift. Severing someone’s head off their body cleanly was an art, as macabre as it sounds, and not every headsman was able to accomplish that. More often than not, the state didn’t bother itself with paying the funds for the masters of the trade, opting for more budget-friendly botchers. As a result, it could take more than one blow to deliver the sweet release of death. Two. Three. Only the fantasy of the cruel lords and the incompetence of the executioners were the limit.

“Can you imagine my surprise when Damianos-Exalted had put himself out and made his way down here to seek out his humble servant to inquire about the slaves in his care,” Adrastus’s voice was calm, articulated, and he looked straight down with a smirk more terrifying than if he was seething and shouting. 

In Erasmus, Laurent could see Nicaise at his lowest moments, could see himself, before the painful realization that no amount of tears would satisfy those who lived to abuse; no amount of screaming would satiate the unquenchable thrill of seeking power over those who had none. He could see the carefully cultivated beginnings of free will building in the boy beginning to fray and break, in the face of the hurt that was done in response to the shyest sparks of it.

Laurent hated every second of that, and once again, he was powerless.

“He was concerned about all sorts of nonsense, so ridiculous I dare not reply it to you,” he continued, “I have reassured him it was all absurd, of course. He was so relieved; apparently, he had talked with a Veretian slave, who highlighted some supposed problems that we have. I cannot help but wonder, was it perhaps the Veretian whom you were to ensure he doesn’t spend with Damianos-Exalted a single minute alone?”

Actions have consequences, and even the greatest come with the risk of push-backs, each one a lesson in the medley of paths picked that constituted – life. This is what it does each time a child makes a mess whilst creating their art, not a single care for their parents’ incoming wrath. Each time a teenager chooses to smash someone’s face in, rather than come to a mutual understanding, or at least a reluctant truce. Each time a man goes to war and dies for the glory of their nation, deaf to the cries of his loved ones, begging him to stay, no matter what comes next. Because that has its own set of repercussions as well.

Slaves weren't prepared for it. They were leading an existence in which all choices were made for them, and they had neither the joys nor the pains of choosing. Suddenly forcing them to decide on their own was like throwing a child into a lake, hoping they would learn to swim.

This is what Damianos did, asking Erasmus to leave them alone.

Those were the consequences of Laurent’s actions, too. Standing there, knowing he was the cause of Erasmus's fear, the boy's tears, he would much rather be tied to a rock and have his liver eaten by an eagle, bit by bit than watch him suffer. 

They both threw him into the ocean, and it didn’t occur to them he might drown.

Erasmus’s tears were already pouring an entire salty sea into the slave quarters, carving cracks into the marble, wetting it. Laurent couldn’t see his face – it was pressed to the floor, both of his arms extended far above it. A posture of obedience, one Erasmus was so adept at – but this time around, it wasn’t perfect. Not with his body trembling, and the faint noise of crying, muffled as it was, coming from him.

“A Veretian pet he was not meant to meet without an escort for the foreseeable future,” Adrastus further clarified, as if there were many Veretians currently roaming the halls of the Ios palace. “A little blond know-it-all refusing to see the beauty in the art of obedience but questioning everything we have built throughout millennia. The care we provide to all of you soft, docile souls.”

Laurent indeed refused to see the beauty in the art of obedience. In fact, he refused to see anything of beauty in many things that the men of more sophisticated tastes, like his uncle and Adrastus, found enjoyment in. His simple preferences were many a time the subject of the Regent’s patronizing glances, but Laurent could hardly find anything wrong in not finding pets raping each other in the arena in any way compelling. Abused boys neither amused nor aroused him; and if not seeing any beauty in ‘obedience’, impersonated in Erasmus’s small and sniveling figure, was a mark of a simpleton – Laurent would wear the label proudly.

Simple didn’t mean clueless, and the revelation some thoughts were happening behind Damianos’s brown, puppy-like eyes was something he didn’t expect. In other circumstances, he might have approved of the prince listening to his subjects, no matter their station. But with how it left Erasmus vulnerable and defenseless, Laurent couldn’t find it in himself to be appreciating.

He didn’t know how he himself would look into the mirror that night, either.

A sharp crack of the whip cut through the air, and Laurent knew it would be a sound he wouldn’t forget. It was a warning, but all breath had been sucked out of the room as all of the slaves gathered yelped in unison, stepping back instinctively.

All, but one.

“He needlessly worried Damianos-Exalted and put all the work we have put into perfecting you in jeopardy. This was exactly why you were not to let the Veretian out of your sight. It was a simple order. A simple request. And yet, still too much, wasn’t it?”

When the crowd stepped back, afraid of Adrastus’s anger ricocheting, Kallias took a step forward, his body drawn to Erasmus more than a rational mind would ever be capable of keeping him back. He was tense like a string, an internal battle tearing him apart; the need to protect, but knowing that by stepping in, he would only make the situation worse.

He was getting so close that Erasmus could probably see the outline of him from the corner of his eye, if he only lifted his head, just the tiniest bit. Would it reassure him, to know he had someone on his side, willing to fight for him? Or would it cause him to give in to resignation?

Erasmus didn’t twitch.

“This one is sorry, Master Adrastus. This one thought–”

The lash cracked against the floor right next to Erasmus’s figure, the markings in the marble like lighting branching out of the point of impact. The slave boy quivered but didn’t move an inch.

“Since when are royal slaves supposed to think?” Adrastus’s voice had raised an octave, turning squealing like that of a dying rat. “You were such a promising youth, Erasmus, and yet. Is the care you are getting not enough?”

Erasmus whipped his head up, his eyes wide and bewildered by the very suggestion. As if he wasn’t just kneeling on the floor. As if he wasn’t trembling in fear, as if he wasn’t afraid of being lashed for the offense of acting on his prince’s orders.

“Damianos-Exalted–”

If not for the perfect training in posture, the whip would cut more than a few hairs off of Erasmus’s blond head. Kallias leapt closer. Laurent did, too.

“May I remind you that you are not in his active service yet, and answer to your Master of Slaves, first and foremost. This is the way.”

Adrenaline pumping through both their veins, the slightest of movements from the doorway was enough to alarm Kallias of Laurent’s presence. Their eyes met – and the slave’s frightened bewilderment gave way to stupor, only to then turn into a bitter grimace of disgust. The glaze upon his irises dissipated, leaving only cold hardness in its wake, closed in on Laurent. 

"Disgrace. You have brought disgrace upon us all,” Adrastus hurled, the words piercing like an array of arrows shot by an archer who knew that if he fired aplenty, then at least some of them would land. To see the impact, he straightened his back, gaze sweeping around the room. A victorious smirk spread on his thin, snarling lips – he had the slaves’ attention and their fear. They were all looking at Erasmus. They were all looking at him.

Kallias wasn’t. Kallias was glaring somewhere else entirely.

"Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence."

Even the word of a herald, completed with a trumpet fanfare and enumeration of all the various titles that Laurent himself could barely remember, didn’t have as much of an effect on the courtiers as Adrastus’s comment, laced with sarcasm, had on the gathered slaves. Last time anyone had spoken to him like this, Laurent was ten and late to an official meeting, because the book he had been reading at night had been just too riveting, causing him to oversleep quite a bit. He remembered crying in Auguste’s quarters much later, inconsolable after proving to be a disappointment in His Majesty’s eyes yet again.

It wasn’t new.

Now, he had only braced himself for the fight incoming.

The moment Adrastus noticed him, the master’s face had reddened and broke out in sweat. The suede whip was chucked forcefully onto the floor, the sound resounding through the sudden quietude of the room. In it, the slaves divided into two groups – those twitching in fear still, and those gasping in surprise upon seeing Laurent walk into the scene. Astonished by not a trace of trepidation marring his patrician features.

He wore his mask well.

Adrastus made his way towards Laurent like a Vaskian war elephant, unceremoniously grabbing him by his gauzy garments and pulling him towards the center, where Erasmus lay and Kallias stood. Normally, it would be quite comedic, with Laurent at least half a head taller than the master of slaves and allowing such for reason no other than pure bafflement and apprehension of the last of his clothes possibly getting torn to shreds. Being left completely naked and vulnerable in front of everyone was the only personal apprehension he had left.

But, as it was, nothing was amusing about the situation. Not when Adrastus was the one in power here, no matter how little he deserved it, and how much of a pathetic worm he was. Not when he had the whip at his disposal, even though at the moment he seemed to have chosen to strangle Laurent with his own hands.

Because currently, they were both full of a Veretian, whom he had yanked down to his level. Holding him like this, he spat right into his ear. "Was the taste of the Akielon royal cock so great you couldn't wait to get another lick,” he asked, leering, “neverminding what would become of our sweet Erasmus here? Hmm? How very Veretian."

Laurent wrenched himself out from Adrastus’s hold, straightening up to look down at the disgusting man. His reputation of a virgin whore seemed to transcend borders and it was something both nations agreed on, even though it was a ridiculously baseless accusation.

Ignoring such comments was something Laurent had been doing since the moment he turned thirteen; he learned to filter them out, and they didn’t bother him much. The warmth that had radiated from him in his childhood was gone, and a barren field left behind where sunflowers used to be. But, he still had compassion. For the weak. For the helpless. For those who still had a chance, that was taken from him forever.

How could Adrastus think Laurent could ever leave Erasmus in the lurch?

How could Adrastus have been right? 

Kallias couldn’t have possibly heard a single word, and yet Laurent knew the same thoughts were going through his head. The disgust distorting his entire face was palatable; it tasted like rotten meat and stale bread, plain and disappointing. If he could, Kallias would have spat on Laurent, and he wouldn’t even blame the slave for it.

Laurent deserved that, and worse.

But there were more important things Kallias needed to do. "Erasmus is young, Master," he interrupted, throwing all of his repute on the scales, hoping they would weigh favorably. His poise was perfect as always, graceful and calm – but behind the mask, he was desperate, panicked; a young boy who shouldn’t ever end up in a situation like this, just like the rest of them. “That one could not see past the adoration towards Damianos-Exalted, and couldn’t realize the wisdom behind the honoured Master’s order. This one is sure the actions were well-meant but simply misguided.”

For a moment, not a word was spoken, Adrastus and Kallias locked in a silent fight of cold stares. The slave was a formidable opponent, twice the man the master was; but the duel wasn’t fair, and they both knew it.

“You seem to be forgetting your place, Kallias,” Adrastus warned, dismissing him with a wave of his hand and returning his attention back to Laurent and Erasmus. Kallias didn’t budge. “Don’t overestimate your worth. There’s no room for slaves who taint themselves with arrogance.”

Going with Damianos, leaving Erasmus to the wolves – none of it was intentional. Laurent could keep telling himself that, and yet it wouldn’t change the reality of things – he had allowed it to happen. He was put under Erasmus’s supervision, but that didn’t take away his free will. Passiveness was the route Laurent had taken, willingly – and a choice in itself. Even when Erasmus heeded Damianos’s orders, Laurent could have fought it. He could have refused to follow the prince-killer, and leave Erasmus blameless; any grievances Damianos could have had would be with him. He would have no reason to hold the poor slave, innocent as a lamb, guilty. Adrastus wouldn’t, either; because ultimately, he would get what he wanted, too.

Erasmus’s fear and humiliation were Laurent’s fault – and he knew what he had to do.

“We were so good to you. So kind. But you have to be reminded of your vow of obedience.”

No whips are needed when one’s hand is wide like a swatter and thick like an oar. Lifted up and then released down, it was an artillery piece, the impact sure to breach the strongest of walls – and those of Erasmus were thin and delicate, made for beauty, not for withstanding abuse.

And yet, the slave boy was the target.

A split second stretched to minutes in the eyes of the four men, dust in the air pausing its leisurely dance, and the sun stopping in its movement. Yelps of the crowd ceased, and the passive public might very well have choked for all they cared, their focus singular. Simple.

To hurt.

To protect.

It was less of a decision and more of an instinct when Laurent jumped in, fast like an arrow crushing into the trajectory of a cannonball. There was no thought spared to his robes loosening and swishing in the air; none to Kallias, launching himself as well, a silent scream on his lips and arms outstretched. Nothing else mattered more than stopping this madness.

Laurent’s hold on Adrastus’s wrist was strong, and bruising. Even through the numerous layers of fat, carefully cultivated by indulging in gluttony every single night, he could feel the master’s bones. For a moment, he wished he possessed the sheer brutal strength of Damianos, to be able to break them, easily like chicken cartilage. Crack, crack, snap.

Not expecting the turn of events, Adrastus tripped, and only Laurent’s clutch held him upright, half-bended awkwardly. It took him a moment to gather his wits, jerking out his hand from the grasp. Only after the third tug did Laurent let him go, looking down blankly at the hunched man. He raised his brow, and his impassive gaze was met with a red face glowering up at him, all while Adrastus massaged the offended wrist.

“I would recommend,” he sneered, “the Veretian lap-dog keeps his little teeth hidden, lest he wants to lose them.”

He was probably going for intimidating. Laurent perhaps would be, if not for the fact just a moment ago, he more than proved he could stand his ground; he was not helpless, not completely, and would be damned if he backed out like a coward now. “Then there are still the claws,” he countered.

Adrastus wasn’t amused. Now, all of his attention was focused on Laurent, standing between him and Erasmus, like a wolf protecting the weaker of his pack. Next to Erasmus, Kallias kneeled, pulling him up and watching the scene unfold with an unreadable expression on his face.

“That one,” Adrastus indicated, pointing his chin at Erasmus, who was still shaking like a leaf, “must repent for the unacceptable behavior, to have any hopes of fulfilling the purpose for which it was raised.”

It. Blood froze in Laurent’s veins, and then boiled. 

“Repent,” he repeated, jeering. Unconsciously, he reached one of his arms back slightly, shielding the slaves from the monster who would refuse to see them as human. “For what, exactly?”

“For the greatest sin, a slave can commit. Disobedience.”

Akielos was a military-oriented society, with loyalty and discipline being held in the highest regard. Laurent was aware of it – it showed in how Damianos presented himself, how the insults towards him and the other Veretians all revolved around their supposed oath-breaking and easy virtue.

In theory, it sounded admirable, something everyone should strive to be – Akielon or not.

In practice, it was shameless duplicity.

Laurent was accused of being two-faced all his life, and he knew why; being of such a delicate nature as a child, his experiences built a penchant for violence deep within his soul, on which he had strong reins, keeping them in order. He abhorred that part of himself, seeing it as foreign, something he was made to be rather than inborn. Still, right now, it was taking all of his strong will not to spit at Adrastus’s feet, and maybe throw in a punch for good measure.

It wouldn’t be enough anyway. Adrastus wouldn’t learn. For violence, he would answer with violence, and nothing would change – or more accurately, nothing would change for the better. Just like he cried to his uncle as a child, Laurent had to remind himself that abuse wasn’t the way. The consequences were too dire and didn’t justify the fleeting satisfaction of seeing Adrastus with his nose broken, eyes bloodshot and lips split. The injuries would heal, and as payback, he could do that to them, if he so wished, and much worse.

But there was something he wouldn’t be able to mitigate, erase, or otherwise keep under wraps.

Humiliation was something no one could take away, no matter how powerful they were. It was the first step to losing the precious, precious positions, held by reputation alone.

Good thing Laurent’s sharp mind was adept at it.

“Then please, Master,” he played his part, and Adrastus tensed, seeing the cant play out, “kindly enlighten this one, because this one cannot see how, when obedience is the virtue, can the order of Damianos-Exalted be overridden by someone other than the king himself?” Laurent’s tone was so very innocent, just a lost little Veretian sheep among the unknown Akielonian fields – but it was laced with irony and scold, rushing like a torrent right underneath the surface. He batted his lashes demurely before dealing the ultimate blow. “Or, is the chain of command in Akielos different, and the master of slaves stands higher than the crown prince?"

Slaves gasped quietly, covering their lips and looking at each other. It was the sort of thought they all just had, deep inside them, but didn’t dare acknowledge; they must have because very well it could not be Erasmus cowering on the ground, but them. They could still find themselves in such a situation, of conflicting orders, and then be punished for following the ones of people who they wouldn’t dare question. Who no Akielon should dare to question.

Adrastus knew it, too. And while Laurent wasn’t intimate with Akielon laws, something told him the punishment for treason would be much harsher than a telling off and perhaps a few lashes with a suede whip.

Nonetheless, the master tried to save himself, not knowing he was only digging himself in deeper and handing Laurent the shovel. “Chain of command—”

“—should be followed. Of course,” Laurent filled before Adrastus could squeeze in as much as a word. “It’s only natural. This one is certain next time Erasmus will be sure to tell Damianos-Exalted his,” he stressed, the urge stronger than he was, “apologies and send the heir to the throne down to the slave quarters to answer to the master of slaves. Damianos-Exalted wouldn’t mind. It is the Akielonian way, after all, is it not? Having to ask for permission from one’s subordinate, by the grace of them being in charge of someone else.” Laurent smirked. “It's the most reasonable course of action, after all. Respecting the chain of command."

“You are just spitting Veretian histrionics,” Adrastus seethed through clenched teeth, the first words he managed to think of in the face of nothing but the truth not one person before dared face him with. “Twisting the facts. Gods have given me the truly Herculean task of rearing and civilizing you. Not only are you so lost to the debauchery and mind games of Vere, but you also go as far as to poison out sweet Erasmus with your shameless, immoral ways.”

Funny how Akielons saw Vere exactly as barbaric as Veretians saw Akielos, if only for different reasons. The South, forcing those darling, delicate boys into a machine of oppression, stripping them of free will; the North, keeping their ability to choose intact, but giving them only an illusion of independence, with all paths laid out before them sure to end in tears and tragedy. Choose your poison, rather than live your life to the fullest. Lesser evil, rather than the good.

Perhaps neither Adrastus nor Laurent was correct in their prejudice.

Perhaps both of them were.

“Perhaps this is what happened and I am nothing more than a dissolute libertine. Or perhaps, the Fates have sent a mirror your way, doing nothing more than reflecting your vices right back at you.” Laurent paused for a moment, pondering whether he should add what he wanted to next. After only a second of deliberation, he did. “To you, only one thing is more despicable than a Veretian, and that's yourself.”

Put a nail in the coffin and threw a handful of soil on it Laurent did, Adrastus’s eyes widening in shock at the sole audacity of the blond whore standing impassively right in front of him. He raised his hand, and Laurent smirked – a blow was coming, he knew, but it was so very worth it. So very satisfying. Almost as much as the one time he miraculously won a verbal match with his uncle, causing the Regent to storm out of the chamber and close the doors shut.

Even what came after didn’t take away from the fondness with which Laurent recalled that little moment of triumph.

A slap from a wench like Adrastus would be nothing in comparison, and he would wear the bruise proudly. Wonder what Damianos would do, seeing him blemished like that – perhaps his letch would fizzle out and he would leave Laurent be for a while.

That would be more than nice.

But this is not what happened. The hand fell not on Laurent, but rather somewhere in the air, pointing at the ropes hanging at the other side of the chamber. Confusion marred Laurent’s face, but the slaves seemed to understand without an order being spoken out loud. Out of the crowd, one of them emerged – a table attendant in training, he believed – and went ahead to fetch the hemp string.

It was then handed to Adrastus, who stretched it in his hand forebodingly, the filaments of the material tearing off the rope and dancing in the air, wafting down to the floor softly. He pointed at Laurent with the slightest raise of his brows, and two other slaves appeared at his side. With a quiet sorry whispered, meant for his ears only, they grabbed Laurent’s arms and raised them. He didn’t get a chance to react – and if he did, he wouldn’t know what to do, anyway.

The victory he could have achieved, he already did – and now he could only go downhill from there. Whatever he would do from this point onwards, he would only make things worse.

Like Kallias.

A battle was won, but the war was far from over – and perhaps he should learn to accept defeat, to have any hopes of prevailing. To have a chance of winning.

He didn’t fight back.

“I have tried so hard to be kind to you,” Adrastus said with a heavy sigh, shaking his head slowly, like a disappointed father. Laurent wanted to puke, the tone of voice much too well-known to him, “but you have pushed me away time and time again, and now have corrupted the darling Erasmus as well. It is with a heavy heart, but repenting is for you to have a chance of fulfilling your purpose. You will kneel in the gardens, with your wrists crossed over your head, from dawn to dusk. That is your punishment.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Laurent had always liked the cold season.

Despite being born in the warmest of spring months, winter was always the time during which he blossomed. He loved the crunch of snow under his boots as he ran around, throwing snowballs in Auguste's face, skating on the frozen lake, and then running back into the palace for a cup of hot cocoa prepared by his governess. The redness cold gave to his cheeks was a pleasant bite, not leaving him sore and irritated for days to come. With his fair coloring, he was more often than not likened to a snow elf.

It was the source of never-ending gushing in his childhood, and in adulthood, comments about how it was so very fitting – a cold-hearted bitch enjoying the season of emptiness, barrenness, and death.

Contrary to the god-forsaken heat of the day, Akielon nights were surprisingly chilly, cold enough to steal all the warmth of the day from the air and soil – but it wasn’t the crisp he knew back from Vere when he was frolicking around in his fluffy ear muffs, thick woolen coats and gloves with little bows at the wrists. The frigidness was piercing, biting his skin covered with nothing more than a gauzy chiton, designed with the heat of the day in mind, rather than the coolness of the night. That, and the olive-tanned skin of the locals – for his fair complexion, prone to sunburn, those damned rags were as good as washcloths in the kitchen, used to wipe the dirty floor from the daily grease.

Nothing was protecting him from the elements.

Goosebumps were breaking out on his skin, and despite his better judgment, he already longed for the comforting warmth of the sun, mellow like the first whiff of a freshly brewed tea in the morning. He closed his eyes, recalling the scent, trying to trick his mind that the whiff of peaches and apricots saturating the air was the aroma of it, a servant with the hot beverage waiting for him just outside his doors. And of course, the cold was nothing more than a breeze from the windows he forgot to close for the night yet again.

He had the wildest imagination, Auguste used to say, and he became the master of pretense as he grew up – but faced with the reality of an Akielon night, even that wasn’t enough. The only warmth was the one of seething distaste brewing inside him, and the anger bubbling just underneath the surface – for ending up like this, yes, but for much more than that, too. Mostly because those circumstances, while a discomfort for him, such a result was the best-case scenario of salvaging the situation. If he failed to step in, kneeling on the gravel for the entire day would be the best of fates that could potentially befall Erasmus; and despite the inborn perk of Akielon complexion, Laurent couldn’t imagine him surviving a punishment even as mild as this unscathed.

Lenient by Adrastus’s standards, of course. It still wasn’t easy; despite the dawn not breaking yet, he was already starting to feel every single muscle in his body, pulled, stretched, as if he was placed on the rack. By the time evening would set, Laurent wasn't certain he would still have feeling left in his limbs, or he would end up a trunk. At the back of his mind, Pascal’s faint voice was listing all of his muscles. Deltoids. Trapezius. Latissimus dorsi? He always got that one wrong, but now he would remember its exact location very well, for the rest of his life.

Golden sunshine ebbed and surged towards him, like a soft wave at a shore, bringing with them a promise of warmth for which he longed. The first rays of the sun were teasing, little licks of heat on his skin freezing for kneeling naked in the cold morning for a while already, comforting like an embrace of a loved one he could barely recall. He smiled to himself, sighing. It was so pleasant, and he could almost feel the mellowness unknotting his muscles, mitigating the strain, if just in the slightest.

The eerie silence of the night was lifting, too, making room for the hubbub of the day. The birds chirped, and to their accompaniment the windows creaked softly as the palace attendants walked around, opening all the shutters and letting the light in. A few of them had noticed Laurent, nodding slowly with subtle tilts of acknowledgment, lips pressed together in quiet empathy, corners of their mouths raised in reassuring smiles.

He knew he would need the encouragement. Not long would pass before the pleasant warmth would become unbearable, growing into the sweltering heat of the Akielon noon.

It was an eternity, and a blink of an eye all the same when the sun moved on the firmament, reaching the peak of its path for the day. The softness was gone – now, the sunshine was relentless, shining without respite that shadows might have given him.

The air was still, waving before his eyes, as if he suddenly found himself in the middle of a desert, with the nearest oasis beyond his reach. The only breeze was the one from the wings of the pigeons, flying above his head in a small contingent. Laurent squeezed his eyes, and noticed only some of them were fleeing towards the dovecote – the majority was headed outside of the palace, the brave little warriors on a mission, the weather favorable or not.

A fleeting thought passed through his mind, that it was just like before Marlas, when Auguste and His Majesty were writing so many letters to their allies that their hands were becoming calloused from holding a pen, rather than swords, and permanently stained with ink. He used to sit there by Auguste’s desk, keeping him company as he worked – and listen to his loud moans of complaint, that he would rather be doing everything but try and write such flowery hogwash. He didn’t have the talent for it, unlike Laurent, who was more like their Uncle.

And so, they would glance at the door, and Laurent, at the ripe age of thirteen, would dictate to the adult crown prince of Vere messages full of words Auguste would need to look up in a dictionary later.

The birds, they were all familiar, and he cataloged the observation in his brain to ponder upon later – because now, while he was fighting a war with his human limitations, the conflicts of the world and the great lords were the least of his concerns. At least for the moment.

Just as he thought, he longed for the darkness of the night soon enough – the light so bright it blinded him white. His neck protesting against the movement, Laurent turned towards a nearby patch of grass with longing. It was so lush, and still sparkling with drops of water the servants have sprinkled on it come morning. Inadvertently, he twitched – and the moment he did, the sand scratched his knees painfully, leaving gashes on his dried-out skin.

Sweat was breaking on his forehead, flowing down his body like a salty river, and he knew the moment of desperation would come in which he wished he could just lick it, any sort of moisture on his tongue welcome when he would turn delirious out of severe dehydration and heatstroke.

And then, miraculously, he was granted the gift of a shade.

"Your hair looks shit."

Laurent never thought he would be so happy to see Kallias’s sour expression. If only his hands weren’t bound, he might be even inclined to hug him.

Alright, maybe he wouldn’t go that far – he had to stay on brand – but at the moment, he loved the slave with the power of a thousand suns; and he would continue to, as long as he stayed there, or even more preferably, moved a few inches to the right. Oh yes, just like this. Perfect.

"It's avant-garde. In Vere, we call it à la façon barbare,” Laurent explained with full seriousness. “It requires a very specific set of circumstances to achieve.”

Kallias folded his arms across his chest. “Oh?”

“Yes. Air saltier than the tongues of the most scorned of court ladies is essential, just as kneeling in the gravel for hours, and all of that before using the scorching sun to set the style in place. Very natural and organic. Takes effort and dedication, yes, but in my opinion, everyone should try it sometime,” he looked Kallias in the eye and smirked. Perhaps a conspiratorial whisper was expected, but the most Laurent could do was to keep his voice level, while he wanted to scream from the rooftops, “especially the masters. Although to be fair, Adrastus doesn’t have enough hair to begin with. He would hardly benefit from it.”

Kallias stared at him, before scrunching one of his eyes in confusion – but when it hit him, that he had not made anything of this up and those words were spoken aloud, out in the open, he snorted. He covered his mouth promptly, probably to not let a loud guffaw resound through the still courtyard. “You aren’t who I thought you would be,” Kallias admitted. He twisted back slightly, reaching for something, and sure enough – in his hands was a hip flask, water plopping and splashing within it with each movement.

Laurent didn’t want to assume, didn’t want to get his hopes up, and yet his eyes turned big like saucers. Kallias smiled and opened the bottle, carefully tilting it, allowing Laurent to take as many sips from it as he wanted.

He gulped down the entirety of it.

But it wasn’t the end. Kallias turned again, polishing something in his chiton, and then held out a ripe, red peach to Laurent’s lips. He kept it steady as he bit into it, at first reveling in the sweetness and then devouring it in a way that would have surely caused him to be slapped at his hands as a child. It was truly a miracle he hadn’t eaten Kallias’s fingers while he was at it; such wouldn’t be his preferred choice of protein, but beggars can’t be choosers.

To Kallias’s credit, he hadn’t even twitched. He understood, and Laurent didn’t want to know why, and how. What he was curious about, though, was why Kallias went from seemingly hating his very presence to putting himself on the spot, going out of his way to help him.

“I thought of tossing it to you and making you catch it with your teeth like a dog, and maybe I should have gone for it. Would be safer for my fingers,” Kallias joked, sitting on the ground right next to Laurent. He didn’t seem in any way concerned about potentially being seen with a disgraced Veretian, and curiously, when Laurent looked around, there weren’t even any guards around.

Just how much of an éminence grise Kallias was?

Laurent cut to the chase, ignoring the biting little joke. His brain was much too overheated by the sun to play the mind games, however much he enjoyed those and was thankful to Kallias for saving him from dehydration. “Who did you think I would be?”

The feigned nonchalance of Kallias’s posture was gone as Laurent wanted back to business. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his bent knees, staring Laurent in the eye as he answered the question perhaps a bit too candidly.

“A two-faced snake who would first cozy up to Erasmus, fawn over him until he would tell you whatever scraps of information he could to aid you in your mission, and ultimately throw him to the wolves. Perhaps let Adrastus lace into him to save your ass for a little while longer when it came down to it. Don’t look at me like that,” Kallias raised his brow. “You’re Veretian, need I remind you. What else should I expect?”

At least a semblance of human reactions, Laurent wanted to say, but there was no need to retaliate when the way his citizenship was spoken was like an insult but lacked the anticipated bite.

"Not all Veretians are snakes deprived of all morals,” he stated instead, even though it wasn’t needed. Kallias knew, and it made a bile rise in his throat the same way the few moments Laurent was inclined to think maybe some parts of the prince-killer were not inherently evil and rotten.

"I'm starting to see that,” Kallias nodded, extending a metaphorical olive branch. “And neither are all Akielons barbarians."

Laurent was becoming aware of the fact, too – but a few days after years of seething hatred were not enough for him to admit it, not out loud. Not when the majority of the time since being thrown into Akielos, he’s been miserable – abused, drugged, treated like an item rather than a person.

Even when the boy in front of him, as Akielon as it got, had shown him kindness. Even though he could see the genuineness within him.

"Unfortunately I cannot return the favor and agree with this statement,” he said instead, and Kallias didn’t seem to take offense. For added effect, Laurent swayed his wrists back and forth. “You see, my hands are tied."

Kallias chortled, sharing the inclination for dark humor. A corner of his lips lifted, and he reclined back, again. "You aren't an agent of the regency," Kallias stated, not an ounce of doubt in his voice, "so what are you doing here?"

Great question. Laurent hoped he would get an answer to that by talking with him, but clearly, it was futile. Here was to hoping a conversation with Jokaste would be more fruitful. That is, if he managed to get to her before turning into a piece of Veretian-flavored sun-dried tomato.

“Sunbathing,” he evaded, trying to stretch himself. The only thing it did was setting his muscles even more on fire. “Enjoying the famous Akielon hospitality. Stealing secret military intel from this lovely frying pan of a spot.”

Kallias rolled his eyes. “Please, don’t bother. Seems like you got it wrong – I know you aren’t an agent. Honestly, you’d make a shit one, with a biting tongue like yours. So, spill. Who are you? Because you certainly aren’t a slave, or anyone used to subordination.”

It was vexing, how observant Kallias was – and even more annoying to be the one going around blindly, groping around the shapes and trying to make anything out of them. Finding the puzzle pieces and trying to force them together, to have even a chance of seeing the bigger picture, when Kallias had been there when it was being painted. Unseen, but watching everything.

“You don’t talk like a slave either, and yet you are one.”

Kallias truly didn’t sound like one. Not with his manner of speech, one Laurent would expect of someone high-born and learned through osmosis when constantly being surrounded by aristocracy. He didn’t skip the first-person pronouns, like Erasmus and the other slaves tended to do. His tone had none of the submissiveness Laurent had come to expect.

He had his free will still, unscathed, masked perfectly when it was needed. He knew how to play the game in Ios just as Laurent knew how to do it in Arles, and perhaps, some humility was to be learnt from him.

“In body, yes,” Kallias confirmed, “and in bearing when required. That is the difference between us. I was born into this world, so I know when to swallow the pill, and among whom I can speak freely.”

Perhaps Laurent should be honored, but in truth, he found an odd one out, obvious and striking like a streak of bright paint in a pristinely white chamber.

“For someone who perceives themselves as so smart, you are quick to trust someone you seemed to hate just yesterday. What changed?”

“Erasmus,” Kallias said simply, and no further explanation was required. “And don’t be overconfident, I don’t trust you. I just don’t find enjoyment in kicking a tortured kitten, and… there are merits to you.”

Just how starved for acknowledgment was Laurent to feel a pleasant sense of pride within himself at that reluctant admission? It was positively pathetic, and yet, he could only gape at Kallias for a moment, disbelieving. Because if anything, from where Laurent stood, there was little for the slave to appreciate in him. A lot for contempt, though.

Seeing Laurent speechless, Kallias continued, although it was clear each word was passing through his throat with some difficulty. “You helped Erasmus. You stood up for him.”

“Just after I stood him up,” Laurent muttered, the play of words bitter. “If not for me, he wouldn’t have ended up in that situation to begin with. You cannot say you don’t think this, too; you’d be lying.”

Kallias looked up, watching the birds flow by, his expression contemplating. The sun was making his olive skin almost glitter with gold, and Laurent understood why he was widely perceived as the gem among the palace slaves. But here, like that, he also saw Kallias would never truly blossom in captivity. Maybe he was born inside the cage – but his heart belonged to the wilderness.

There was a twinkle in his eye as he turned to Laurent, reasonable, factual. “I did think so, but it wasn’t fair of me. It was less your misstep and more of Damianos’s shortsightedness. Erasmus was put in an impossible situation. By obeying the order of the master of slaves, he would go against the wishes of a future monarch, to whom he ultimately belonged. By disobeying them, he would risk punishment by Adrastus, but leave his reputation with the crown prince unscathed. You had much less to do with that than anything before.”

Hearing a slave have the gall to assess the actions of a monarch-in-making was strange, to say the least, but not unwelcome. It was a breath of fresh air to hear someone critique the state of things so openly, so coldly and so accurately; and it did more than anything to reassure Laurent that perhaps, not everything he did was wrong.

Even if it was hard to acknowledge that he wasn’t in the position to even screw things up for anyone. He truly mattered this little.

“Don’t let Damianos hear that.”

“I don’t intend to. But even if the Exalted did, I’m quite certain he wouldn’t punish me for it. He’s a good man. Stuck in his ways, but that’s the vice most of us are guilty of, isn’t it? He simply needs someone to show him things his upbringing made him blind do. Someone on his level,” Kallias sat more comfortably, sizing Laurent up. “So?”

What is delayed is not lost, and so they have come full circle in their conversation yet again. Lying has never been Laurent's strongest suit, his face always showing everything that needed revealing, in case his short temper didn't voice its concerns  audibly enough. Thus, he avoided it like the plague – surviving on omissions and half-truths, if the situation couldn't be escaped. Usually, it worked; except for his uncle, the Veretian court wasn't filled with the brightest of the bunch, exactly.

Kallias wasn't Veretian, and too smart for Laurent's liking.

"A noble," he revealed, much more than a half-truth, but less than the fact. “I was a noble, who did not particularly support the Regency's politics."

"Ah, the wonders of court life,” Kallias summed up, stretching his limbs. Laurent wondered whether it was a flick on his nose, seeing how such simple delights were beyond him at the moment – still, he didn’t give it much mind. “But, there are advantages to your situation."

Laurent raised his brow almost as high as his bound hands. “Such as?"

"You're alive."

Survival was what everything was running up against in his existence in recent years. He was kept behind the walls of Marlas when his brother was being slaughtered for the survival of the royal line. He assumed the duties of the crown prince and appeared before the court, time and time again because this is what was required. He sucked his uncle’s cock, so he wouldn’t be choked, and die a sad child covered in spew on a Vaskian fluffy rug, in the end, the same to other poor souls just like him, dwelling in the numerous brothels of Arles.

Birth differentiated people, but death – it made all equal.

“Such cannot be said about my Prince, from what I heard,” Laurent set the ball rolling, carefully. He kept his voice level, to appear only mildly curious – but Kallias wasn’t stupid to fall for it, even if he didn’t get the full extent of Laurent’s interest in the subject.

"Murdered by his supporters, in his bed, and so close to ascension, too. Barely a year away,” Kallias hummed, feeding Laurent scraps, for which he was thirsty almost as much as he was for water. “A tragedy for Vere, for certain, but a blessing for Akielos."

Fair enough – in a reverse situation, Laurent would have a very similar sentiment. In fact, he could still have it, and soon, if he managed to cheat death for long enough.

And yet, the blessing didn’t seem to fill Kallias with the same sort of joy, or at least the same schadenfreude that it would Laurent. He seemed contemplative – as if there was a caveat in the circumstances.

There was – no Laurent of Vere meant the absolute power of the Regent.

"You didn't sound like a fan of the alternative,” Laurent pointed out, noting how previously, Kallias didn’t seem to find Uncle all the worthy of support, quite the opposite; and yet, now, the politically savvy slave sided with the second option.

"Internal politics of Vere are of no interest to me, other than the repercussions of its leadership for Akielos. The Regent is sharp-witted, and his political sense dangerous," Kallias assessed, "but he's not one for open armed conflict. While your princely namesake, the moment he sat on that golden throne, would declare war.”

There was not a note of hesitance or wavering in his tone. It seemed curious to Laurent, who himself hadn’t thought about matters this far. He didn’t have love for Akielos, that was true – and for years, he had dreamed of nothing more than a chance to do to Damianos of Akielos what he had done to him. Murder his family. Steal his land. Eye for an eye, even though they could never possibly be even.

Now he thought of it, indeed. The first thing he would do would be to declare war on Akielos, consequences be damned. He didn’t have much left to lose, anyway.

“Understandable,” Kallias continued, his mind lost in the pondering of political machinery. “In his shoes, I would probably do the same. He has all the reasons to hate Akielos and wish it the worst, even if by declaring war he would prove to be the greatest hypocrite.”

“Why?” Laurent asked beyond himself. He didn’t care for a slave’s opinion. He didn’t truly want to know why he would think him a hypocrite.

He wanted to know why he would think him a hypocrite.

“War took so much from him, and he would cause the same fate to others, easily like that, with no thought spared. This is why I couldn’t support him, even theoretically. The borders of the rich mean little when it's the people who die for their greed."

The realization that Kallias was right hit him like a cannonball, making him sway in place. His rage was blind and single-tracked – he hadn’t seen anything past it and didn’t care to do so. The wells of empathy, overflowing in the past, dried out in the last six years – and yet, he couldn’t believe he had grown so cruel to let thousands of little boys share the same fate he hated Akielos for. Kill their brothers. Kill their fathers. Leave them vulnerable to monsters to destroy them.

He was a hypocrite. A white savior who didn’t see past his nose. Just as Damianos only did what was convenient – so did Laurent.

Oh, the irony.

“He wouldn’t even gain anything. He would lose.”

Despite everything, Laurent puffed out his chest, his pride hurt. “How can you be so sure?”

“He has no experience to lead a military campaign, and the only high-ranked member of his family left is the Regent, who the last time around gave the most disastrous advice of leaving the walls of Marlas stronghold. Not to mention, his position isn’t yet established, not like the Regent’s. If the young Laurent of Vere is half as smart as they say he is, he would know that, deep down.”

He would; especially since, in reality, there would be no Uncle to advise him anymore. It was enough for him to barely survive the regency; he wouldn’t let himself be stifled by him for the rest of his life.

Perhaps this was why Uncle decided to get rid of him before that would happen.

“And yet, Akielos is preparing for war.”

It was impressive how Kallias didn’t even twitch, his poker face fixed and set in stone. But to stay calm when such a presumption is made was much more suspicious than if the slave panicked, or reacted in any sort of emotional way.

“Is it?” was the rhetorical question, spoken almost like an affirmative sentence.

“The pigeons. They have been going back and forth in swarms, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. You’ve been looking at the sky now and again,” Laurent pointed out, and Kallias tensed up, bristling. A few moments of carelessness, and he was caught in the act. “You may be too young to remember the Akielon-Veretian war, but it was the same on the eve of it.”

“Great observation skills, but do you really believe that?” Kallias stood up, dusting his chiton. He wasn’t looking at Laurent anymore. “You saw the King the other day. The Conqueror isn’t conquering anything, when he can’t even sit straight on the throne. As for Vere, the political landscape there isn’t the most conducive for vanquishing. The ground hasn’t even managed to settle on their prince’s grave.”

And it wouldn’t settle for a while still, Laurent thought to himself. 

“Jokaste had invited the Patran delegation to Ios, to discuss the details of an even closer alliance between our countries,” Kallias added, as if without care. “It’s nothing more than that.”

The Patrans were to visit Vere sometime soon, too; indeed, it was not out of the ordinary for the foreign affairs delegations of countries to travel around, negotiating and treating to the best interest of both nations. There were always invitations exchanged, a formality more than anything else; talking for hours on end was their job, to ensure peace and strengthen alliances.

It was nothing strange – and yet, one very fine detail was off.

“Jokaste invited them?” Laurent repeated after the slave, ascertaining he hadn’t heard wrong. “Not Damianos? Not Kastor?”

Neither the heir to the throne nor even the royal bastard – but the concubine of the illegitimate’s?

Kallias didn’t turn around. “This is what I said, is it not?”

His sandals crunched on the sand, the sound becoming quieter and quieter as Kallias left the deserted part of the garden. Wind swished against the footmarks, leaving the path pristine in its wake as if the slave was never there.

As if there had been no words, except those whispered inside Laurent’s mind.

A mirage.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The noon had come and gone, and just like that, the residents began to peek out from the cooling walls of the palace. Soon enough Laurent began to hear bits and pieces of conversation, even from his desolate spot – it provided for entertainment, one he so desperately needed not to die of boredom. Just a few more hours. Just a few more hours, and he would be free to go.

Or, more accurately, as free as a slave could be.

There was one thing Adrastus was right about – Laurent would now appreciate the little liberties he had much more, and perhaps take a page or two from Kallias’s book. Ios as a slave was nothing like Arles as a prince, and so, he should act accordingly.

He would like to say kneeling there would be a kind of research of how Akielons acted in their spare time, courtiers and slaves both, but unfortunately from his spot, he had to squeeze his eyes to see anything – the more public part of the gardens far away from where he was thrown onto the gravel. And the conversation, it was idle, and not at all different from the chatter at Arles – not much he could learn from.

“Damen, your faith in people and your integrity are some of the qualities I have always admired in you the most.”

The deep voice had come from just behind the wall, the person hidden partially by the greenery of the royal gardens. It was surprising – at this time especially should be desolate. The royals’ schedules were back-to-back that day, which was the exact reason why this spot was chosen for him. There should be no one to interfere with the punishment taking its course.

Adrastus didn’t take into account that business meetings could easily take place en plein air, and there was no need to condemn oneself to a stuffy palace room.

In Ios, it seemed Laurent tended to have more luck than sense. Perhaps he should have more leniency towards the poor Akielons, who had to breathe the addling air since the moment they were born. This phenomenon should be studied, truly.

He still had enough brain cells left to recognize the voice and realize he should probably thank Adrastus because otherwise, he would never be able to overhear such an intimate conversation between the crown prince and the kyros of Delfeur.

Between the leaves, he could see bits and pieces of them – how Nikandros leaned in to place his hand on Damianos’s shoulder, squishing it in reassurance, meant to perhaps balance the pained sourness weighing down on the kyros’s face.

“But beliefs tend to vary,” he continued, “and Kastor had always believed that he deserved the throne. That you took it from him.”

Bingo, Laurent thought. His toxic air hypothesis was checking out more and more; clearly, after six years, the one in Delfeur was still more Veretian than Akielon, protecting Nikandros of definitely-not-there’s brain cells from disintegration. He shouldn’t be rooting for him, but it was nonetheless satisfying to hear someone say that out loud, right to Damianos’s face. He wondered how the prince-killer would react.

It wasn’t what Laurent expected; not entirely.

“I did,” Damianos confirmed, his voice cold, colder than Laurent had ever heard it. In the heat of the day, even so far away, it seemed to reach him and send a shiver down his spine. “The moment I was born, I became the heir apparent, with every responsibility and burden of the role thrown over my shoulders before I could even walk. Kastor had never envied me that. He only ever helped me bear it, showed me how to do it.”

“Helped you bear it, or maybe found a way to clutch to remains of whatever influence he had left through his trusting little brother?”

The retort was swift, biting, and to the point – and something told Laurent it wasn’t the first time they were having this conversation. Not with how irritable Nikandros was right off the bat, and how cold Damianos grew the moment his brother’s name was uttered. 

“He has plenty of influence of his own, and he knows it’s not necessary to ‘clutch’ to anything. There are areas in which he’s in his element more than I could ever hope to be, and I value it.”

“Areas like what? Sword fighting? The student had long surpassed the master, and anyone with eyes could see that. The last time he had won against you, you were an adolescent, and he played dirty.”

Damianos turned a deaf ear to the comment, however from the tense set of his jaw it was clear keeping calm was taking a lot out of him. “It’s only a testament to how great of a teacher he was. He’s a formidable warrior, and also a great negotiator. There’s a reason why he is the one constantly in delegations, treating with the kyroi.”

Nikandros looked like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to laugh, cry, slap Damianos on the head, or perhaps all at once. “Yes, there is a reason,” he deadpanned, “and his supposed skill in diplomacy is hardly that.”

“Why else–”

“You know why else. And aside from that, it’s because you cannot be in two places at the same time. You’re a great man and I am certain you will become a thing of legends, but you are no Hermes,” Nikandros riposted. “The only reason why anyone listens to Kastor at all is because he claims to be forwarding your or Theomedes-Exalted’s words. And perhaps the only time he’s in any way convincing is on the rare instances when he is, indeed, a messenger of yours.”

“He is an envoy of ours every single time."

“Don’t be absurd,” Nikandros chastised, sighing and throwing his arms up, close to pulling out his luscious hair in frustration. “He always wanted everything. Need I remind you, he even took your woman. Because she was with you, and in his jealousy, he wants everything that is yours.”

Ouch, that must have hurt – both back then, and right now, judging by the way Damianos flinched, as if he was just stung by a vicious bee. The court scandal must have been a blow to his ego – his sweetheart, discarding him despite his famed aptitude and peak barbarian appearance, and leaving him for his brother, who was on the brink of developing a receding hairline. 

There was a reason, of that Laurent was sure – and so was Damianos.

“Jokaste isn’t an item to be claimed,” he corrected tensely. “She’s a fire raging, and she won’t be tamed unless she wants to. It was her choice and her alone. Even if he wanted to, Kastor wouldn’t be capable of stealing her away, if she didn’t want to be stolen.”

Laurent had to give it to him – maybe the prince-killer was a backward slave supporter, but at the very least, he wasn’t misogynistic. It probably had plenty to do with Jokaste herself; despite never talking to her in person and seeing her only in passing, he couldn’t imagine her with a man who didn’t acknowledge her capability.

And yet, she was with Kastor. The Guion of Akielos.

Being on the same level as her partner clearly wasn’t a necessity for her.

While Damianos, even after everything, seemed impressed with Jokaste’s assets, Nikandros likely had other adjectives for the woman in mind, judging by his sour expression. Still, he agreed with Damianos’s assessment – in principle.

“She’s a formidable woman,” he began, carefully, “and ambitious. Hungry for power and able to recognize that craving in others from a mile away. She saw that in Kastor, do you remember? Jokaste tried to talk some sense into you too, it was one of the things both of us ever agreed on, and yet—”

"I don't know if it helps the case,” Damianos pointed out, tersely. “May I remind you that she ultimately left me for my brother? He didn't 'take her from me'. It was her own free will."

"And you still aren't over it. We all know,” Nikandros drawled, the very picture of exasperation. “Even Veretians know, sending their own fierce blond bitch over."

Seemed like the Akielons couldn’t go ten minutes without talking about him and his blondness. He should be flattered, he supposed, but he only wanted to roll his eyes and plug his ears, because he knew what was coming now – a smirk or two, hehehe, hohoho, and then a lecherous comment or two sprinkled on top, maybe with a bunch of insults for flavor.

This wasn’t what Damianos did. He didn’t even brag about finding Laurent in his bed, asleep, or spending the entire night with him – though it wouldn’t be exactly the truth, it was close enough to be bent, to uphold the prince-killer’s reputation of a passionate mountain of a dick. No – Damianos only… blushed. And fumbled?

"That one- he's hardly that."

If Nikandros was frustrated before, now, he probably wanted to launch himself to the moon, just to be out of this situation.

"Oh all gods help me, Damen, you are my brother, but you are the stupidest specimen to ever walk Akielos when it comes to beautiful faces,” he ran a hand down his face in vexation. “Really? Weren't we pestered with reading the stories of Trojan wars enough?"

"He's not a horse,” Damianos protested, and after a split second of deliberation, added, “although he does kick like one."

Laurent snorted and instantly covered his mouth. For a second, he dreaded being discovered – but both men were too engrossed in their bickering to realize the wolf was right at their door.

"Kicks like one- alright, I don't want to know. You wouldn't listen anyway,” Nikandros shook his head and flicked his hand, banishing the offending thoughts. “You believe the character of a man you just met, but you won't heed the advice of your lifelong friend."

Nikandros was desperate – this much was clear, and even a dunce like Damianos could see this. However, getting into ultimates and bargaining is rarely the right move. More often than not, it’s the worst route to take.

"It's hard to do when that lifelong friend pitches me against my own brother, who's been here even before you were."

The words were harsh, and no wonder – the back and forth was tiring, Laurent was sure, and concealing his aggravation must have been becoming harder for Damianos. Nikandros should have realized, and maybe he did – but he pushed forward rather than back out, and only the man knew what guided him: the traditional Akielon denseness, or perhaps something more.

"The brother whom you took the throne from."

Damianos almost choked on air, his eyes widening. “I haven't taken anything, father is still-"

“The one who stabbed you when you were barely thirteen."

Nikandros was relentless; he was like Auguste, in that he was much more adept at physical pursuits, and verbal squabbles were not something he excelled at. Yet still, with courage, he would preserve for as long as he could. With an absence of colorful epithets and cleverly hidden double-meanings, he would just be throwing facts in Damianos’s face – and hoping some of them penetrate his thick skull.

To a point, Laurent – a master of the art of bitching – found the dedication admirable, if doomed to fail.

"Haven't you hit me Gods know how many times when we were training?" Damianos threw his hands up in defeat.

"Clearly, not enough,” Nikandros sighed and decided to pull out the last heavy artillery he had in his arsenal. Laurent held his breath as if he were watching the culmination of a riveting spectacle play out before his very eyes. “He cannot accept fault for defeat in any arena, instead he attributes everything to the fact that he was never given his ‘chance’—"

"Nikandros. You are forgetting yourself."

Gone was the patient, although frustrated friend, tolerant towards his closest companion’s reservations and strong opinions. A giant as he was, Damianos straightened his back, his posture even more looming – even though Nikandros was hardly a petite man himself. An untouchable, anointed by the gods future ruler of the land, and his subject.

The princely tone he took was not received well. Nikandros stared at him for a while, unmoving, until Damianos noticed the overstep on his part, and the hurt he didn't mean to cause.

"Nik–"

"I apologize for overstepping, Exalted,” Nikandros’s tone was curt, though respectful. Too respectful. “It's not for a lowly kyros to question Exalted's choices."

Damianos was helpless. “You know I value your counsel."

"Not anymore, it seems."

Though they stood as close to each other as ever, the rift between them was unmeasurable, buzzing eerily in the silence like a void into which someone threw a coin, listening to it clatter until its sound turned into nothingness too. Only when Damianos took a step towards Nikandros, entering his personal space, did the kyros back out – the crack not only metaphorical but physical, too.

“Nikandros, you are dear to me like a brother,” Damianos tried to mitigate the situation, even though there were hardly any words he could utter at the moment that could save it. Especially not when he wasn’t willing to go back on what he said before.

He couldn’t. His damned honesty wouldn’t let him. “But you aren’t my blood,” he added, quietly. Shamefully.

There was only sadness in Nikandros when he replied, just as lowly, as though the Fates could not hear the last warning he needed to give to his confidant, “If I’m right, it will be your blood staining the white marbles.” Then, in a voice more level, he added, “I will pray to the gods to be wrong. Exalted.”

The easiness between them was gone, however the deep care remained. It reminded Laurent of the days leading up to Marlas, in which he childishly sulked at his brother for not spending as much time with him as he did in Arles, wasting the so very finite hours and minutes and seconds they would have left in this lifetime.

Laurent of Vere had no love for neither Damianos of Akielos, nor for Nikandros, but he wanted to scream at them to not leave the matters at that, still.

His silent pleas were never heard.

“Nik. We are alone here,” Damianos tried to reach out, “There’s no need for–”

“If I have your permission, I will take my leave,” Nikandros interrupted, bitter, looking anywhere but at his brother-in-arms. “The matters in Delpha have been left unattended for too long, and require my attention. If it pleases you, I will leave Pallas behind, to continue to act as our envoy. He is young, but I do trust his judgment and skill.”

“Nik.”

“I won’t stay behind to watch you run towards his sword again and then thank him for the opportunity. I cannot do this, Damen. It was hard enough the first time. There is a thin line separating honor and naïveté, and I fear you are about to be strangled with that rope.”

If not for the hearing trained in Arles, where walls had ears, Laurent would not have heard the small question, and still, he could hardly believe it could have come from the prince-killer. A ruthless barbarian. The destruction incarnated.

“Are we friends, still?”

No words were spoken for a while, and the silence told more than words ever could. Damianos stared at Nikandros’s back, no doubt beguiling him to turn around, to let him fix this, somehow. 

The wind carried the reply, hesitant, but true.

“Some things,” Nikandros said, without turning around, “are thicker than blood.”

Chapter Text

"Stop fidgeting, won’t you? You are only making this harder for yourself.”

Lykaios’s tone was chastising and hard, and yet her touch on Laurent’s skin remained soft and gentle, mindful of how each graze of her fingers must have been causing him pain. Truth be told, if he was still a child, he would  be bawling his eyes out, doing his hardest to keep all the snot in – but he has long since grown, and as a man, it would be completely unbecoming.

Even though it was exactly what he was doing, just internally.

Judging from the smirk on her lips, she seemed to know.

“This one thought tomatoes won’t be in season for a few more weeks at least, and yet, such a fine specimen has grown in our gardens in just a day.”

For a moment there, Laurent considered whether he was mature enough to withstand the urge to stick out his tongue at her, but ultimately, the need to upkeep his reputation won, and he only grumbled her way.

He was likened to a snake often enough – at first, the comments hurt, but then he found comfort and security in them. Still, he never thought to be one literally – metaphorically, at most. And yet, here he was: shedding his skin in patches, and so far, with no healthy tan underneath to be found, just more redness.

He could barely sit down, and he knew he wouldn’t sleep that night, no matter how thick the layer of whatever Lykaios had been covering him with would be. Unless he discovered a way to sleep like a bat without blood flowing down to his brain, that is. He was red enough, he didn’t need his eyes to be bloodshot, too.

For the first time, he was grateful for the flimsy Akielon slave garments – he couldn’t imagine tightly lacing up into Veretian clothing, which he was certain would feel as if he was strapped inside an iron maiden. The very thought gave him shivers. If anything, as the matters stood, he was seriously considering skipping dressing up altogether and just parading around in his birthday suit. That would be sure to delight the crowd and cause even more glee than Lykaios had, torturing him at the moment.

However, for all her teasing, she didn’t look amused. The salve was put away when she turned serious, staring into his soul as she asked, “But, really – Laurent, are you alright? Does your head hurt? Do you want to shoot a cat?”

He was starting to appreciate the Akielon sentiment of asking for his well-being, as strange as it still was to him. With her, he didn’t worry it might not be genuine. After all, they were in this together – to a point. Just two slaves in the machine of human trafficking, with the small detail that one of them was born a prince.

Still, Laurent spent surprisingly little time pondering about his state. His skin burned, and he wished he had some magical, God-blessed arrows to blast the sun out of the firmament, but other than that, he thought he was fine. As long as his brain was, Laurent was splendid.

However, it clearly wasn’t fine, because while he registered the words she spoke, he failed to process their meaning. Did he want to do what, exactly?

“Shoot a cat? Why would I want to do that?” He asked, blinking stupidly. Funnily enough, he was met with the same reaction from her. “The only person I would like to shoot is Adrastus, and I would rather not imagine him with fluffy cat ears and tail, thank you very much.”

Lykaios snorted inelegantly, before surveying her surroundings quickly, to make sure no one had heard such a noise from her. Someone probably did, but hardly cared. No masters were around at that time of the day, and the guards by the door weren’t being paid enough to give a rip.

“Alright, so the only headache we have here is you, still. This one is relieved,” she sighed, and after stopping for a split second, added quickly, “but just in case, don’t you dare empty your stomach on my chiton. It’s new.”

Indeed, now that she pointed it out, he indeed hadn’t seen those silks before. They were of splendid quality – decorated with embroidered pattern of pomegranate fruits entangled with hyacinths, they shimmered delicately in the sun, whispering promises of sweet nothings with each little sway of her hips and the most evanescent of movements. A truly royal gift, fit for the crown prince’s favorite.

“A present from Damianos?” He asked, more for the sake of making conversation than because he actually wanted to know. He could very well not ask at all, the answer so obvious.

“From Master Adrastus, probably hoping the next one would be from the prince.”

Or it wasn’t so obvious. Well then.

“Aren’t you Damianos’s favorite?” Laurent asked, dumbly. Perhaps he messed up his facts? The sun could have fried a part of his brain, after all. “I thought he would be showering you in gifts.”

“Oh, the Exalted used to! It was a new hairpin or a set of clothes or at least a bouquet every few times this one was asked to his chambers. But then it became rarer, with his focus on Lady Jokaste,” she explained with no bitterness, too well aware of what her position was, and what was the extent of what she could expect from a prince. However, something was bothering her – the further she went, the more inward she turned, twisting one of her locks and bouncing her leg, just in the slightest.

“But…?” Laurent prompted, doing the most uncharacteristic thing of gently placing his hand on her knee, calming the involuntary action down. Judging by her soft gasp, she didn’t realize she was doing that at all. 

“But he hasn’t called this one to his chambers in a week,” Lykaios admitted in a low voice as if that could prevent the recollection of facts from becoming reality. “This has never happened before.”

There were probably very few conversation topics Laurent felt less equipped for, and more uncomfortable discussing, but he had put himself in this situation and could not back down now. Oh, to Hell with it. “A week doesn’t sound like too much. There’s no need to worry.”

“No, you don’t understand. Damianos-Exalted’s physical passions are, um,” she blushed slightly, “famously unquenchable. He used to call for one of us every other night at the very least, before and after Lady Jokaste. A bit less when she was Exalted’s concubine. So, now, that indifference towards me, towards us… Master Adrastus fears this one must have offended Damianos-Exalted somehow.”

In the week Laurent has been in Ios, he more than learned what Adrastus’s ‘fear’ meant. A more precise term would be ‘seething indignation’, with an (un)healthy scoop of blame dolloped on top. While he doubted coupling with the prince this often was something Lykaios truly wanted, he understood her apprehension and sense of security more than he would care to admit.

With shame, he knew he used to feel the same sort of fear before; he knew plenty of people like them did. The other slaves. The other pets. Nicaise, constantly lying above his age and dreading the moment his voice would break. Ancel, creating a whole new personality for every lover he took on.

Fitting into the impossible criteria, just so that they would be wanted.

“I’m sure you haven’t,” Laurent reassured, pulling himself out of the spiral of thoughts. “I offend him each time I open my mouth, and shockingly enough, my head is still attached to my shoulders. So, don’t worry. He’ll come around, and even if not, this is not everything of value about you.”

The lenient, forbearing smile that bloomed on her lips was something Laurent didn’t understand, and neither he could the sadness that had flooded her eyes the moment he spoke his consolations. Bolstering other people was hardly a part of his extensive skillset, so it was more than likely he had said something wrong, somehow; but he couldn’t put his finger on what could cause such a change in her.

He didn’t manage to ask – couldn’t even decide whether he wanted to ask before Lykaios shook her head, her casual smile returning to her lips as if by the touch of a magic wand. When she promptly changed the subject, Laurent didn’t stop her.

The moment was gone. 

“Now this one thinks of it, the milk bath should have come before the salve,” she said out of nowhere, the way she slapped her forehead upon the ‘realization’ positively theatrical, as if the gesture could get the runaway cells she must have breathed out back into place. “Doesn’t matter. We should just wait for Erasmus to come back with the aloe vera.”

She doesn’t want to be alone with me at the moment, Laurent thought. I probably should ask her if she’s alright. Return the favor.

He didn’t.

“I think there was enough salve,” Laurent pointed out, the thick, white layer of goo Lykaios applied all over him only now beginning to absorb into his skin. That, and he didn’t want to go through being tortured with touch again, no matter how gentle with it she tried to be.

Lykaios, however, wasn’t convinced. “Would you rather I peed on you?”

“Would I rather you did what?”

“Peed on you. It helps,” she supplied as if that was supposed to persuade Laurent. “What’s with the face? This one sees your hair.”

“Just what are you implying?” He asked in horror, subconsciously reaching up to stroke his locks, now even brighter than usual, and not only because of the contrast to his skin tone.

“This sort of color cannot possibly be natural,” Lykaios stated, not a shred of hesitance in her voice. “And it doesn’t have the same shade chamomile gives. This one knows because this one has been preparing the washes for Lady Jokaste. It’s much more bleached, so it can only mean—”

“It is natural!”

Laurent couldn’t blame her much, with Akielons being typically dark-haired and olive-skinned, and Patrans being redheads at best. Even in Vere, where fair complexions were more common, the sort of shade he had was not the norm – he got it from his Kemptian mother, and as far as he knew, the Northerners knew better than to venture that far into the god-forsaken South. Still, pee? Did he look like someone who peed on his hair to make it brighter? How would that even work? Wouldn’t it stink?

The vinegar washes didn’t, but urine???

Damn his analytical mind, forcing him to seek answers he genuinely, truly, didn’t want to have. The only thing he did want, right at that very moment, was to get out of this conversation as soon as possible. Thankfully, for once, the universe seemed to have listened, sending a savior his way, running to his rescue – literally. It was a miracle he hadn’t tripped over his legs.

“Lykaios! This one got the aloe vera!”

Do you know the face a puppy makes when it finds a very fine stick? The excited tail wagging that shakes their entire butt? This is exactly as proud as Erasmus looked, holding a handful of thick green leaves in his hands, all sticky from the liquid pouring out of them. It didn’t look all that appealing, but as long as it worked, Laurent wouldn’t complain. Much.

Especially not with the alternatives still in the books.

Lykaios shrugged as she accepted the plants. “Your loss,” she said, tearing the leaves apart to get all the juices out and right into the bowl.

Never before having the misfortune to deal with a sunburn this severe, Laurent threw himself into her mercy, and within reason, didn’t question her, either. So, he sat there patiently, watching her stir the juices and then reach for a thick brush, letting the sludge stick to it, before putting it to Laurent’s skin.

To say it wasn’t pleasant would be an understatement.

The bristles scratched against his complexion, and it was an annoying sensation, with how sensitive he was. It was  most like the one time he was stupid enough to try and rub himself with a mixture of thick salt and oats. If that was how horses felt when being brushed, Laurent swore to never get a curry comb near his beautiful mares ever again.

That, and it stung, so much. More than the previous salve did.

Something was wrong.

“Is this supposed to burn?” Laurent asked though he did think it was a dumb thing to ask, seeing how currently his very existence hurt. Still, while – according to Paschal – medicines weren’t there to be sweet, he did expect something more calming, rather than irritating.

Judging by Lykaios’s reaction and the way she bent in half to snatch the used leaves off the floor where they were discarded, inspecting them more closely, they weren’t supposed to do that.

“Erasmus. That’s agave.”

The only thing Laurent knew of this particular plant was that it could be turned into very sweet, wonderfully delicious molasses in some magical process he wasn’t privy to, such being the domain of the southern Veretian provinces, the north much too cold for those plants to grow on a sufficient level. With effort, the royal conservatory would probably be able to house them, but as far as he know, no one cared enough to try. And so, Laurent remained completely unaware as to what else he would have to suffer in the next few hours.

He just hoped he wouldn’t lose even more of his skin. He was rather fond of it.

“Just keep Laurent company while this one goes and gets some actual aloe vera,” Lykaios ordered without further ado, sighing and standing up. All of her was focused on that goal, but still, before she left, grumbling quietly, she added under her voice, “Eh, leave anything to the men.”

Despite being a man himself, Laurent was very much inclined to agree with her.

Not surprisingly, the lack of her was noticed soon enough. Without her constant babbling, the room turned quiet, Laurent much too aware of his skin tingling to do much about it. Meanwhile, Erasmus followed Lykaios’s orders maybe a bit too diligently – his hazel eyes were opened wide and staring, each little movement of his watched as if by a hawk. He couldn’t even twitch without Erasmus tensing; Laurent was tempted to tell him that it was quite alright, he was allowed to blink, because sadly, Laurent’s wide range of tricks did not include teleportation to Vere, or anywhere else for that matter, in a matter of a split second.

Being in each other’s vicinity at all times lately must have done the trick, because sure enough, Erasmus blinked just then. Once. Twice. Three times.

Oh, no.

“Erasmus—”

“This one is so sorry!” the poor slave bawled, rubbing at his eyes, which were quickly beginning to match the entirety of Laurent in color. “You did so much for this one and it is because of this one you got hurt so this one wanted to help, but only made things worse again, and—”

Oh, no. Laurent wasn’t equipped to deal with that at all, even at the best of his days, and it was not a good day, to say the least.

“Erasmus. Breathe.”

It didn’t mean Laurent didn’t try. He did, forcing the brain cells that didn’t take a health leave after suffering a heatstroke to work, and try to recall what to do in this sort of situation. What Auguste would do. What Auguste did, when the one hyperventilating and crying wasn’t Erasmus, but Laurent himself, as a small child.

Too much time has passed, turning all of the comforting words into a soft murmur of a voice he could no longer recall.

He couldn’t be too sure even back then he could have repeated what Auguste had said to him; probably it was less the content, and more the soothing tone and the presence of someone with whom he felt safe. He wasn’t sure whether he could be that to Erasmus, not with how short their acquaintance was – even Nicaise rarely ever accepted Laurent’s presence when he was like this.

It was mutual, with them.

Laurent would try.

Slowly, he shifted towards Erasmus, hoping the change in position and the new proximity wouldn’t spook him. It didn’t; the boy hardly noticed him, too consumed with despair and guilt that had flooded him out of nowhere, weighing on him and pushing him down more than Adrastus ever could, even if the slave was not forced to prostrate on the ground, but was sitting on a chair.

Should I just hug you? Laurent asked himself, not for the first time hoping he was better with tears, but alas, he wasn’t. He wasn’t much of a cuddly person, either; there was a risk his permanently icy heart would give the spring child that Erasmus was instant frostbite on impact, and they certainly didn’t want that.

Instead, he had reached out, wrapping his long fingers on Erasmus’s filigree shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Laurent wasn’t discouraged when it didn’t strike any sort of reaction – he just kept doing it. Grab, hold, release. Grab, hold, release. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe.

Seconds, minutes, a desperate fight for breath, but Erasmus was winning. It was slow, and graduate – but the wails turned to quiet cries, and the shaking of his body ceased. A moment later, he was slumped on Laurent’s shoulder, and it didn’t even matter the tears felt, quite literally, like salt sprinkled straight into open wounds.

It didn’t matter.

“This one is sorry,” Erasmus repeated, quietly, the trace of hiccups still underlying in his voice. He turned his head, glancing at Laurent like a child would, just to see if his apology was accepted.

There was nothing to accept if no fault was his – but Laurent wouldn’t tell him that, not when he must have been so exhausted and prone to self-blaming.

“I know,” Laurent reassured, the hand leaving Erasmus’s shoulder, “I am, too.”

Erasmus’s eyes went wide, and he opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, an interruption came – and like a trained dog, he recognized the steps before he could see the man, and froze on the spot.

They could belong to one person only.

“Am I interrupting your little get-together?” Adrastus asked, voice sweet and laced with irony. Laurent wanted to slap him just by the sole virtue of the way he talked. “All patched up?”

Erasmus looked away, embarrassed and wary, but Laurent – as always – faced the master head-on. It was quite amusing how he must have thought he was being oh so smart, hitting two birds with one stone – the supposed fall-out between Laurent and Erasmus (ridiculous, really) and Laurent’s current physical state. The self-satisfied smirk would look cute on a child, like Nicaise, but hardly did on an old, sleazy man like Adrastus.

The only thing it was, was child’s play.

Laurent stood up, dusting off his knees and fixing the chiton in place, eye contact not wavering. “We are perfectly fine, thank you,” he said with an awfully insincere, sweet smile. “Do you perhaps need some patching up, too? Your facial muscles look strange and tense. Perhaps you need a geriatric massage.”

Erasmus almost choked on air, hearing that audacity, while Adrastus was – not for the first time – at a loss for words.

“Oh, Here. It’s doing that again.”

Would he be overdoing it to play dumb and point at the Master's scowl? An angel and devil sat at Laurent's shoulders, one of them surprisingly Kallias-shaped. Not without struggle, he decided to go with that one's guidance and keep his hands to himself.

“Damianos-Exalted is looking for you,” Adrastus cut him off, doing his best to ignore his comments. Good. He was learning. “Asks about your well-being.”

“You can tell him I’m splendid. Enjoying the Akielon warmth,” he inspected his nails, standing against the otherwise red hands. “I might have underestimated your hospitality, though. I got burned, you see.”

Laurent glanced at Adrastus demurely from underneath his lashes, and he could see the gears in his head turn to find the veiled insult, which must have surely been hidden there. Nothing else ever left Laurent’s mouth, after all.

The mouth, which was now smirking – a subtle thing, and yet very much there, and for a good reason.

He had the master at the palm of his hand, and the feeling was headier than it should be. The reason was simple: the moment Damianos saw Laurent, he had to inquire about his sudden transformation into a strawberry. And depending on what his answer would be, Adrastus might have some explaining to do.

It was up to Laurent to decide whether he wanted to keep him anxious, or land the blow immediately – and they both knew it.

There were perks to Damianos's prurient interest in him, as it turns out.

“I am hardly to be made a messenger to a slave,” Adrastus stood on his dignity, lips pursed and close to puffing, the moment he figured out the double meaning in Laurent’s words. Took him a while; and besides, for the master’s prideful self, it was hard enough to be one to a prince as it was. “I don’t know what Veretian sorcery you have cast over Damianos-Exalted, but he insists on seeing you, and soon.”

Adrastus's displeasure at that was palatable. Laurent began to wonder – was the master so insistent on keeping Laurent away from the crown prince because of his own beliefs and prejudices, or perhaps Damianos was not his true master? There was no evidence to support this wild hypothesis, but if it was true, then it would be truly cosmic justice. Because in that case, Adrastus might have very well found himself in the same circumstances as Erasmus just a day earlier – having to choose between two orders, neither of which would be without consequences. Ironically enough, he's made the same one Erasmus did.

Serves him right. Laurent hoped that Adrastus's punishment would be ten times worse than what he wanted to do to the poor slave, and at least as bad as Laurent's own battering.

“Seeing me with your permission, I take it?” He asked, covering his mouth in exaggerated shock. “I stand corrected. I indeed didn’t comprehend the Akielon pecking order right. My apologies,” Laurent bent almost in half, the gesture of respect very obviously the one of mocking. “When is this humble one being called to join His Broad Highness’s company?”

The Kallias-shaped angel on Laurent’s shoulder slapped it, while the little devil morphing to look strangely like a certain redhead pet he knew rubbed his hands mischievously. If you asked him an hour ago if there would come a moment he genuinely wanted to be found in one room with the prince-killer, Laurent would have laughed in your face. But, while his hatred towards the man ran deep, Laurent’s contrarian nature was stronger. Adrastus, who at the moment was advancing fast in the race for the most disgusting human Laurent has ever met, didn’t want the Veretian and his prince to meet? Laurent would sure do meet him. Nothing would make him want that more.

Was it immature? Yes. But was it entertaining? Also, yes.

“It is summoned immediately,” Adrastus informed him, granting himself just that little victory of a dehumanizing pronoun, when he couldn’t have anything else. How pathetic. “The Exalted is occupied at the moment in the throne room, holding audiences, but insisted you would be there when he’s finished. Wouldn’t be able to squeeze you into his busy schedule otherwise, I gather. What a pity,” Adrastus turned around, but glanced at Laurent as he reassured, “but don’t worry. You won’t get a moment with him alone. I’ll see to it.”

Oh, how truly unfortunate. Laurent, sunburnt as he was, didn’t know how he would go forward, the Akielon lion’s light not being meant to focus on him alone. “Woe is me,” he desponded.

“No,” Adrastus grumbled, toddling away like a rheumatic duck, gesturing at Laurent to follow him, “Woe is me.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The throne room was no different than the two times Laurent had been there before, and yet, the atmosphere and bedlam of it were unlike what he had seen previously. Rather than filled with aristocrats dressed in silk chitons and himatia, the people occupying it were all clad in simple exomides, no doubt the finest ones they owned – not a trace of mud or grime staining them. Sunday bests, if you would.

No one would dare stand before their prince otherwise, surely deeming it an offense. Laurent couldn’t agree less – from where he stood, they could have very well walked into the throne room straight from the fields, still dirty, still covered in sweat, and should be received with equal honors. Because there was no shame in working, with hands and physical strength, something none of the perfumed nobility knew. Laurent himself very much included.

In truth, it has always rubbed him the wrong way, to sit there on an embellished throne and look down at the people, listening to their plights and deciding whether the problems were worthwhile, as if the petitioners haven’t just traveled across the country for days, often at a great personal cost and perhaps spending their last pennies, just to have a chance to present their issues and get a few precious seconds of a royal’s time and attention. This elevation and desire to be above everyone else, at least in the room, was more of Uncle’s style, and one of the reasons why he kept presiding over those meetings even after Laurent passed eighteen years of age.

It wasn’t that Laurent didn’t want to be around those who were to become his people. He simply preferred to sneak out of the palace and mingle with the people where they resided, in the pubs, the public squares – where they didn't have to lie or act differently just because they were faced with the royals. He wanted to hear them speak candidly, even if to do that he himself had to play pretenses.

Of course, other than the guards who turned a blind eye, no one was aware, and so Laurent’s unwillingness to participate in public audiences was one more reason for Uncle to paint him as a lazy, entitled princeling unfit to rule. Unfortunate, but truth to be told, Laurent was more than certain even if he did sit there for hours upon hours, the Regent would find a way to spin it to Laurent’s disadvantage. This was how things were between them since the moment he grew too old to be fucked.

In his mind’s eye, Laurent could recall them all occupying the artfully sculptured throne of Vere – the Regent, with his haughty, dismissive gaze; His Majesty, ever the serious; and Auguste, patient, but at the same time having the fidgets, longing to be back at the field, practicing sword fighting with his chums.

Laurent expected Damianos to be perhaps a sort of blend between his uncle and brother. He pictured him spread widely on the throne, a womanizer smirk on his face, aware of being the promiscuous pinnacle of an Akielon prince – boisterous, strong, confident.   Comfortable with the position he had, like a fish in the pond.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

It wasn't what Damianos was doing – not with the thoughtful and in no way bored or arrogant expression on his face, leaning forward and down on the throne, as low as he possibly could, just so he could hear the old petitioner standing before him better. He was nodding now and again, to show the man he was actively listening, smiling pleasantly – but it was a smile that didn’t reach the eyes, weighted down by indescribable weariness.

Laurent had seen it before, in Auguste when Mother was slowly withering away. All of his strength, his affluence, and might meant nothing, when all any of them could do was pretend death wasn't waiting just outside their doors. Already knocking on wood, inviting itself in, not a care for the pain the living would be left with after everything was done.

His Majesty was never the same after Mother died. None of them was.

“Honored Damianos-Exalted…”

Looming over Damianos, Laurent could almost see the weight of the legacy he was made to bear, no physical robustness capable of helping him shoulder it. The ghosts, waiting for another to join them, and soon. 

It was the middle of the day, and yet, Laurent could almost hear the hooting of the owls just outside the palace. Labous an Ankou.

He shook his head, Paschal’s voice in his head chastising him for still letting the tales and fables he loved to get lost in take the better of his rational mind sometimes. There was enough wrongness in the world as it was; there was no need to add any more.

Indeed, the weight on Damianos’s shoulder wasn’t just the expectations of his heritage, but something much more tangible – Kastor’s heavy hand, meant to steer him towards what the older of the Akielon royal siblings deemed right.

“Damianos, this cannot be done.”

The voice, firm but indulgent all the same, shifted Laurent’s focus towards what was being said at the dais. The contents were less interesting to him than Damianos’s demeanor – he didn’t need to litter his brain with the issues of the Akielon commoners – but judging by the sudden voiced-out involvement from Kastor, he perhaps should have. Laurent cocked an ear, curious.

“What are you saying? This can be done, and quite easily. This man’s inn is hosting the pilgrims and travelers, doing the gods’ work, and may go under for reason no other than the greed of a lesser eupatrid.”

Ah, the usual. If one doesn’t know what the issue is about, it must be the money; alternatively, corrupt officials – funny how those two matters oftentimes go hand in hand. The solution to that should be simple – remove the dishonest man from his post and appoint a new one. But, as Laurent was being made aware time and time again, it wasn’t this easy.

“A lesser eupatrid, maybe,” Kastor did not argue with the facts, and judging by his slightly exasperated expression, expected the same out of Damianos and got sorely disappointed, “but Kaenas has substantial influence in his region, due to the strategic placement of his estate in Aegina. The trade route to Patras passes through his lands. If he retaliated for the crown freezing his assets, it would be an economic disaster of a much greater scale.”

That’s where the conversation would finish if it was Laurent sitting on that throne, and if the sleazy hand would be the Regent’s. The arguments were sound – as much as Laurent hated it, the crown could not aid a singular citizen at the risk of the general well-being. Still, it didn’t make looking into the hopeful eyes of petitioners and telling them to essentially get lost any easier. If anything, it made it worse.

Laurent was curious how Damianos would manage, but as it became apparent it was not meant to be.

“The problem is,” Damianos stressed, unyielding, “that those funds aren’t his to begin with. They are the crown’s. He isn’t just stealing from the people. He’s stealing from us, too.”

Kastor’s bearing remained mostly pleasant, although Laurent could see the tension stretching his cheeks and twitching his eyelid. It was just as Nikandros tried to enlighten Damianos in the gardens the day before – the older of the Akielon princes could not accept defeat, even if there was no fight to begin with. He would create one, just to feed his ego on the scraps of perceived victory. And now that he had done it in public, for everyone to see, he had to prevail, at the risk of losing his reputation otherwise.

To the renown of the crown, he gave no mind.

“This is a small price to pay for an operational silk road with Akielos’s most important trading partner. The profits much exceed the losses,” he informed Damianos, who seemed to disagree with his assessment.

He stood up, and everyone gathered followed. Like that, he loomed over Kastor, making the otherwise stocky man himself look more like a scrawny teenager. “Tell that to this man who will soon have no food to put on the table and the pilgrims who will be left at the mercy of bandits and thugs as they travel to the temple.” Damianos’s hand swept the room, pointing at the elderly man bowed before the throne, awaiting judgment.

Kastor didn’t dare reply to that, because whatever he would say, would make him appear an impious, elitist miser. Not that he wasn’t one, and wasn’t aware of it. It was a fact, like with the vast majority of the aristocrats, but he still must have wanted to at least maintain appearances. And so, for a moment, nothing was spoken at all, and if not for the meticulous maids, Laurent could imagine a tumbleweed carried by the wind through the corridor. A metaphorical one, of course. Hot as it was, the Akielos wasn’t a steppe yet.

The brave fellow to break the silence was no other than the young Pallas, standing on the other side of Damianos where Nikandros would usually be found. “Besides, weren’t the taxes supposed to go towards repairing the road to begin with? Hard to have an operational trade route, if every cart loses its wheels in a pothole,” he pointed out pluckily.

Damianos smirked, glad someone helped him out, voicing what he must have had at the tip of his tongue, but chose not to say. Even if Kastor set himself up, Damianos still was gracious enough to not embarrass his brother in front of the entire court. A third person, however, would not have such reservations.

Kastor opened his eyes wider, and if he had less control over his reactions, he would probably huff in indignation. As it was, he only shot a glance towards a slave, sitting demurely at their feet with a pair of bells. Instantly, the poor boy scrambled to ring them with all of his might – signifying the end of the court session, to the disappointment of the other petitioners, still standing in a queue so long it was going out of the room. Probably all the way down the hill, if Laurent had to guess.

Unlike the nobility, the commoners filling the halls were dutiful and law-abiding, and so the guards were able to guide the crowd towards the exit in no time, clearing the chambers and returning them to their usual state with little effort. The moment the heavy doors to the palace closed and only the selected few courtiers were still present, Damianos sighed, sagging against the throne.

“Just because the petitioners have left, doesn’t mean the throne deserves any less respect,” Kastor chastised. “Keep your back straight and show some gratitude.”

“For the love of gods,” Damianos ran a hand down his face. “I have been sitting here for hours.”

“I am aware,” Kastor swept the room, spotting Laurent with Adrastus by his side. He raised his brow, and the chill that went down the master’s spine was almost enough to cool Laurent’s burns. “I have been standing here the entire time. Just inches away from the throne.” 

“Thank you,” Damianos looked at his brother full of gratitude, completely ignoring the foreboding undertones of the comment. He stood up from the most important chair in Akielos as he followed the direction Kastor’s gaze was pointing towards – and where his older brother presented a barely concealed scowl, the younger lit up. “You know how much I appreciate— you. Excuse me.”

Laurent knew he would never quite grasp how on Earth could as little as a glimpse of him return the tiniest of sparks to Damianos’s expression. It should be the contrary – especially in those early days, when each time he was brought before the Akielon crown prince, he did his best to give him some veiled insults, in various degrees and intensity. Maybe Damianos had a degradation kink? That would explain quite a lot.

And yet… it seemed genuine. That of all people, Damianos of Akielos seemed happy to see that his order was heeded, and Laurent was standing before him in the flesh.

His puppy energy was contagious, but Laurent liked to believe he had splendid disease resistance.

“You look a little… flushed,” Damianos pointed out awkwardly the moment he approached them, not sparing breath to at least say ‘good afternoon’ first. Just as expected.

“You look a little burnt,” Laurent retorted swiftly but was met with silence. He blinked and only then realized his comeback didn’t have quite the punch he aimed for. A wrong choice of words when talking about humans – especially coming from someone looking like an encyclopedia illustration of the color ‘red’. He thus clarified, “like a piece of burned wood.”

“Well, an olive is a sort of a tree, I suppose,” Damianos concluded after a while, as diplomatically as absolutely moronically. “It looks quite painful,” he added, concern underlying his voice.

Laurent wouldn’t have guessed. Truly, the Akielon crown prince wasn’t sounding smarter the longer Laurent talked with him – quite the contrary, actually, but he didn’t have a way of escaping the Akielon prince’s fumbling attentions. That, and if he was being honest with himself, conversing with Damianos was quite entertaining. Almost as much as Adrastus’s constipation.

Feeling courteous, Laurent didn’t point out the redundancy of his comment, but could not stop himself from alluding to something else. “Unfortunately, my uniform doesn’t include solar protection.”

The side eye Laurent gave Adrastus was subtle, enough to skip Damianos’s notice, but sufficient to cause the master of slaves to go from constipation to mental diarrhea within seconds.

Very entertaining, indeed.

Damianos opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something – but he promptly closed it, pressing it into a line and looking to the side, just to avoid eye contact with Laurent. His brows were furrowed, but the expression was anything but indignant – if anything, he looked… guilty. 

“We are very sorry for that,” was he using the pluralis majestatis, or indeed speaking for the palace dwellers in general? Laurent narrowed his eyes as Damianos continued, awkwardly. “I will see to it that your needs are accommodated better. It is ridiculous to expect a Veretian with skin as fair as yours to fare well with the Akielon sun. Traditions are one thing, but,” he paused, looking for the right word, and after failing to find it, went around the issue, “no one in my care is to be hurt, especially when it can be so easily avoided… Is there something the matter, Adrastus?”

The master was like a child called to the blackboard by a terrifying teacher, even though Damianos’s tone stayed perfectly pleasant. He was confounded, his chubby hands laced on top of his impressive griva belly and eyes turned downwards, skipping from one spot to the other on the floor. All of his haughtiness and self-importance were gone, poof, the moment he didn’t have the higher-birth advantage.

It was quite satisfying to watch, and Laurent smirked, enjoying himself the most he ever had in Damianos’s presence.

To Adrastus’s credit, however, he did manage to speak up, finally – even if it sounded more like a high-pitched, quiet speak, than a distinguished official’s voice. “Traditions are the cornerstone of the Akielon society, Exalted,” he bowed his head. “That one simply isn’t fit to be in your esteemed presence, Exalted.”

The crown prince tilted his head in the slightest, confused. “Why is that? Because he got sunburnt?”

Laurent did his hardest not to snort.

“No. That one is still very… Veretian.”

Judging by the dismayed tone, and the way he had almost spitted after soiling himself with it, the word he wanted to use was probably ‘uncouth’. Or perhaps ‘sleazy’.

The feeling was mutual.

Damianos, however, remained unconvinced, the argument not being compelling enough. He smirked and reached out, and Laurent froze, expecting that huge, rough hand to land somewhere above his buttocks – but before that happened, the Akielon prince reconsidered, withdrawing it and letting it hang awkwardly by his side. Laurent stared at the hand, blinking, and for a split second, they made eye contact – before Damianos avoided his glance again, clearing his throat and addressing Adrastus once more.

“What else would he be, coming from Vere? A barrel of wine, or a bolt of cloth? Of course he’s very Veretian.”

“That one,” Adrastus stressed, noticing the way Damianos was referring to him, “is ungovernable and ill-behaved. You deserve slaves of the highest quality, Exalted, and this one is mediocre at best, and just because of its looks.”

Laurent raised his brow – harsh, but fair, he supposed – while Damianos folded his impressive arms, the confused furrow he was sporting turning piqued. “And whose fault would that be? Last I checked, you held the title of the master of slaves. Or are you perhaps looking forward to a well-deserved retirement? We wouldn’t blame you for it, you have truly given this position your all throughout the years.”

It was Laurent’s turn to gape like an idiot. The simple barbarian coming up with a sharp retort was not on his bingo card for the day, or for the week, or for the lifetime, and yet, here he was. Thoroughly surprised, standing next to a master who must have been counting pennies in his head, fearing he was one word away from being fired on the spot, for god knows what reason.

Laurent wasn’t sure himself, but he hoped Adrastus would be stupid enough to continue on his tirade.

“Exalted,” unfortunately, he simply said, bowing his head as low as his shoulders would let him. Laurent wished the Veretian court painter would be present, so he could sketch this marvelous moment and put it in a frame.

“Leave us.”

The order was court and left nothing up for interpretation. Laurent blinked at the change in tone, while Adrastus whipped his head up, protesting weakly.

“Exalted!”

“If Laurent allows, I would like to speak with him. I promise to return him to your care unscathed if this is of concern to you. And not hold it against you, if he acts as uncouth as you fear he might,” he added, but clearly without conviction, even though it was indeed a given Laurent would be as rude as ever. He had no reason to be nice to the prince-killer of all people, after all.

The prince-killer who did not touch him, even when he had the perfect circumstances to do that; the prince-killer who sought him out to apologize; the prince-killer who inquired about his well-being time and time again; the prince-killer who cared about his subjects more than he did about the moneyed nobles.

The prince, who now looked at a slave expectantly, waiting for his acquiescence, even when the master was standing just inches away: fuming, underneath the furiously blushed and trembling exterior.

Laurent nodded, and Damianos smiled, dismissing Adrastus with a mere gesture. He then turned to Laurent, reaching out and perhaps – once more – intending to take him by the arm, but abandoning the idea and instead indicating the direction in which they were to go. Stunned, Laurent followed, easily keeping up with Damianos’s huge, albeit relaxed, steps.

“I wouldn’t take you for such a social creature,” Damianos remarked suddenly.

That was unexpected. “‘Social creature’?”

“You always seem to be around someone,” he observed. “Erasmus, I can understand – that one seems sweet, and is close to you in age. But Adrastus?”

The bubble burst quicker than it was formed. He gave Damianos too much credit. He was, in fact, a halfwit, and Laurent wasn’t much less of an idiot to believe otherwise just because of a few cleverly woven words.

“Do you genuinely believe it’s by choice I am around that old prick?”

Laurent could not possibly know what was going through that empty, dreadfully oblivious head while Damianos was blinking. Presumably processing the information it was receiving. Soon enough though, he laughed heartily – a curious choice, to say the least.  “What a respectful way to talk about your warden.”

“Adequate to the person,” Laurent retorted, his pace and face level as always. “I have always believed that respect is something gained, rather than inborn. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I am not certain,” Damianos answered carefully, his forehead wrinkled and lips pursed as he thought. He looked like an overgrown pug, and Laurent had to force himself to keep a laugh in at the ridiculous association. “I like to think I work as hard as I can to deserve the respect I am given, but this is not for me to judge.”

The sentiment rang a bell inside Laurent’s head, a quiet little thing, chiming in the memories long forgotten. The words weren’t new – he heard them before.

“Laurent,” his name was soft on Damianos’s tongue, with only the barest hint of an accent; one he wouldn’t notice if he didn’t know an Akielon was standing in front of him. “If your needs aren’t being met, or if you’re being mistreated, I want to know. Adrastus is an old man, a master of his trade and we do owe a lot to him, but he’s a traditionalist. You aren’t what he is used to, what any of us are used to,” he paused, mulling over. “What I mean to say is, if any issues should arise, please just go to me directly.”

I can fix this, Lolo. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll see to it.

“Hm, that could backfire.”

Damianos seemed confused by the reply. He scratched at his chin for a moment, before asking, “Why? Has something happened? Do you need me to talk to Adrastus?”

The ghost Laurent was seeing from the corner of his eye dissipated, and it was back to the harsh reality.

This, he thought, bitterly. Could you fix this, Auguste? Or was it just a lie, like back when you told me you would return?

Something happened, alright, but like Hell Laurent would run to anyone to solve his problems for him. The last time he was stupid enough to do that, he was thirteen and ended up in his uncle’s bed, and not for a cuddling session. Comforting embraces were rarely ever involved, if ever. He couldn’t recall.

If trusting own family could blow up in his face this severely, how stupid would Laurent have to be to go to the prince-killer for help? Not to mention, Damianos already talked with Adrastus, and it ended up with Erasmus crying on the floor and inches away from being whipped.

Laurent grew to hesitatingly believe his good intentions, shockingly enough, but was also acquainted with the degree to which Damianos could be a complete and utter imbecile. And thus, he wouldn’t trust him and would deal with the cruel master himself. Somehow.

He always managed on his own, so what would be different this time around?

“No need,” he said, cooly, “to bother yourself and go all the way to the slave quarters again. I manage just fine.”

Damianos lowered his head, studying Laurent’s expression carefully, his eyes narrowed and squinting. The Akielon prince didn’t trust him, either, and it was only fair; still, Laurent kept his poker face immaculate. After a moment, Damianos gave up. “Alright,” he conceded. “But don’t hesitate to ask. I’m good at resolving issues, you know.”

A few days ago, maybe even a few hours ago, Laurent would have retorted ‘Yes, with a sword and a splash of murder’. Now, however, after he had seen Damianos try and be courteous towards him, and had seen Damianos preside over court, how patient and understanding he was, listening in to all sides with the best intention of aiding his subjects where he could – not just for appearances, but because he genuinely cared? 

“I am aware,” Laurent replied. “I was just at the throne room, after all. You handled that situation adequately,” he said, referring to both holding the court and the little encounter with Adrastus. He ignored the smirk starting to bloom on Damianos’s stupidly full lips, “it reminded me of when–“

When Auguste protected him from His Majesty’s scorn. When Auguste held audiences.

Laurent wanted to slap himself. Not a day passed he didn’t think of his big brother, however, at this point, it was getting ridiculous. Each time he talked with Damianos, he was getting so many little flashbacks of him, of his honor and kindness, and the gaping, cold hole that he left after Marlas. Did the Damianos steal a fragment of his soul, his warmth, the moment his sword pierced his body and left him a freezing carcass? Is this what happened? Was that why he was so considerate, a model prince, good and caring? 

Laurent was conflicted, and he only hated Damianos more for it.

“–it reminded me of a long time ago,” Laurent finished instead.

There was a contemplative expression on the Akielon’s face. “You were a courtier, weren’t you?” he asked, quietly, carefully. As if he could nudge him towards replying this way. Lull him into a false sense of security with the gentle, whispering tone.

He much preferred the straight-up approach Kallias had taken, even though he didn’t appreciate being cornered. It was bad enough that he had to give a smidgen of truth to a royal slave – revealing anything of importance to Damianos of Akielos, of all people, was not in the cards. It would be the best route to end up a political prisoner, or worse – after all, his brother wasn’t granted that sort of mercy when faced with him.

“You were impressive,” Laurent deflected, the only reason why he would ever admit it out loud, “back there, with the petitioners.”

The strategy, one that would never work with Kallias, proved to be more than effective with Damianos. Not expecting any sort of compliment coming from Laurent, he positively brightened, his chest puffing out proudly, and face shining with internal light – but underneath it all, Laurent could still see the exhaustion a good mood could neither fix nor conceal.

“You should have seen my father, back in the day. He truly was like a Solon reborn, Themis speaking through him. I can just hope I am at least doing him justice, if not making him proud.”

Laurent sincerely doubted the Conqueror would be such a spirit of law, in touch with the common people, but seeing the healthy blush on Damianos’s face as he talked of his father, he didn’t have it in himself to voice his doubts. Even though he couldn’t relate to the feeling – he realized early on the most he could do, personally, was not to be a complete and utter disappointment, being a good son far above his scope of possibility – he knew how important it was to Damianos. It was important to— no, Laurent. No. Stop.

Stop.

“He would need to be truly out of touch not to see your efforts,” Laurent reassured, although with no real conviction. “You are spreading yourself thin in service to your country. That’s a mark of a good ruler.”

Laurent wasn’t sure how those words got through his throat, but every single one of them was true; Damianos being a walking nightmare for Vere didn’t mean he wouldn’t be a legend in the making for Akielos. In fact, with the strained relationship between their countries, such was certain to go hand in hand. Personal reservations aside.

“Thin? Oh, no,” the moment the dimple made its grand return to Damianos’s face, Laurent knew he would hate whatever he would say next. “I was ‘brawny’ just the other day, wasn’t I?”

“You still look more like a wardrobe than a human being, don’t be concerned,” Laurent rolled his eyes. “Just more and more like a set of drawers at the brink of falling apart from overuse.”

Was he under the influence of the Akielon drugs again? In what world Laurent notice the prince-killer’s weaknesses for reasons other than lethal? Maybe he pointed out frailties to take advantage of them later? Yes. Yes, this must have been the cause.

“Then this weary cupboard of a man needs a caring hand,” Damianos concluded, and Laurent would be affronted by the horrible pick-up line, if not for how pitiable it sounded. There was not a shred of flintiness in it; just overwhelming fatigue. “I don’t know how Father was able to do it on his own. How any King could. I barely manage with Kastor’s help.”

Perhaps because of Kastor’s help, the Ancel-devil on Laurent’s shoulder helpfully supplied, but he nipped the urge to point this out in the bud. It was none of his business. He wanted Damianos dead, after all. One of the few perks of being sent to Akielos to be disposed of was making sure the justice maybe was slow, but certain. That the revenge would be taken, and he would look down on Damianos’s corpse triumphantly.

Even though he would be looking at the carcass of yet another good man, taken from the world before his time.

A good man who killed Auguste.

A good man who killed the best man Laurent would ever know.

One would think being fucked over, very literally, would be enough to knock capture-bonding out of someone’s head, and yet. Laurent folded his hands into fists, letting his nails pierce the softness of his palms. He wasn’t a child, this time around, but he might very well be.

The easiness that happened between them dissipated as unexpectedly as it grew, and Laurent wished he could just turn around on his heel and escape this situation, but he couldn’t. Even though he was inclined to believe now that Damianos would not force him to do something against his will.

He intended to wrap the Akielon prince against his little finger, and it was quickly becoming apparent that the contrary was slowly, but surely, happening. Laurent could not possibly let any sort of fondness other than the factual appreciation of Damianos’s approach to his people and duties form. That would be disastrous. That needed to be strangled at birth and stamped out immediately.

Back on course. He needed to get back on course.

“I don’t know when you even find the time to deal with all the correspondence,” Laurent mentioned casually. “The load of it would occupy a whole other post.”

“Every day I thank the gods we are living in a time of peace and there’s not that much requiring an immediate reply, yes,” Damianos nodded. “Otherwise, my day would need to be much longer than twenty-four hours.”

Judging by how pigeons at the royal cote were currently few and far in between, no doubt scattered all around the kingdom, Damianos might have some wildly inaccurate and outdated information about the supposed ‘time of peace’. That, and it just confirmed to Laurent: without a shadow of a doubt, the crown prince had nothing to do with the heightened volume of mail. Seeing how the king at the moment probably would have issues with as much as writing down his last will, it was down to one royal who could be doing all this.

Laurent knew. Nikandros knew. Damianos should have known but refused to see, and it would be his doom.

“That would be counter-productive,” Laurent pointed out, having all the confirmation of his suspicions that he needed already. “Everyone’s day would grow longer, too. It would do nothing more other than lead to some extreme weather, and frankly, Akielon heat is too severe for any civilized human to live in as it is.”

Damianos snorted. “We manage just fine, thank you. But, I see what you mean.” He looked down at Laurent and smiled. “I intended to show you another part of the garden, maybe, but in your current condition, perhaps a tour of the inside of the palace would be more in order.”

Laurent raised his brow. “I told you, this isn’t needed. Erasmus was a fine guide, and showed me everything and more.”

“Not… everything.”

Damianos’s deep voice turned into more of a mutter as he stopped at the end of the corridor, slouching and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Only then did Laurent realize where they were.

But it couldn’t be.

"Queen's Quarters?" He asked, stupidly, and his voice was not much more than a whisper.

"You wanted to come here, didn't you?"

The doors opened with a shrill creak, a sure sign of underutilization, and instantly, they were hit with a stale scent of rooms where the only occupants were the dust motes dancing in the air whenever the light hit them just right, to the rhythm of the muffled sounds of conversation coming from outside – but when the entrance closed, even that music was gone, and the eerie silence prevailed.

It was a grave in the middle of the country’s beating heart.

The space meant to be filled with laughter and idle chatter of court ladies was a moment preserved in time, of sadness and despair, of hopelessness and mourning. Of people holding onto what was, refusing to let go of what was long gone, never to return, because ghosts never waited for the living.

But those who remained didn’t care. Their loved ones being long at peace didn’t mean those left behind would ever find it.

Unconsciously, Laurent reached out to where he used to keep the key to the quarters of the crown prince, but his hand only grazed against sheer silk. It wasn’t there, and for a moment he wondered if it was perhaps lost, and the rooms where he used to spend so much time as a child would forever remain abandoned, just like those. Left to rot and waste away, like his family buried deep in the ground.

The last time anyone set foot in the chambers of the Veretian crown prince, was Auguste’s funeral.

Now, Laurent owned the keys – for six years he has, and yet each time someone called him the crown prince, he was inches away from laughing into his face from absurdity. Him, the sub-par spare? Vere’s greatest royal disappointment? It all had to be a rouse.

The keys were never meant to be his, just like he was never meant to sit at the throne dressed in creme robes, a golden crown on his head. And now, he never would – Uncle has seen to it.

It was always meant to be Auguste, Laurent standing beside him as his shadow. The most loyal of advisors. His right hand.

Just as Uncle was to their father.

Laurent didn’t want to come to the Queen’s Quarters. It was a meaningless comment, thrown to the wind recklessly, aimed where it hurt, and for no other reason than that. Damianos must have known; it was obvious, and Laurent wasn’t subtle about it, but he still had seen to his request. Just because he could, and Laurent asked.

He hated everything about it.

"You are less of a barbarian than I thought you would be," Laurent admitted. Damianos's smile was small but genuine.

"You sound disappointed."

Was he? He didn’t know. Laurent hated not knowing. He hated the kind, considerate Damianos more than he hated the savage brute of his nightmares. Because he wasn’t supposed to be good. He wasn’t supposed to be gentle, and kind.

It had to be a mirage. He had to know who Laurent was and kept playing a role, lowering his guard. Laurent was so prone to being played.

But Damianos looked so genuine.

It was hard to reconcile the one-dimensional image of a monster he had with the complex reality of this man. One who was a hero, but also a murderer. Who was kind, but ruthless. Who showed Laurent understanding even when he was incomprehensible.

It was hard to realize Damianos wasn't the monster under his bed, and the only monstrosity was the one looming over his bed for more than a third of his life. One that was his blood.

“Why have you brought me here?” Laurent asked, and he sounded weak even to himself. Confused. Anguished.

Damianos didn’t comment on it. “Because you asked me to,” he replied, and Laurent hated he knew the Akielon prince would say that, too.

He hated how simple it was with him.

“Back when we first met, in the throne room and then in my quarters… it was not ideal, and that’s on me,” Damianos acknowledged, without prompting, asking, or excusing, and Laurent’s eyes widened. “I have tried to make up for the discomfort I caused you. I hope you can believe me when I say I truly did, but I made a lot of assumptions. I shouldn’t have. You told me not to, and you were right.”

Out of everything Damianos could have done, it was probably the most shocking, and not because Laurent was easily surprised. He thought of all the possibilities – despite evidence to the contrary, his first guess would be Damianos somehow attempting to weasel himself out of the situation at the lowest cost possible. Maybe bribing him. Apologizing was on his list, too – the Akielon prince did attempt that before, after all – but not without a heaping handful of flimsy justifications.

Something sincere, facing up to the foul-ups – this was something Laurent had rarely ever heard, and the last thing he expected from a person whose guts he hated.

“I should have just listened, and so I am doing it, now. Listening.”

He was – Damianos didn’t say another word, simply looking at Laurent, waiting. In the tranquility that surrounded them, he could hear his own faint voice, like a whisper in the still air. Your benevolent gestures were about soothing your conscience. I’m not a pet, but it’s another thing that you assumed to your advantage.

It was his anger and resentment, boiling over rational thought and the cool he could keep with anyone other than this vexing Akielon. A chastising, meant more as an expression of his frustration, rather than to achieve any real objective. It would be futile to set it; no one ever paid attention to what he said, not really.

And yet.

“A prince listening to a slave’s caprices,” Laurent contemplated, and before he could take another breath, he saw the outright protest blooming on Damianos’s face. 

“It’s not a whim to want to be treated with respect.”

The firmness of this statement took Laurent by surprise, too; it left no doubt it was something Damianos sincerely believed in. Him, an Akielon crown prince. A slave owner. Someone who could have close to anything at the snap of his fingers, without explaining anything to anybody, or caring much for what they thought.

But he did care.

He cared so much more than almost everyone Laurent has met in his life – this uncivilized, half-naked barbarian with the physique of an overgrown bear on juices.

“I… thank you,” Laurent only muttered in response, overwhelmed. “This place…”

“…could use a little airing out.” Damianos finished out the sentence, even though it was not at all what Laurent intended to say. “It is not ill will that I haven’t taken you here before, back when you asked. Those quarters aren’t the most representative part of the palace,” he explained, moving further into the rooms.

With each step, he was leaving marks in the disturbed dust covering the floors, and like a child, Laurent followed in his footsteps, careful to tread exactly where Damianos had already walked. He looked around, taking in all the beauty covered in thin, protective gauze – the artworks, the tapestries, the decorative vases, and dried flowers – and imagined the greatness they must have once possessed. The gentle care with which they used to be handled, but now laid there forgotten and frozen in time.

“There’s not much to see here, just some old baubles of my mother, at most. The Queen’s Quarters have been deserted for the last twenty-six years. Five minutes in here, and the only takeaway will be a severe coughing fit,” he joked, but one would have to be delusional to find anything funny in it.

A genius wouldn’t be needed to understand it for what it was – making light of something that must have held a lot of meaning for Damianos and be very emotional. Laurent knew he would be, in those circumstances and surroundings, and would struggle not to show it – and he wouldn’t find himself dead with another person in either his Mother’s rooms or his brother’s. Especially with a stranger, and he didn’t have a huge selection of close companions to accompany him, should he go insane and change his mind.

In fact, there was no one.

“It must mean a lot to you,” Laurent concluded – a simple statement of fact, and not at all a quiet reassurance or a show of understanding.

But it seemed the Akielon prince desperately needed both.

“It should, shouldn’t it?” Damianos’s eyes turned down, and his smirk was so bitter and so false. His posture was stiff, and slouched, as if he was ashamed of a well-hidden, humiliating secret becoming known. “Would it be bad, if it didn’t?”

The question was a small whisper, vibrating in the stale air with his deep voice, so at odds with the almost childish question. Would it be bad, not to care one bit for everything that was left behind by one’s young departed parent? Socially, it probably would. However, Laurent himself didn’t peep one word of a protest when Uncle moved into the King’s quarters. Such a thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

But Laurent doubted it was the case with Damianos.

“I never knew my mother,” he explained when no reply came, although something told Laurent he wasn’t expecting, nor desiring one. “She was a beloved queen, from what I heard, even though she could not bring an heir to term. Until me, that is.”

Through the corner of his eye, Laurent noticed an infant’s cradle, covered with cloth. Conscientiously, he approached it, touching the crib gently – a true masterpiece of Akielon applied art, wooden and simple in its form, but skillfully embellished with the classic meander on its edges. It rocked back and forth like a boat on a calm day at sea; the effect made all the stronger with the faint murmur of waves and calls of seagulls coming from the shore, only a mile away from the palace.

“It used to be Kastor’s before it was mine,” Damianos explained, giving a little background. Laurent withdrew his hand. “I don’t know what mother thought of using the same cot as father’s beloved concubine’s child, but it probably didn’t matter much to her. Kastor told me Queen Egeria was fond of him and didn’t harbor resentment. Just like Hypermenestra with me,” he shrugged as if that gesture could shake the weight of the struggles of a half-orphan off his shoulders.

“It’s hard to believe you were ever this small,” Laurent blurted out, leaning in and casting a quick glance into the cradle, and then inadvertently giving Damianos an up and down. He furrowed his brows in confusion, probably not expecting that particular comment to be made, but then guffawed. Loudly. Genuinely. Almost the old, upkept walls shake with the power of it.

“I’ll have you know I was a formidable child! Very fat, from what I heard. Chubby cheeks, stubby arms and all.”

“Maybe that’s why you became so brawny,” Laurent smirked. “First bulk, then cut. Right from the infanthood.”

“A baby with a defined core, biceps, and a sword in its hand. I bet this is exactly how Akielons must imagine me as a newborn,” Damianos snorted, and Laurent quickly followed, because yes – this was exactly what they must be thinking. In fact, for a second there, he might have been guilty of such a ridiculous notion himself. “Quite a handful for any mother to deal with, much less to birth.”

“Damianos.”

The chastising name came out of Laurent’s mouth without volition, and he was glad the Akielon prince didn’t know him because then he would be all too aware of his hypocrisy. The dark humor as a coping mechanism has been Laurent’s friend for years – and yet, hearing that coming from another’s mouth didn’t sound funny at all. If anything, it was pitiful.

And the prince seemed to know.

“I’m sorry, this was uncalled for. Usually, I don’t- I never- I didn’t bring you here to– it must be the tiredness, and the atmosphere of these damned rooms,” Damianos stumbled before concluding with a heavy release of air.

It was strange, seeing him like this – hunched, one arm wrapped around his own body, rubbing his other arm awkwardly. He was awaiting judgment, a reprove for daring to have feelings, most likely. Because men like him weren’t supposed to have those. Or men in general, actually. That’s what His Majesty would certainly say, and Theomedes too, if Laurent sized the Conqueror upright.

Uncle as well. That’s why he preferred little boys. In fact, it was appreciated when they cried their little eyes out.

“It’s good to talk, sometimes,” said Laurent, who last time talked about something remotely private six years prior, when there was still someone who had enough patience to listen to his plights. Someone whom he could trust to care.

“Not when you are a man and a crown prince,” Damianos disagreed – and Laurent wanted to sigh, hating that reasoning with every shred of his being; even though he understood. He was a man, and up until recently a crown prince, himself. “Kastor used to drill that into me since I was a child, and I’m glad for it. I was much too open, back then.”

Oh, didn’t he know this pain. But at the same time, wouldn’t Laurent also give anything to get some of that openness back? And the cheerfulness that came with it? The freedom, from not only the physical confines but also the ones his brain built up, to protect whatever goodness that was left in his heart?

“Are you close? With Kastor?” Laurent asked, noting how often Damianos was mentioning his brother – and with nothing other than fondness, even though for anyone looking at them, it wasn’t what was hanging heavy in the air between the Akielon royal siblings.

“We used to be, when I was a child,” Damianos confirmed, before growing contemplative. “Then… we aren’t as attached to a hip as we were back then. Maybe he was only tolerating my childish antics and then got tired of them. I don’t know,” his face scrunched up and he waved his hand in the air as if it could dissipate the negative thoughts, gathering over his head like a storm cloud. “We may disagree on many things, but we love each other. We are brothers, after all. He’s my blood.”

It’s the same thing he had told Nikandros, back in the gardens.

It was almost the same thing Uncle had told him, back at the beginning. That it was all alright. That it was okay, and he wouldn’t hurt him. He was his blood, in the end. They were family.

But the only blood there was between them, was the one staining the sheets red. Covertly passed to a trusted maid to dispose of.

The only blood that ever mattered was spilled at the fields of Marlas.

“Do you have siblings?”

Laurent lifted his head. “Huh?”

“Siblings,” Damianos repeated, patiently. He tapped his lips, looking up. “I have an older brother, and I’m quite certain that’s the extent of it. Father was never the most adventurous sort of a man; Hypermenestra would put him through the wringer otherwise, oh, she would.” Damianos smirked, no doubt an amusing memory appearing in his head. “It’s not a risk in Vere, is it not?”

“No, it isn’t,” Laurent confirmed, thrown aback by the sudden pull back to Earth. Moreover, the Veretian dislike of bastards was universally known. No need to act like it wasn’t.

And then, out of nowhere, without better judgment, “I had a brother.”

He shocked himself by admitting that, right there, standing in the most desolate part of the Akielon royal palace in front of the very man who butchered him. And yet, he didn’t feel the overwhelming need to find the nearest sharp object and bury it as deep in Damianos’s chiseled jugular as he possibly could. He only felt… regret.

“Is he still back in Vere?” Damianos asked, and Laurent could see he was genuine; and perhaps, it was even more ridiculous.

This man, the Akielon prince-killer, truly didn’t recognize him. Faced with the younger brother of his Veretian counterpart he has slaughtered, he didn’t recognize him. The thought didn’t even cross his mind.

Laurent wanted to guffaw, and then cry.

“You could say that,” Laurent said instead, and the need to laugh bitterly at what ridiculous phrasing this was only increased. “He had died in the war.”

For a hero famed with how many Veretians he had slaughtered while still a teenager, Damianos didn’t look proud. His chin dropped to his chest, and once more, he looked away, unable to meet Laurent’s eyes. He angled away from him and grew silent – contemplating what to say but knowing nothing he could would make it in any way better. Easier.

Words wouldn’t ease the pain a sword has caused.

“Too many lives were lost to it. War… I hope it’s the last one we have seen in our lifetime.”

There was no glory in this statement, and neither there was an apology. There were no empty condolences, no I’m sorry’s that going out of his mouth only to disappear from his memory five seconds later. No promises, just a desire Laurent shared, even though he knew it wasn’t meant to be.

He appreciated it more than anything else Damianos could say.

But those were not the times of peace, Laurent wanted to tell the warrior king in the making, who yearned for an everlasting truce. Those were the seconds before a storm hit. And to protect, one needed to be the first one walking into the battle of the elements.

Quietly, Damianos asked. “Do you have anyone else?”

Laurent paused for a moment, thinking.

He did, didn’t he? Even if by saying that, he’d be sure to get the sharpest fork available in the palace’s kitchens pierce right through his thigh. Laurent smiled fondly. “Yes. I have a younger brother, too. He’s a menace.”

“Oh, seeing how you are, I can just imagine. Even if he’s half the force to be reckoned with that you are.”

Laurent raised his brow. “Weren’t you supposed to be apologizing?”

“I’m merely stating facts. Don’t blame the messenger,” Damianos showed both of his hands in a gesture of supposed harmlessness, even though he could easily strangle Laurent with nothing more than them if he so wished. “You are turning the world upside down, you know.”

Damianos smiled, and Laurent wanted to slap it off his face. Act, before admitting he had felt everything he thought he knew began to flip around, throwing him into the depths of his ignorance and preconceptions. Of doubts. Of the discrepancy between what was perceived, and what he had been living up until that point.

Nothing was certain anymore, and Laurent felt like a man grappling to a stone cliff after a rope had been cut. Struggling to hold on, for minutes before succumbing to a free fall.

And crashing.

“I have something for you if you’d want to have it,” Damianos said carefully, reaching into the sack hanging at the string tying his chiton in place. From that, he had procured a key – small, golden, and embellished with little carved olive branches. “It opens the doors to the Queen’s Quarters,” he explained, extending it forward to Laurent.

He blinked.

“This is—”

“Your gateway to solitude if the noise of the palace becomes too much, and you would rather not be accompanied at every step. I’ll arrange it with Adrastus, don’t worry. This area is at my and father’s sole discretion, so he shouldn’t have any grievances as to whom I decide to grant access to.”

The key was so small in Damianos’s hand and yet held so much meaning. Laurent felt he shouldn’t reach out for it, shouldn’t accept the overture of peace. Should think about it more, to see what was hidden behind the gesture of goodwill.

But Damianos wasn’t Uncle. He didn’t play games, and was true with everything he did; he wasn’t wicked, but simple-minded and straight-forward. If he tried to deceive Laurent, born and raised in the duplicity of Arles, he would see it from a mile away.

Damianos wasn’t a monster under his bed. Damianos was just a man, who had another on his conscience. So many souls weighing on his shoulders.

And for that, he would pay; and he wouldn’t even see it coming. Because for him love, loyalty, family – were the simplest things.

Laurent nodded, and Damianos closed his hand with the key hidden in it. His palm was warm and soft – not rough and calloused like it looked.

And for a short moment, the world was at peace.

Chapter Text

“You look like an idiot.”

Laurent merely raised his brow at this, adjusting the fit of his wide-brim hat and dusting off his chiton before sitting down on the grass. Like this, not being dependent on the fickleness of meager shade provided by olive trees, he could almost appreciate the Akielon weather.

Even if his outfit was, in fact, absolutely ridiculous.

"Pretty face can make anything look adequate.”

Truer words had never been spoken, and yet Laurent had to admit even his features were barely enough to tie the look together; if anything, they were making the outfit appear even more like a hodgepodge of items that should not be pieced together.

As much as Laurent hated the sheerness of slave’s garments, he had to admit they did look much better than the weird combination he was sporting now. A blond eyesore amidst the dark-featured Akielons before, now he was truly sticking out, with robes that still had the same cut as the other slaves wore, but were made out of a much thicker material, closer to a courtier's garment. And, to make the jumble even more comical, his hat – petasos – likened him more to a peasant than anyone else. Not that he minded; in fact, it was quite entertaining to watch the confusion blooming on the faces of everyone he was passing throughout the day, and the gears turning in the heads of those who somehow didn’t yet know him, as they tried to place him in the Akielon social structure.

He wouldn’t be easily pigeonholed, and this was exactly what his outfit was showing – as laughable as it was.

Still, while he might have been complaining about the ensembles’ questionable aesthetic appeal, he smiled fondly when he found the gift waiting for him at his bedside, folded carefully, just a day after the fateful conversation at the Queen’s Quarters. It was thoughtful, and equally lacking in a shred of a fashion sense – leaving no doubt as to its provenance and the identity of the anonymous donor.

"Someone's very modest," Lykaios snickered, stretching lazily and reclining back comfortably against the grass. To Laurent’s unwavering horror, she paid no mind to what was showing, on display for the whole world to see.

He cleared his throat, averting his eyes, even though he knew Lykaios couldn’t have cared less. "It's not vanity to be aware of one's strong points."

He was sounding almost like a philosopher, speaking in wise aphorisms worthy of Ancel, back when he put on a smart persona, trying to seduce Berenger; as if the man could be any more lost to his charms.

The comically orotund tone has not skipped her, either. "Just stating facts, indeed,” she rolled her eyes and pointed her chin at Laurent’s head. “The hat suits you.”

A few fluffy feathers attached to it would make a hell of a difference, but one couldn’t hope for such extravagance with the Akielons. Then it would make a swooping motion of doffing it in front of her all the more theatric, but as it was, he had to manage.

Someone, however, did not see Lykaios’s little comments as simple banter, and with newfound confidence and adorable protectiveness towards Laurent, decided to step up.

"Lykaios, you are being mean," Erasmus pouted with brows furrowed, and the scold was so soft it must have felt like being lightly slapped with a down pillow at worst. “You shouldn’t be rude to Laurent just because that one is the favorite now.”

Laurent sprang up in an instant, the hat nearly falling off his head. “The favorite?”

He thought he had perhaps skipped a few episodes of the development of his relationship with Damianos of Akielos, because as far as he knew, being a ‘favorite’ required an impressive repertoire of bedroom visits, none of which were in the cards, if he had any say in it. It’s been days since he had seen Damianos at all, the man probably feeling absolved after their last conversation, and not wanting to engage again, lest Laurent finds another reason to mark him a scum. The Akielon prince could not sleep a wink, knowing there was a single person in his palace who did not at least tolerate his presence, and as Laurent could see, would go very far and personal to assure the favor of his subjects and household. Vexingly enough, finally, he managed to achieve the level of amity with Laurent he never thought possible before. Namely, Laurent wasn’t particularly certain he wanted to watch Damianos die.

It was a whole lot of an improvement, or a deterioration, depending on the perspective.

Thus, he didn’t know whether to laugh in their faces or to groan in frustration. He was as much of a ‘favorite’ as a mosquito was when it was finally fed and stopped its annoying buzzing for a precious moment.

"No need to be coy. This one is not jealous," Lykaios shrugged, and then stretched, but the relaxed posture was only a ploy. It could not hide the tenseness in her face, the hesitant note in her voice, as she added in a whisper, "Having fewer eyes on you has its perks."

She glanced to the side, at a man standing watch close to them. Laurent had seen him plenty of times before – he was one of Damianos’s guards because apparently, even a hulk like the Akielon prince needed it, at least formally. This particular man was assigned to looking after the crown prince’s personal slaves – a job which was not the most demanding in terms of physical exertion, but required plenty of willpower, Laurent gathered.

Auguste fumbled so badly around Veretian court ladies the moment a glimpse of an ankle was shown, and this man over here was surrounded with barely dressed, beautiful women every single day; and no less pretty men, if one swung that way – but judging by the blush spreading on his cheeks after a single look from Lykaios, that wasn’t the case.

He was young, handsome, strong, and a little shy.

She was young, beautiful, cheerful, and confident.

Laurent knew where this was going.

“Lykaios,” Erasmus prompted, desperate. “Lykaios, tell me you did not.”

The flush on the guard’s face only grew deeper the moment his eyes met Lykaios's. He averted them a split second later – and it looked like the redness might have been airborne transmittable, because a trace of it could be found on the girl’s nose, now.

"Lykaios! Have you lost your mind?" Erasmus shrieked, a wave of distress shaking him to his core. 

She glanced around, her long hair whipping back and forth, almost hitting Laurent in the face. “Lower your voice, Erasmus,” she chastised. “This one is careful. And it is no different than what you’ve been doing with Kallias.”

“This one hasn’t been doing anything with Kallias!” Erasmus gaped, truly indignant. It was quite amusing, how he kept his voice low, not to alarm anyone of the clandestine subject of their conversation, but at the same time continued screeching, just in a whisper.

To that, Lykaios rolled her eyes with an indulgent smile. “Sure you hasn't."

Watching Erasmus was like observing a puppy, and the boy was not beating the toy poodle allegations anywhere soon. Lykaios’s skepticism – half ploy, half genuine conviction – threw him off balance, making him positively vibrate in the spot, words of unnecessary explanation shooting out of his mouth at a truly inhuman speed.

“We are only… talking. Just like we all do! And we are all slaves. It’s very different, and you know that.”

“What do you think we are doing? We are talking, too.” Her tone was just as offended as Erasmus’s, if not more. Hard and defensive, but with a soft undertone when she spoke of the soldier. “He was born in Sicyon and told me all about it. He had seen the mountains, can you imagine? When you stand at the base of them, you cannot see where they end. And at the tallest one, the gods reside,” she nodded her head, sagely. Laurent wouldn’t dare set her straight. “He is kind and has always been there, waiting by the doors, when Damianos-Exalted dismissed this one from his quarters, making sure this one has everything this one could need. He is… a good man.”

Laurent didn’t doubt it; the boy standing guard didn’t look like he could hurt a fly, which was at odds with his heavy, armored garb. That, and the glances he was sending Lykaios’s way were positively adoring, if shy. Bright with happiness, dark with desire, light with obvious affection, and heavy with the peril looming just around the corner.

“This one isn’t Damianos-Exalted’s favorite anymore,” Lykaios said, quietly, but it had no bite. “But Laurent said, it wasn’t everything of value about this one. And this one… this one doesn’t want to be just someone’s favorite slave. This one… I want to be someone’s favorite person. And I think… I think I might be.”

Words, just like actions, had consequences – and Laurent, very Veretian as he was, did not think his awkward reassurances would prompt Lykaios to off and go start an illicit affair right under the masters’ noses. If he had enough foresight to expect that happening, he might have shut his mouth and not say anything at all; but the milk has spilled, and there was no return.

One look at her was enough to know that nothing they could say would be able to reverse her from the course she had taken. She had lost her mind at the first little taste of freedom in her life, and it was something that couldn’t be taken away from her.

“You are our favorite person, Lykaios!” Erasmus continued despairing, speaking both for himself and Laurent, who grew uncharacteristically quiet. “You don’t need to risk everything to feel that. If you are discovered… if you are discovered, you would be punished, and disgraced, and sent away, and we wouldn’t even know where.”

“At least I would see the world past Ios,” Lykaios argued, but her voice wavered. She was putting on a brave face; but in reality, she didn’t have a plan for when everything went wrong. It just couldn’t.

Laurent didn’t want to think of the consequences, either.

The truth was, he had grown uncomfortable. He couldn’t blame Lykaios – a sheltered slave, one surveilled at every step until recently, hungry for crumbs of normalcy. Even though a royal slave casually flirting with a lowly guard was anything but ordinary; be it in Akielos, or Vere.

In Vere, they shouldn't even find themselves in the same room. It was still bizarre to him how no one in Akielos found it concerning to post a handful of guards, all of them male, to look after a whole bunch of beautiful young women, and not be worried about things escalating. That was bound to happen, and it did.

The Akielon soldiers must have discipline and self-restraint unknown in Vere, and Laurent wasn't sure whether to be impressed or feel sorry for the poor sods; but in the end, they were only simple men, wired to think with one thing only. The thing certainly not being a brain.

Erasmus wasn’t convinced and kept on trying to dissuade his friend. Laurent filtered it out; he knew it was pointless and doomed to fail. Thus, their bickering was like a bee's hum over his ear – done in whispers, but relentless in its buzz nonetheless. In a small, embroidered sack hanging at his side, a key weighed heavy. A gateway to solitude if the noise of the palace becomes too much.

He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to exchange the company of the noisy living for the eerily silent company of the dead, but he knew he was in dire need of solitude, after such unexpected revelations.

But first, the situation needed to be deescalated, lest both of his companions get lost in the heat of the argument and announce the secret dalliance to everyone sauntering through the gardens.

“You would make a great Veretian, Erasmus,” Laurent interjected to the boy’s confusion. Erasmus gaped for a moment, with his finger raised, while Laurent wasted no time and turned to the girl – cold and factual as ever. “Lykaios, how long have you been Damianos’s favorite?”

Both the slaves stared at him, the question appearing seemingly out of the blue – unexpected enough to make them stop their squabble, and calm down.

“A few years, this one thinks,” Lykaios replied, after a moment of mental calculation.

“And yet, there’s no child to account for,” Laurent turned to Erasmus, who was flushing furiously. “My Veretian sensibilities are unchangeably offended, but I surmise lack of offspring so far is enough proof Lykaios indeed does know what she’s doing.”

“But…”

The protest was coming from a place of genuine concern for his friend and awareness that while a sudden baby springing out of nowhere would be damning, more things could go wrong. Lykaios could confide in someone other than them, who would happily rat her out, just out of jealousy for her position in the hierarchy of the slaves. Or perhaps, she could get caught red-handed, carefulness abandoned in the heat of a passionate moment.

This is exactly what Erasmus brought up.

“But what if Adrastus finds out—”

“He won’t,” Lykaios chipped in, but the conviction in her tone was still make-believe, meant to convince Erasmus of her confidence. She looked at Laurent, hopeless, asking for support.

Laurent wanted to sigh. Why was he helping an Akielon slave girl commit adultery, exactly?

“At the moment, Adrastus has enough of a headache stalking my every move. I don’t plan on making it easier for him anytime soon,” Laurent promised, and there was no doubt he would not break that oath. “And a virgin birth isn’t likely to happen in my case.”

It was hard to argue with this logic. If Laurent was anyone’s favorite, it was certainly Adrastus’s – in huge, bright, bold quotation marks. Whatever happened, the master of slaves was whipping his bulging, glassy eyes in Laurent’s direction, being convinced he must have been the instigator of whatever trouble had been brought around this time.

Proudly, Laurent would admit he was right, more often than not.

The explicit and very firm order Damianos has given Adrastus to allow Laurent more freedom of movement – justifying it as allowing him to experience more of Akielon hospitality and culture without restraints, or something along those lines – must be giving the old master encephalorrhagia, forcing his weary bones into work out as he thought of creative new ways of keeping an eye on him.

In which case, it would be wiser if Laurent kept focusing his attention on himself away from Lykaios and Erasmus, lest Adrastus’s tunnel vision widens.

It was all the more reason and justification for Laurent to leave the situation for some well-deserved moment of peace; and he knew where he needed to be, exactly.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Libraries were always his safe-havens.

While Auguste always disappeared to the training grounds whenever he felt overwhelmed, the strain in his muscles setting his mind at ease, Laurent tended to hole himself up in the most desolate corner of the royal book collection. Each one was a whole universe his to explore and get lost in, time-frozen and running wild at the same time. It was amusing when he was still a child, always hauling a volume twice his size along with him, and grew concerning as Laurent was approaching his teenage years. Even back in Vere, where the disparity between the learned and the fighting wasn’t as pronounced as in Akielos, it wasn’t a good look for a prince to be stubbornly closed up indoors, reaching for a tome rather than a weapon.

But, if you asked Laurent, knowledge was power, and in the worst-case scenario, an encyclopedia could easily be used as a weapon. The blunt type.

When in lack of a sword, he supposed he should reacquaint himself with that sort of weight.

He took the hat off his head, letting it hang at the back of his neck as he made his way through the long corridors to the library. He ignored the glances sent his way, growing used to them; he filtered out the idle noise of the courtiers, gossiping without care for whom might be listening. He meandered around people, expertly avoiding any sort of physical contact, or – oh, the horror! – vocal interaction. Nothing of note, or to set him back on his quest of finding some peace and quiet.

That is, until them.

Nothing much, at first – just two people too engrossed in their conversation to pay any sort of attention to Laurent, and perhaps that was why made it out of the ordinary. Suspicious. Incentivizing him to perk up his ears and snoop a little.

The words were exchanged at rapid speed, and at a distance – especially with his less than stellar command of Akielon – Laurent could not decipher their meaning, but judging by the proximity of the men and the hushed tones, it must have been business in nature. Even from the back, there was no question who the younger of them were – so very different from his brother, Kastor was a splitting image of Theomedes, with his sharp angles and serious bearing. However, Laurent had no idea who the older of the gentlemen was – he was positive he had never seen him before, or he would be sure to remember those thick attack eyebrows, looking like a pair of grey caterpillars, and the beard in which many a child could have lost a toy, never to see it again.

Laurent tried to sneak closer, curiosity getting the better of him, but before he could take a few steps forward, the doors clicked, and Kastor, along with the older aristocrat, disappeared behind them. The guards moved, standing right in front, with their swords readied. Laurent raised his brow.

Whatever this was about, he would learn sooner than later, intuition told him.

For now, however, there was nothing he could do, so, he turned back around and smiled the moment the library opened before him, the smell of books old and new reaching him and tucking him up like a comforting blanket.

Weaving between shelves reaching up to the ceiling, filled to the brim with tomes, he felt right at home, even though the letters on the spines were foreign, refusing to form words in his mind at a glance, but rather forcing him to stop, and think.

Everything in Akielos seemed to do that.

Like a child learning to read for the first time, he slid his fingers along the book spines. So many of them he has already read, back in Vere – the old fencing manuals, describing in excruciating detail the intricacies of different schools of sword fighting and the differences between the Veretian, Akielon, and Vaskian approach. The military treatises, dissecting apart the battles of old, written in a script so small Laurent often needed to grab a magnifying glass to catch all the pieces of information hidden on the most boorish of maps he had ever the displeasure of studying. The old, dusted tomes speaking of Artes, the fallen utopia of a time long forgotten, when the enemy lands were still one, united in their differences and all the stronger for it.

The modern history, the newest tome filled only halfway through.

He has passed by this shelf a few times already, the book vibrating, buzzing, calling. He ignored it every single time; it wasn’t something he should be reading. It wasn’t something he should be going over back in Vere, and certainly not in Akielos, where the perspective of the historians was vastly different from his own. A recollection of glory and honor, rather than pain and sorrow.

Laurent reached out and slid the book off the shelf.

If he dissociated enough to detach himself from the text and the memories, hazy but still so vivid in his mind, he could imagine himself as a child, paging through the annals with bated breath, swallowing up every word speaking of Damianos’s heroism, romanticizing it to ridiculous heights.

However, as an adult, and someone who had seen the fields of Sanpelier and Marlas, he couldn’t do it. If anything, he was fighting the urge to crumble the meticulously calligraphed pages in his hands, to tear out every single one of those deceitful words.

It was convenient for Akielon historians to skip that before the fateful duel, Damianos had been safely holed up in the camp, while Auguste was leading the Veretian forces, wearing himself out. It was convenient to keep mum about how Auguste was inches away from ensuring a very different outcome, but he was just too honorable to not let Damianos pick up his sword after he disarmed him in the first few minutes of the fight.

It was convenient for them to lie about how his brother was a blood-thirsty butcher, cutting down any Akielon in his way, with no regard for whether they were seasoned soldiers, or boys dressed up in too big armors, begging for mercy of which they were shown none.

They were lying. It wasn’t how his people, who knew Auguste, described it. It wasn’t how Laurent remembered him, it wasn’t how Auguste was. Auguste, the golden prince, the pinnacle of a Veretian knight, was a good, kind, gentle man; not a monster covered in blood, not a warmonger. It was them who waged war on Vere, forcing retaliation. It was them who forced Auguste to soil himself with blood. It was them who murdered him.

Akielon historians described Auguste’s death in macabre detail.

The compulsive need to know what no one would tell him won, and with shaking hands, Laurent turned the page. 

For the entirety of the battle, Laurent remained locked up in the stronghold, too young and useless to be of any value in the field, but he did see the aftermath. He was there, squeezing through a crowd of weeping ladies when the carcass was brought inside the walls of Marlas. The body he was told used to be his brother, but to this day, Laurent couldn’t be certain it was true.

He couldn’t recognize him.

He couldn’t recognize him with hair greased and covered in mud, the warm gold of it nowhere to be found. He couldn’t recognize him with his face bruised and beaten, the ocean blue eyes closed, never to open again. With the wide gashes, gaping, the dried-out blood gushing from them turning his porcelain skin dark maroon.

The golden starburst over his heart matted and effaced, bent where the sword had hit.

He still sees his brother like this, sometimes, in the worst of his nightmares. Standing there by his bed, half-covered in shadows. Silent, because his throat has been cut open. Unseeing, because his eyes had long since decayed. Clutching to his stomach, barely keeping his guts from falling out.

Laurent read. He read, and read, and each word was making bile rise in his throat, and a shiver run down his spine.

“A Veretian reading a retelling of the greatest loss in modern Veretian history,” he heard a honeyed voice speak right over his head. “Feeling vindictive?”

“Lady Jokaste,” Laurent smiled pleasantly. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

It wasn’t.

He greeted her congenially, even though at the moment, he would rather gouge out his own eyes than look at her duplicitously smirking face. He just might, if not for his internal angel-Kallias, clutching at his sleeves and reminding him he’s been waiting to talk to her for days with no luck so far.

Judging by her equally pleasant and thoroughly fake smile, speaking of the proportionally indescribable joy of seeing the blond Veretian slave resting in the middle of the royal library, the feeling was very much mutual.

“It’s on par with yours, I am more than certain,” she nodded her head once in a courteous thanks, the slight movement making the decorative pearls in her hair shine. 

Since the moment Laurent arrived in Akielos, everything he believed in, everything he took for granted, has been challenged, time and time again. He couldn’t be certain of anything anymore – but one thing, he remained confident about.

Anyone favoring that particular style of headwear would much rather strangle him with a hairnet or stick the nearest strap utensil in him, rather than continue the questionably amiable conversation for five more seconds.

And they had only made their greetings so far.

It was going splendidly. 

“What brings me this honor?”

“Coincidence,” she shrugged, leaning over his shoulder. Momentarily, he slapped the book closed, but it wasn’t nearly fast enough.

Jokaste smiled, her hair tickling his neck as she straightened up. “Or Fate. The work you are reading truly is the pinnacle of Rohem’s writing. It is always so vivid; I always found the detail with which he recounts events vastly impressive. Reading his annals is almost as if you were there and saw the Veretian prince gutted out with your own two eyes. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Laurent needed no gruesome drivel of an Akielon hack to feel this way. The moment he closed his eyes, whenever he was falling asleep – he saw it, clear as day. Screaming for Auguste to mind his footing, but his voice was gone, the deadly blow tearing through him each time, as it was predestined.

He had one thing to give Jokaste – she was truly giving him the taste of his own medicine. The exasperated sighs of his uncle, the way his councilmen pinched their nose bridges in vexation after as little as a few words left his mouth; it was all given back to him in spades.

The strategy was no stranger to him; she wanted to rile him up.

And, effortlessly, she was succeeding.

“Attention to detail is astounding, I agree. Fantastical. Never seen in Veretian chronicles,” Laurent confirmed in a bored, level tone. “Maybe because, I don’t know, their goal isn’t to trick the reader into believing the author has participated in the events he is describing.”

The corner of Jokaste’s mouth twitched, rising. “What says he wasn’t? He could have easily been one of the soldiers. Incomprehensible to a Veretian, I know, but in Akielos, every man is a warrior, and many had volunteered to fight in the war for the glory of their motherland.”

“Better to have been a coward than a liar,” Laurent noted, interjecting, “twisting the facts to get the King’s approval.”

Jokaste leaned against the table gracefully, looking down at Laurent, who did not move from his spot. “What facts, may I ask?”

“I would certainly hope a nineteen-year-old man who has been safely sitting out the fight behind the front lines would have ‘unmatched power’. The supposed virility of Akielon men is nothing but a ploy and should be a cause of concern for you people, I gather,” Laurent paused, pondering a second for the dramatic effect. He knew exactly what he wanted to say. “Even with that advantage, the fight could have ended much earlier, if not for Auguste of Vere’s honor. Damianos still wears the scars to prove it.”

“Licentia poetica,” Jokaste dismissed, waving her hand. “Don’t act as if you Veretians don’t spice up your own annals, either. Your darling prince Auguste wasn’t a saint, either. One cannot become a formidable warrior by sitting around and knitting sweaters for orphaned children. Warriors fight. Warriors kill.”

He knew it; he saw it in Auguste’s face falling each time Laurent childishly gushed about princes in shining armor, not having the heart to correct him. He saw it in the eyes of his comrades, both full of love, but also fearful respect.

But it wasn’t his brother. He wasn’t like Damianos. He wouldn’t just murder someone.

He knew his brother. He wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

“Besides, where you stand depends on where you sit,” she continued, unaware of the storm brewing inside Laurent. “Take Damianos, for example. A hero, universally recognized, and yet–”

“I didn’t know murderers are elevated as heroes in Akielos,” Laurent covered his mouth and widened his eyes, feigning shock, “but I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“If ending bloodshed between two countries by an honorable duel between two men is considered a murder in Vere, then certainly, Damianos is a murderer. And he would commit unforgivable atrocities again if forced by circumstances, I am sure.”

Laurent pressed his lips together. He could polemize.

“Damianos isn’t a crown prince only by the virtue of birth. It means little for Akielons; it’s the quality of a man that does,” she enlightened him as if he didn’t know that already, even if he couldn’t fully agree with the sentiment. “He worked for the position he has, and might still very well lose it if the people decide he doesn’t possess the virtues needed in a king.”

“There is no risk of that happening. A few minutes in the throne room during audiences are enough to know that his countrymen love him.”

“Hmm, many of his former brothers in arms might disagree with that assessment,” she crossed her legs demurely, her body language deceivingly nonchalant. “He has the bearing of a king, and his seven feet of chiseled virility is hardly a ploy. I heard you already had a chance to check that empirically,” she smirked, and didn’t let Laurent squeeze in a word of protest, “but while he appeals to the masses, this is hardly enough to rule a country. The bravado admired in a teenage warrior isn’t one welcomed in a future king.”

“Because level-headedness, restraint, and poise are characteristics most admired in Akielon society, and Theomedes the Conqueror is the embodiment of those virtues. This is why he was granted such a grand sobriquet and the ballads of his greatness are sung while he is still breathing all over the country. It’s because of his gentleness, obviously.”

“A king for the times of war is not necessarily a king for a time of peace.”

“I think you seem to forget that Veretians did not wage war on themselves the last time around,” Laurent pointed out. “Or is it the narrative around these parts? Do enlighten me."

There were words at the tip of her tongue, he saw, but she chose not to speak any of them.

Good.

"I don’t care for Damianos, but pray tell, what is the alternative? Kastor?” Laurent raised his eyebrow, skeptical. “I thought having a moral spine is one of the most substantial indications of a good ruler, but perhaps I’m wrong and it’s just my unreasonable Veretian sensibilities.”

“Listening to benevolent advice of resourceful longtimers is hardly a weakness.”

“What a beautiful euphemism for rotten aristocracy.” Beside himself, Laurent fired up. “And I gather, that is more than enough of a reason to disregard the well-being of everyone else? I cannot recall, what part of Akielon society the nobility constitutes. One of ten people? And yes, the slaves are people too,” he clarified as if it needed any elucidation to begin with. “And yet, sweeping all of the wealthy’s misdeeds and heeding to every single of their whims is somehow considered a mark of a great ruler?”

“One-fifth, actually. If you count the slaves as people, which we don’t,” Jokaste spelled out, although Laurent couldn’t be too sure whether her cold, factual tone meant she condoned the dehumanization of the most numerous class of this country or quite the contrary. “One-fifth holding the majority of the realm’s wealth and affluence, naturally. Only an idealist without a pinch of political shrewdness would ignore that,” she threw back a stray lock of hair. “Perhaps I have overestimated you.”

“Astounding how aligned our minds are. That’s exactly what I was going to say,” Laurent ironized. “You are no power broker, but just a rejected woman, trying her luck elsewhere. What could be the reason, I wonder,” he asked into the still library air, and immediately answered himself. “Damianos would fuck you, but not marry you? He’s his father’s son. One look at Hypermenestra should get your expectations in line. Abandoning that sinking ship I can understand, but going for his brother? That’s low, even by Akielon standards.”

Jokaste’s elegant fingers flinched and flexed, wrapping around the edge of the table against which she had been reclining in a vice grip. Her full lips flattened, and the look she gave him was nothing short of incensed with an air of scorn, burning hot in her veins like shame.

This time around, it was Laurent who succeeded in riling her up.

"Perhaps," she gritted, the white teeth still sparkling in a forced smile. “Living with a reputation of a brother-fucking whore is my burden to carry, but one’s got to do what’s necessary. It’s tough, and I am so glad for this heart-to-heart we are having. Maybe you would be so kind as to give me some pointers? One brother-fucking whore to another. Although in your case, that has a slightly different ring to it, doesn’t it?”

So the Regent’s spiteful lies have reached all the way across the continent. He wanted to throw up, lash forward, scream at the top of his lungs how it wasn’t true. It wasn’t Auguste. It was never Auguste. Laurent was filthy, but it wasn’t Auguste.

Two could play this game, and it took everything from Laurent to remind himself that if the situation was reversed, Auguste would not hit her. He wouldn’t spit right into her porcelain face. He would stay calm.

“One is a hearsay, while the other is an undisputed truth. Slight difference, wouldn’t you say?”

But then, the true meaning of the slight hit him like a boulder. Because there could be only one circumstance in which Jokaste would choose to say that exact insult, to be sure it landed exactly as she intended. “You know.”

She smirked, lacing her arms. “I know of many things, Your Highness.”

“Damianos?”

“Blissfully unaware, don’t worry.”

There was nothing blissful about it.

He would much rather trust a scorpio not to sting him after being stomped on than a single word leaving Jokaste’s mouth. But, thinking about it calmly, it was more likely that Damianos was truly unaware of his identity than it should be. The man was an open book; if he suddenly learned of his provenance, there would be some change in behavior towards him, even if he didn’t go clean. Namely, Laurent couldn’t imagine Damianos probing him about his past so much, if he already knew it. Forcing him to remember everything that went wrong in his life – the abandonment, the abuse, Marlas.

Uncle.

Since the moment he woke up on the cold floor in the middle of the throne room in Akielos, there was no doubt Laurent's unexpected arrival in the heart of the enemy's land was his doing. Nonetheless, from the beginning, it had struck Laurent as strange, the brazenness of this act. Letting Fate take its course was not the sort of laxity the Regent would ever allow.

But there was one thing Laurent was wrong about, one thing he hadn't considered. It wasn’t unexpected.

No one would benefit from a shift of power in Ios as greatly as the Regent – this much Laurent has already evaluated. With Akielos engulfed in chaos and left for the taking, it would be the simplest thing to just extend his hand and take his cut, absorbing the land into his sphere of influence. All he had to do was simply wait for Akielos to bring about its ruin.

The Regent was a patient man, after all. He had more than already proved it.

But why would he, if the opportunity was right at hand?

It was no coincidence. There were no risks. There was no waiting for a lucky chance, but rather – creating it.

The Regent has always been the instigator of everything, and the power lurking in the shadows. The coup – it wasn’t just Kastor and his faction behind it.

The question wasn't if anymore. The question was why.

"Blissfully unaware of what?"

Call his name and he shall appear – instantly, the sun was eclipsed by a looming silhouette of the Akielon crown prince, awkwardly creeping into the room. The way two blond heads whipped right in his direction was truly comedic – the warm baritone hitting them like a bolt out of the blue, throwing them off balance enough for all of their pretenses to evaporate into thin air.

All because Damianos was more respectful of ancient library rules than Laurent ever was. Now he thought of it, it was a wonder his and Jokaste's fierce whispers weren't heard and thoroughly chastised by an angry librarian, whose fury would easily rival that of the mightiest warriors in the realm.

Laurent did mean it when he said encyclopedias could easily be used as a weapon.

"Of this one's ability to read,” Jokaste lied, being the first one to regain her wits. As if she didn’t just get scared out of her mind, she straightened and fixed her hair, aloof as ever. “It was my understanding pets in Vere are uneducated plebeians, but I have been proven wrong. This one here is more than capable of being truly inquisitive.”

Laurent now knew who Adrastus tried to imitate while making his pathetic attempts at left-handed compliments. For better or worse, Laurent was more than fluent in bitch-speech, and could confidently say that in Jokaste-anian, 'inquisitive' meant 'intrusive', 'meddlesome', or, again, ‘fucking infuriating'.

“I am quickly learning there are many things about our northern neighbors we might have been wrong about,” Damianos stated, glancing at Laurent worryingly. Would you look at that! Apparently, the command of bitch-speech is venereally transmitted. The phenomenon must be studied, truly.

"I will leave you to continue your academic pursuits, in this case," Jokaste concluded, fixing her hair and sauntering away – and the moment she turned back, he could see Damianos release a breath, his posture relaxing and face losing its tension.

"Are you alright?" he focused on Laurent, careful, gauging. Laurent couldn’t decide whether his usual approach of choice, slow and deliberate like with an easily spooked wild animal, was more touching in its consideration, or thoroughly infuriating. Probably both, in various degrees, depending on the day, Laurent’s mood, and the phases of the moon.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

A moment Laurent didn’t realize has passed, and Damianos was standing right in front of him, less than a yard separating them. He felt his cheeks heat up, and closing his eyes, he convinced himself over and over again that it was just due to the discomfort of having the Akielon hunk this close. Nothing else.

“Can you move a bit?” Laurent thus asked, feigning boredom. “You are blocking the sun.”

Nothing was quite as amusing as watching the famed warrior prince fumble and stomp around in one spot awkwardly, glancing at the window and back at the table now and again to check whether he was not standing in the way – even though he wasn’t, to begin with, and what Laurent said has just been a ridiculous excuse.

Still, a while passed with Damianos shifting in place, turning his head around, until he had ensured the passage of light remained sufficient, and just to be sure, taking a quick look at Laurent for confirmation. Baffled that it was needed, Laurent nodded, and then – satisfied – Damianos sat down, relaxed, rendering all of his earlier efforts absolutely and completely useless.

The pride on his face was so endearing, though, that Laurent didn’t have the heart to enlighten him of it.

“Jokaste can be a bit unnerving,” Damianos then noted, referring to his earlier concern. “She didn’t affront you, did she? If she did–”

“I am more than capable of standing my ground,” Laurent interjected, even though in truth – the blonde bitch did get on his nerves. But, he tried to explain to himself, it was for the better. His brain cells could go slack from disuse otherwise; not much else to challenge them in Ios, and with Uncle still alive, breathing, and scheming, he couldn’t let them take a prolonged sabbatical.

“I don’t doubt that,” Damianos smirked. “But you are looking a bit red in the face. Have you received my gift?”

Here was the completely unnecessary confirmation. Laurent reached back, lifting the headwear hanging on a string at the back of his neck. “It is absolutely atrocious but does serve its function well. Thank you,” he expressed his gratitude, his tone still casual. “And, just so you know, a sunburn doesn’t disappear within a week. If you were hoping for that, I’m very sorry to disappoint you.”

“As long as it doesn’t hurt you, I don’t care for it. I have never experienced one myself.”

“I wonder why.”

Damianos laughed quietly. “Akielos loves her children. It would be a pity if every single one of us would be so prone to burning; we would soon run out of milk in the land, just to try and mitigate it on the daily,” he joked, and Laurent rolled his eyes. “Perhaps it’s best you favor spending time indoors.”

“What gave me away?” Laurent asked, turning over the annal he had been reading with pretended indifference, sliding it away. What was meant as a blasé gesture didn’t skip Damianos’s fixed attention; but other than a slight widening of his eyes, he didn’t react to Laurent’s literature of choice; not yet, anyway.

“Your fairness," Damianos answered with no hesitation but then stumbled. "I mean, former fairness. As in, your paleness. Because you're more red than fair now. Not that you aren't fair fair, but, uh–"

Wasn't Damianos supposed to have about five years on him? With how he sometimes acted, Laurent could swear the Akielon crown prince was actually five. Ten, at best.

He sighed, raising his hand to stop the helpless stutter. "It is noted.”

“I didn’t want to offend you,” Damianos clarified, catching on. He straightened up in his seat, tensing; surely anxious he had affronted Laurent yet again, without meaning to. “You are just, so pale, and– I am not making it any better, am I?”

“No, you aren’t,” Laurent confirmed, although in truth, he hardly minded. He was white as a sheet when he wasn’t masquerading as a tomato, and very aware of his physical attractiveness. Damianos was hardly the first one to blunder in front of him, and then ultimately turn away when Laurent’s internal ugliness started rearing its head.

Damianos sighed. “I apologize. For the last few days, the matters needing the crown’s immediate attention piled up more than was expected, and it must have affected my ability to think clearly.”

Just existing compromised the Akielon’s capacity to maintain clarity of thought, as far as Laurent was concerned, but he didn’t voice the sentiment, because it was the truth – Damianos did look worse for wear, even in comparison to the sagging posture he sported when he last saw him. The bags under his eyes at this point had the color of Laurent’s old navy doublets he used to lace himself into back in Vere, and the dark curls flopped sadly around his forehead.

“This routine,” Laurent remarked, making an elaborate gesture indicating nothing in particular, “is not sustainable.”

Unless your goal is to make the lives of all of us easier and just die out of exhaustion before Kastor has his way, Laurent’s mind helpfully supplied. He massaged the bridge of his nose, then, as if that could banish the thought away.

Why did it need to vanish, exactly?

“I know,” Damianos sighed, leaning back against the chair and letting his head hang back for a moment. “It’s only until the Patran delegation gets here, I hope. Preparations for formal visits from foreign officials are always elaborate, but now, with its timing coinciding with the Dionysia, it’s another sort of deluge of challenges. It’s pages upon pages of documents. There’s nothing I would want more than some fresh air. Honestly, I just wish I had a second pair of eyes.”

“I can be one,” Laurent blurted out, wanting to slap a hand over his mouth as soon as he did.

Of course, he could explain it as jumping on the best opportunity to snoop around in the confidential indentures of Akielos, to find holes in their defenses, gather intel, and exploit their weakness in the future. He could explain it as wanting to gain Damianos’s trust, to make the revenge all the more sweeter.

He could explain it as a lot of things, just not what it was: an instinct of a child slogging through piles of documents for hours upon hours, just because he couldn’t look at his brother frustrated, falling over from the lack of sleep and stress due to being forced into things that never came naturally to him.

An instinct, that couldn’t let him see the man before him work himself into exhaustion, either.

Laurent hated that instinct.

“You would have fixed all of Akielos’s issues within an hour, I am sure,” Damianos smiled, and it was neither mocking nor patronizing. While exaggerated, his statement was sincere – stemming from genuine conviction, and it whammied Laurent to his core. “Your willingness to help is more than appreciated, but I fear Kastor would lose whatever remains of hair he has if he knew I let a Veretian anywhere near my correspondence,” he looked to the side, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. It’s nothing personal.”

It was probably the strangest thing Laurent could ever hear coming from Damianos of Akielos’s mouth, and yet – he had full confidence he meant every word of it.

The last time anyone expressed any sort of faith in his capabilities was six years ago, and even then, it was just one person.

Despite that, Laurent has never doubted his strengths, and was aware of his weaknesses – Auguste did well at instilling assurance about that in him – but at the same time, he knew it was hardly ever recognized. It was alright, he told himself – better to be underestimated than overestimated, after all, but it was only human to want to have their potential appreciated.

And it was. By his sworn enemy, no less.

It’s funny how the world works, sometimes.

“No offense taken,” Laurent promised. “But, I can’t help but be baffled.”

“Baffled by what?”

“How is a stuffy library considered ‘fresh air’?" He smirked and saw Damianos realize the slip-up. "I favor staying indoors," Laurent threw Damianos's comment right back at him, making him cringe visibly, "however I can't help but wonder what are you doing here?"

Perhaps not the best question to ask the heir to the throne, who could roam whatever place he desired. However, Damianos didn't exactly strike Laurent as an avid reader. Especially when for all intents and purposes, he had enough reading and writing to do recently, having taken over the king's responsibilities in anything but name.

"I am here, to, um," Damianos fumbled, looking around, "read."

"Read," Laurent repeated, folding his arms across his chest.

"A book," Damianos clarified as if that was helping his case in any way.

“Haven’t you just said you have had enough reading lately?” Laurent pointed out and Damianos wriggled in his seat, caught red-handed. Still, he sighed, deciding to indulge him. “Anything in particular?"

"I was thinking maybe you could recommend something"

Laurent raised his brow skeptically. “I don't know if you noticed, but all of these books are in Akielon."

"Oh. I'm sorry, I should have thought of that. We should have some Veretian literature somewhere–"

"I'm not saying I can't read Akielon,” Laurent corrected, mildly offended. His command of the language left a lot to be desired, but nothing was stronger than his desire to read every single worthwhile work written during his lifetime. Certainly not a mere alphabet. “I’m saying that if anyone should be recommending something, it should be you. You're the local here, aren't you?"

Damianos blushed, scoring two mess-ups in the span of a few seconds. "That I am. Hmm, let's see..."

Just as Akielon children wonder what resides atop the highest mountain in the realm, Laurent in his early childhood used to stare in awe at the tall bookcases in the library, the tomes on the top shelves a forbidden fruit beyond his reach. Now, as an adult, such was no concern of his – he had all the knowledge of the world at his fingertips. Considering he had a ladder, of course.

One Damianos of Akielos didn’t need, because he had the size of the sturdiest of roof ladders himself. At most, all he needed to do was to cock his head and straighten up a bit.

The world was a cruel and unjust place, to give him, of all people, that sort of advantage. And the fact Laurent witnessed the colossus of an Akielon prince standing up on his tiptoes was barely making up for that inequality.

“‘Hypenor’ is a magnificent work," Damianos commented, pulling a book off the shelf. "It's—"

A boring war epic. Exactly the sort he expected Damianos to choose. “Already read that,” Laurent said instead, gracefully.

“’Fall of Inachtos’?”

Another war epic. A bit less boring, but still an utter drag. “Already read that when I was twelve."

“I don’t think this is the sort of literature suitable for twelve-year-olds,” Damianos grumbled, folding his arms. His brows furrowed, a small wrinkle appearing between them. “Is there a book you haven't read?"

Laurent shrugged. “I don't know. Surprise me."

Damianos’s low hum could shake the entire palace at its foundation as he walked around the tall bookcases, scanning them up and down and pondering what possibly could be met with Laurent’s approval. A few times, he saw the Akielon prince reach out and almost pull a book out of its designated place, just to change his mind at the last second, deeming the choice unsuitable for a reason only he knew. As minutes passed, he was growing more and more frustrated with his own royal library, holding thousands upon thousands of works, and yet none he could be truly sure Laurent wouldn’t dismiss, again.

Usually, just standing there would bore Laurent out of his mind, but watching Damianos struggle was providing him with endless entertainment.

The sudden weakness in his knees after Damianos triumphantly pulled up a tome, a true victor after a successful battle, was only due to the exertion after standing up for so long. So was the heaviness when Damianos’s expression fell in disappointment the moment the cover was dusted, but once the peak was made, there was no going back.

“I thought it would be—” Damianos started, handing him the book, but stopped the moment Laurent’s own eyes shined with wonder.

It couldn’t be.

“It’s… the Conquest of Arsaces. The original version,” Laurent explained, turning the tome in his hands, close to shaking in excitement. Delicate, battered by time, and so very rare that he felt like a barbarian opening it, exposing the pages to the elements. “It’s the song Kallias sang at the soirée following Kastor’s return,” he cheekily remarked, as if Damianos didn’t know the most famous homoerotic ballad of old, the classic famed in both of their kingdoms.

“Soirée,” he repeated, tasting the word on his tongue, and ignoring the rest. “I wouldn’t think of the term, but it does have a nice ring. I wonder what Kastor would do if I used it in conversation,” Damianos continued pondering, and smiled.

“Probably the same thing Hi- my father did when I opted to spend my days in the library rather than in the field, swinging a sword.”

He faintly recalled Damianos had said something in answer – some witty remark, no doubt – but Laurent was too engrossed in the text to pay him any attention.

For years he wanted to get his hands on this version, but it was not meant to be. The only copy known to ever have been in Vere was stored not in Arles, but in the South; so before he got a chance to have it in his hands, it was taken away from him, along with a chunk of his country, his family, and his dignity.

At least one of the things he managed to get back, if only temporarily.

He flipped the first page with care, and the moment he laid his eyes on the beautifully embellished initial, he was transported into another world. The letters danced before him, whirling around to the serene notes of a tune still plinking at the back of his mind, and all that with the faint echo of the same words read in Veretian, back when his life was still simple, and a naive longing for a romance was the strongest in his mind.

The words, so familiar, and yet so different.

“…ou est-ce l'esphalmenē espérance, de chascun mellontos conquerir?” he whispered, tracing the phrase with his finger.

“You speak Artesian?”

Only hearing the awed voice did Laurent remember Damianos was still in this room, very much present, and hardly the ephemeral paramour the ballad was lauding. 

The profound respect shown in the unabashed staring was undeniable. The innermost part of Laurent’s soul – that of a shy, bookish child, starved for as little as one word of approval – itched, delighted for its efforts being recognized, finally, and after so long; even if the source of it was hardly one Laurent could ever expect.

Besides, his command of the language was hardly to be sung praises of. Naturally studious, Laurent didn’t have an inborn knack for languages; every single foreign word he knew was learned through blood, sweat, tears, and hours upon hours spent over notebooks. Artesian was no different; and with its dubious practical value, he didn’t allocate as much time for it as he would have wished.

“Not fluently,” Laurent clarified, without feigned modesty. “I studied the basics of it when I was a child.”

“Basics,” Damianos parroted, and everything about him was speaking to the contrary of this statement. “Including studying the great epics and classics.”

“Only those that were available, which wasn’t much. A lot was destroyed throughout the millennia,” Laurent shook his head, sharing the tragedy of the scholars, bemoaning the brutes not understanding the value in old tomes. 

This particular brute in front of him, though, didn’t look dismissive; not with the unchangeably amazed expression of his face. Laurent’s eyes narrowed; he shouldn’t be surprised, and yet he was. “Didn’t you?” he asked, and quickly realized it was doomed to be rhetorical. “We all had to, as children. My brother hated every second of it, and frankly, got out of the lessons much too often for my tastes. It’s only fair when our father would much rather see his sons swing a sword around than get proper, in-depth education.”

“Well,” Damianos rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess I was too busy swinging a sword, in this case,” he then smirked, leaning to look over Laurent’s shoulder. He felt the warm breath of the man tickling his skin, and tensed, an unwitting blush spreading across his shoulder where the exhale brushed him.

Laurent squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in and out, internalizing the feeling; and to his confusion, he realized he didn’t want to flee or fight back, disgusted – but he didn’t want to allow this proximity, either.

He took a step forward, and respectfully, Damianos didn’t follow or intrude on his personal space again.

“Your father must have very pleased, then,” Laurent remarked, speaking off the cuff, just to release the tension. He gave His Royal Buffness an up and down. “And I can clearly tell how you were favoring the sword.”

Damianos laughed. “Not only the sword.”

“Let me guess,” Laurent pondered on the certainly vast and varied array of skills the Akielon prince must have possessed. “Also javelin?”

“And wrestling,” Damianos confirmed, although he rolled his eyes. “I’m not an uneducated brute, though. I admit, I am not much of a reader, never was, but I do enjoy learning languages. I like the idea of being able to speak to others in their tongue; that’s probably why Artesian had no appeal to me. With all of its native speakers being dead, and all.”

“In a way, it’s still alive. Akielon and Veretian stem from it, after all,” Laurent remarked but did see Damianos’s point. “My brother was of the same opinion, actually. But he was even less gifted at languages than me, so he stuck to Veretian and some very broken Akielon, exclusively.”

“More broken than yours?” Damianos asked teasingly, and the moment Laurent’s eyebrows raised in barely concealed indignation, backtracked. “I was jesting! Your Akielon is very good. It’s- just the accent.”

Yet another thing Akielon princes weren’t tortured with hours upon hours, was public relations training – and it showed.

Laurent could live without his deficiencies being pointed out so brazenly, but he was self-aware enough to admit it was only the truth. His Akielon wasn’t too good – not in comparison to Damianos’s Veretian.

Still, he folded his arms, asking, “What about my accent?”

“It’s cute.”

His brows raised to a level Laurent wasn’t aware they were capable of, and Damianos ran fingers through his curls, yanking at them in disbelief of his blundering.

“I meant to say–” He began, trying to explain himself for the millionth time.

There was no need. Laurent knew.

“I’m mostly self-learned,” he let Damianos know with no shame and indeed gaining even more respect upon the fact. “Can you imagine, that in the last six years, we have lost the majority of native Veretian-Akielon speakers? I wonder what could be the reason,” he saw Damianos open his mouth, but he didn’t let him speak. “I had no one to practice Akielon within the heart of Vere, or any other foreign language speakers, to be honest. Everyone is very much expected to speak perfect Veretian, and nothing else; Vaskian speakers were hard enough to come by.”

“Vaskian?” 

“It’s quite a handy language to have in your arsenal when your country is one of the very few ones who has established trade relationships with the Empire,” Laurent noted, and Damianos couldn’t help but grimace in agreement. Nothing but the truth.

“This is why I learned Patran,” he nodded. “Comes in handy when our delegations meet,” a sigh, “I must brush up on it before the nearest visit.”

“I would offer to be your conversation partner, but alas, I don’t speak a word of Patran,” Laurent shrugged. “And even if I did, we cannot let my accent possibly offend you.

“It doesn’t offend me!” Damianos protested, raising his voice much above what could be considered proper at a library. He leaped out of his chair without realizing it, and only when he noticed his ass was no longer seated on a comfy pillow, he pulled the piece of furniture back to its rightful place by the table. “It’s lovely. Really. Fits you,” he added, looking away like a schoolboy.

Laurent only blinked, not exactly comprehending how he should understand that sort of reaction. He should be flattered, he supposed; but the only thing he felt, was confusion.

"I could teach you some Patran," Damianos offered, breaking the awkward moment, “and you could help me with my Veretian?"

As if it needed any working on. It was stupidly and annoyingly impeccable, the sort of fluency Laurent could only hope for in his Akielon. He had the language down, with only the barest hints of an accent, that could easily pass at Delfeurean. 

There was only one thing Damianos lacked, and it was the intrinsic sassiness of Veretian, but he feared there was no amount of classes that could instill it into his brutally honest, simple brain.

He didn’t get a chance to decide between a sarcastic offer, a mean comment, or a graceful reply, when the doors opened with a quiet squeak, reveling the curly head of the young Pallas, bowing respectfully in apology for having interrupted his prince.

“Exalted—” he started, but with a resigned gesture, Damianos stopped him in his tracks. He sighed, heavily.

“I fear the library was not good enough of a hiding place, away from my duties,” he shook his head, but the look on Pallas’s face, and the barely concealed bewilderment for having found him here of all places, along with the sheer passage of time, spoke of a different story. “I must now return to them, unfortunately. I’m sorry for the abruptness of it.”

“How will I survive,” Laurent bemoaned exaggeratedly, and Damianos smirked.

“By occupying your time with Patran flashcards, I don’t doubt,” his eyes sparked with naughtiness.

“Do you take it upon yourself to exam me?” Laurent asked back, cheekily, folding both of his arms in feigned demureness which was fooling absolutely no one.

“Why do I feel like, somehow, it would be you testing me instead?”

The air stirred, the weight and heat of it rivaling the one Laurent experienced kneeling in the gardens. He took a glance at Pallas, who kept sending begging glances towards Damianos, yet none of them were acknowledged – because he only had eyes for Laurent, staring at him, as if that could provide him the answer; one they both knew, and Laurent dared voice.

“I think,” he said, and it was the truth, “it would be us challenging each other. Always.”

Chapter Text

The throne was empty.

It was an eyesore in the hall filled to the brim with officials, servants, and slaves, all clad in their best outfits, awaiting the imminent arrival of the Patran delegation. So painstakingly prepared, everything ready to the last detail – except for one very notable exception.

The growing murmurs were roaring in Laurent’s head, loud like a marching army of soldiers. He stared at the dais as if that could make the heir to the throne appear out of thin air. It was unlike Damianos, Laurent couldn’t help but think. A lot could be said about the man, but he was dutiful – he wouldn’t just oversleep to a meeting he had been preparing for weeks; especially taking into account that the man was a trained soldier. Waking up at buttcrack of dawn was ingrained in him like breathing.

Unless, he wasn't breathing anymore.

A burst of hotness spread throughout Laurent’s body, washed away by freezing cold. His eyes shot to the left side of the throne, where Kastor stood – impassive and stoic like a block of granite – and wondered, have you done that, already? Has the plan succeeded? Is it done, and you are standing there in all of your feigned royal grace, cold and haughty, while your brother is a pale hulk of a man bled out on some marble floor, none the wiser, because he was naive enough to trust his family? 

None the wiser, because Laurent was cruel enough to let his revenge happen by negligence.

A long while has passed in silence, then torn by a fanfare blaring, announcing the arrival of the Patrans. Orange flags waved in the air, the light passing through them filling the room with warmth, almost like the stained glass Laurent remembered from the cathedrals back home. If not for the bright colors – so at odds with the Akielon simplicity of white marbles and limited palette of chitons – he wouldn't be able to separate the visitors from the Akielons at all. They were so similar – all dark, well-built, strong, and confident in their power in a way so extroverted it made Laurent want to turn on his heel and leave. Exactly like he did all those weeks ago when the person passing the greetings of the good host, was him.

Or, more often, his Uncle. Both because of his hunger for power, clutching to every opportunity to present himself as kingly as possible, but also due to Laurent's welcoming personality. It wasn't an exaggeration or a slight to say his demeanor was more than capable of making any dignitary turn back and leave where they came from, instantly.

He imagined Kastor to have the same effect, but the smirk that bloomed on his face the moment the trumpet blasted was positively charming. Still, Laurent knew the type. He recognized that rise of his mouth's corners, the chin held high, the squared shoulders. The exhale.

He was triumphant.

“His Highness, the Exalted Torveld of Patras, Prince Royal, brother of King Torgeir, and Ambassador to Akielos!"

There was no mistaking that deep chestnut mane, and not for the first time, Laurent's first instinct was to flee – before his rational mind grabbed him by the shoulders and kept him firmly where he stood. Not attending an event such as this would be more suspicious than anything, even though he could do without standing at the front lines. The effect his sudden disappearance would have, he wouldn't even mention.

Besides, it was impossible for Torveld of Patras to recognize him, especially how he was now.

The last time Laurent had seen him, he was four feet tall and barely reaching up to his brother's elbows, which made it all the easier to hide behind him from the strange man speaking a language no doubt supposed to be Veretian, but being hardly that with the harshness with which it was spoken. If the Patran prince remembered anything about him, it was the atrocious bowl cut he sported back in the day. Torveld certainly couldn't see much else from his bird-view perspective. And that's not even mentioning how next to Auguste, Laurent always was virtually indiscernible.

Now, they were the same height – and judging by the spark in Torveld's eyes, Laurent was hardly invisible anymore.

This was going to be a very long week.

"We welcome you to Ios," Kastor greeted in a booming voice, certainly imitating the one Damianos used so effortlessly while he held court. Whether Kastor meant the pluralis maiestatis or spoke for everyone present – and absent – was only for him to know, but Laurent had a very good idea; a different one than he had with Damianos, when the same doubt occurred. “We hope your stay here will be pleasant, and most of all, fruitful.”

“Where is Damianos?” Torveld cut to the chase in a tone that didn’t try to conceal his bewilderment for the very visible lack of a certain mountain of muscles sitting on the throne. Laurent covered his mouth and nose, just to conceal the little snort he couldn’t stop from escaping him; he thought the Akielons were direct, but clearly, they had competition.

“Is he indisposed like the King?” the Patran prince continued to inquire, eyes probing around the room from underneath lowered brows. “I fear we haven’t been informed of any such disruptions to our planned parleys.”

“I assure you, there are no further disruptions. My brother remains in good health,” Kastor guaranteed, and Laurent raised his brow, “and should join us later. I do apologize for his absence,” he continued, lowering his head in a gesture of sincerity, which couldn't be more fake. "I'm afraid he had more pressing matters to attend to."

"More pressing matters?" Torveld asked, rightfully surprised. Hardly any business could be considered more important than attending to high-ranked officials from another country, who travelled such a long way to discuss the future of their alliance. Maybe even potential marriage proposal would be made; while Kastor himself committed a mesalliance almost on par with the one from which he was born, Damianos was quite the eligible bachelor. And Patras was not poor in princesses.

If Laurent hadn't been disposed of, he would be sure to receive his own offers. Lots of them, and very soon.

Maybe it was good Uncle decided to slowly murder him with another's hands. As Ancel would comment, this way at least he could get his once-in-a-decade chance for a sword piercing him, rather than have to... polish a shield or something.

Laurent would much rather not think of that.

"Is the Ki—"

"I cannot speak of the nature of the matters occupying Damianos, for I don't know," Kastor interrupted, and Laurent only narrowed his eyes at him. Lies. Blatant lies written in bright paint, ones that would be given leave only by the virtue of the Patrans' honorable upbringing. "But I, for one, understand the gravity of your visit to Ios."

All that was lacking was Kastor calling the white marble palace a 'humble abode'. Laurent wondered whether the speech was prepared for him in advance by Jokaste, or if it was his own little creative input. Inadvertently, Laurent turned his head in her direction, and instantly saw a pair of blue eyes staring right back at him. She raised her brow at the coincidence, but didn't avoid the contact; rather, she shook her head, barely noticeably.

'No'. No, what? No, I haven't prepared Kastor's lines? No, Damianos isn't alive anymore? No, you should not snoop around this time around?

Did she think he would know from that mere gesture what was on her mind? He'd love to, but sadly, while he was smart, yet again, mind reading wasn't yet in his arsenal of skills. A pity he hoped would be amended in the years to come; where there's a will, there's a way, or so they say.

Comes in very handy when one is as nosy and contrarian as himself. Because there certainly was a will.

If Damianos was already dead, Laurent would be first to find his corpse and call dibs on it, no matter if he wanted it or not; Kastor certainly would arrange it beforehand. Because, as Laurent called it right after he arrived in Ios – if he didn't manage to ally himself with their faction, he'd be the first to go. A scapegoat.

“We are flattered to receive your welcome,” Torveld replied, and there was only a moment of hesitance after which he added, “However, we hope to meet with Damianos at his earliest convenience. It is of the essence we see eye to eye with the one holding authority if our meetings are to be productive.”

Laurent almost choked himself on his breath – oh, so Patrans actually weren’t as unsophisticatedly simple-minded in their honesty as Akielons. In fact, he couldn’t imagine a more courteous way to make their displeasure known that they were to be greeted by a mere bastard and perhaps made to negotiate with him, rather than with the actual heir to the throne. A beautifully delivered veiled insult, a fair response to the offense of seeing Kastor standing right next to the empty throne – leaning towards it perhaps a bit too much.

Obviously, Kastor himself was much less appreciative of the diplomatic artistry of the comment.  

“I do hold authority in my own name,” he enlightened Torveld through gritted teeth, but the expression of doubt on the Patran prince’s face remained unchanged. “However, I am sure Damianos will join us. Eventually.”

“Eventually,” Torveld parroted.

The Patran delegation wasn’t amused, and it was hard to blame them; being received by a royal bastard was hardly on par with greetings from a King or his heir. One didn’t need to be as strict as a Veretian to be offended by such a turn of events, especially if it was due to the crown prince’s negligence, for all intents and purposes.

Kastor’s move was a double-edged sword; Damianos’s delay – be it indeed temporary, or unfortunately, very permanent – was both playing to his advantage and against it. On one hand, Kastor could elevate himself this way and network to his heart’s desire – but on the other hand, the Patrans didn’t seem to be particularly interested in that. Moreover, the offense could easily be a sign of weakness, and even if it strengthened Kastor’s position, it affected Akielos’s negatively; and such wasn’t preferable, to say the least.

Laurent didn’t particularly care, but at the same time, it rubbed him the wrong way for Kastor to be destroying something Damianos spent day after day and a lot of sleepless nights building, just for a momentary spotlight. 

“During the dinner, perhaps,” Kastor theorized, gesturing towards another hall, the doors of which were grand, but still not big enough to contain all the traffic of servants going back and forth, already carrying plates overfilled with delicacies of all kinds, there to appease the revered guests. “To which we would be most honored to invite you, now. You must be famished after your long travel, and so, we would like to share all the luxuries Akielos has to offer.”

“All of them?” Torveld asked, and for a second, his warm eyes stopped to lay on Laurent, before returning to Kastor.

It was a blink but didn’t skip the heightened attention of the second prince. “That, I am sure, can be arranged.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Needless to say, the dinner was a tense affair for Laurent, and it wasn’t only due to the strain his muscles suffered, standing for an hour already next to an empty seat at the head of the long table, where Damianos was supposed to be seated. Inadvertently, he recalled all the boorish dinners he had to sit through back in Arles, and how his ass used to hurt from a chair that only looked comfortable – and never in his life, Laurent thought he would miss it so dearly.

As for the company, it was making it only slightly better. Other than him, Erasmus was chosen to attend the table as Damianos’s personal slave, a job that was supposed to be an honor, but with the man continuously missing, was more of a mockery. Only so long a person could stand with their hands laced demurely, before becoming less of a statue of perfect modesty, and more of a ridiculed neglect.

But funnily enough, Laurent longed for a bit of invisibility with how the state of affairs was. He was anything but abandoned, with the way Torveld’s eyes shifted to him every so often; and perhaps only the attention of other people, ones appearing to be much more affluent than a mere slave, were saving Laurent from the Patran prince’s attempts at charming him.

However, that luck could last only so long.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

For a moment, Laurent considered just ignoring him and maybe pretending to be deaf but quickly abandoned the thought – and for two reasons.

One, the charade would quickly be broken when someone else tried to converse with him, and then the repercussions for ignoring a foreign royal could be dire – having to kneel in the scorching sun once was enough for the month, thank you very much.

Two, Torveld might very well be his ticket out of Ios.

Still, with Laurent’s bad strike of impulsive decision-making and character judgment, he stopped for a moment, considering him. Torveld was an attractive man – not a pile of muscles like Damianos, but nonetheless a robust specimen. His way of speaking reflected that, as well as his age – Laurent shouldn’t be surprised Torveld sounded like a man in his forties who enjoyed a glass of wine perhaps too much, as well as a pretty human on his arm, when he, indeed, was in his forties. And a prince.

But while his manners made him cringe, Torveld of Patras didn’t strike Laurent as a bad man; and so, he decided to indulge him a little.

“Laurent,” he answered, deciding it was much too late for playing with fake aliases. Besides, if he hadn’t recognized him this far, he wouldn’t just because of a vastly popular first name.

Popular in Vere, that is; and whether it was that, or Laurent’s pronounced accent, Torveld caught on very quickly. “You’re Veretian? What un lys veretien is doing here, so far away from home?”

Torveld’s effort to switch to Veretian for Laurent’s convenience was admirable, however, in the last ten years or so since he saw the man last, his command of this beautiful language did not improve in the slightest. Each word was like a chalk dragged down a blackboard in Laurent’s ears, and it was just at the sound level; not even beginning to consider the words’ content. 

Once he did, he cringed even more, but at the same time, almost bursted out laughing at the ridiculousness of it. A Veretian lily he was, hard to argue with it; maybe not as white and pure as his heraldry might suggest – he was tainted many years ago, and only grew more battered with time – but a lily nonetheless.

Still, he wondered on whom such pickup lines could work. Lykaios, maybe? No, she was desperate, but too learned for this. Besides, she had her attentions elsewhere. Ancel? He would have cried out of laughter the moment Torveld turned his head.

“Currently,” he answered, leaning forward to reach for a jug of wine and pour a glass for Torveld, earning himself a slightly raised brow from Erasmus, “I am attending a royal table in the middle of the Akielon court.”

Replying in Akielon rather than Veretian was perhaps cheeky, and so was serving the foreign prince rather than the one he was assigned to – but with Damianos missing and not seeing what he was doing, he couldn’t bring himself to care much.

Torveld didn’t take his switch in languages to heart, either; he smirked, understanding the allusion, and took the decorative chalice from Laurent’s hands – not skipping on a chance for hand contact, brushing his skin delicately.

Laurent closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. He didn’t want to break the spell. He didn’t. It was the last thing he wanted to do.

He still shivered.

And Torveld still noticed.

He blinked, withdrawing his hand, and turned his eyes towards Laurent to stare at him, the same sort of inquisitive gaze he had seen from Damianos many times before. And just like Damianos, Torveld opened his mouth only to then close it, without saying a single word. His brows furrowed, and for a second, his eyes grew stone cold, only to soften again when he exhaled and looked back at him.

“It’s always hard for a flower, isn’t it?” he asked, carefully. “Being replanted.”

This time, it was Laurent’s turn to knit his brows. There was a double meaning to be found there, that much was obvious; but what on Earth has been born in this thick-haired, middle-aged head, was only for Torveld to know. Laurent bit his lip slightly, thinking, before he realized the expression might appear overly flirty.

Torveld wasn’t in an amorous mood anymore though, and for the life of him, Laurent couldn’t figure out why.

“It does take some adjustments,” he replied slowly, weighing his words, seeing which would land, and then – keeping with the gardening theme – added, “but while some plants are finicky, others are much more alike weeds.”

“Is this what you were told?” Torveld asked, gaining at least three new wrinkles on his forehead. “That you’re a weed?”

The truth was, if he ever was, he would take it as a compliment. A weed was a survivor plant – persisting in the worst of conditions, a pesky little thing that could not be eradicated, no matter what was tried against it. A weed wasn’t a decorative flower, withering with the slightest breeze and a less-than-perfect glance; it was strong. It was real.

It was an eyesore. A liability. Something to abuse, stomp down or get rid of at the earliest convenience.

“You don’t know me.”

“But wouldn’t you want a chance to get acquainted?” Torveld probed, leaning forward and drilling his stare right into Laurent’s soul, searching for all the fragments he wanted to hide. He wouldn’t let him. “Away from all this? Away from Ios?”

Laurent opened his mouth, but he never learned what he wanted to say – because that very moment, the grand doors opened with a creek, and in them, a ghost stood.

Very vigorous-looking ghost. Powerfully built. Strong like a draft horse.

And very, very ruffled.

His expression couldn’t be seen from this far away, of course, but it was enough for Laurent to see the guards – some chatting on the sly, some slouching, and some falling asleep whilst leaning against their swords – instantly straighten their backs into the correct postures, slamming their weapons against the floor with a loud clank as Damianos passed them, doing more to announce his arrival than a herald ever could. The hall grew quiet, the conversation over plates of meats, cheeses, and olives coming to a halt as the courtiers stared at their Prince making his grand entrance.

“I apologize for my absence,” he said as much to Torveld as to the entire room, voice booming. “I was held up with things beyond my control.”

“We are glad to know the issues delaying you have been resolved,” the Patran prince assured in a voice just as loud, but the moment the official greetings were made and the plates started doing their rounds around the table again, he stopped conversing for the benefit of the crowd, but rather – for his own. “Kastor assured us you would be able to join for dinner, and we are heartened to know you found some time for us.”

The little jab caused Damianos to tilt his head in the slightest, simply looking at Torveld. The diplomatic protocol wouldn’t allow him to reply in kind, however tempted he might be to do so.

“We have had the most riveting company in the meantime,” Torveld continued, sending a truly appreciative gaze Laurent’s way, looking him up and down with a smile that might have bordered on a leer, if the Patran prince was a lesser caliber of a man. That, in turn, made Damianos press his lips together as if he was physically stopping himself from commenting on the action. “How is the King’s health? Please give Theomedes my regards and well wishes. I am certain the next time we visit, he will be there at the top of the high table, regaling us with the stories of his youth and conquests, just like in the old days.”

The wish expressed was nothing more than a bunch of courteous words thrown into an erudite speech, of which none was remotely based in reality; allied they might be, but Laurent would be surprised if Patras didn’t have its snitches planted in the Akielon court, just as Akielos must have their own in Bazal. The first rule of politics: trust, but verify.

They knew Theomedes would soon be entertaining other sinners in Tartarus.

Perhaps this was why Damianos didn’t pay the deepest regards any mind, focusing on what was right there on his plate. “I see you have made Laurent’s acquaintance.”

The corner of Laurent’s mouth rose unwittingly, tickling his funny bone. Whether it was an intentional, veiled slight to put a slave before a fellow prince, or just a lack of thought on Damianos’s part, it didn’t matter; it was caught, and noted, just like the omission of the inquiry after Theomedes’s health. While Laurent’s ego was stroked more than it realistically should in this scenario, appealing to his smugness, Torveld’s pleasant poker face remained in place. In fact, judging by the enthusiasm with which he replied, he was more than glad to cut to the chase and converse about the subject that was of real interest to him.

“Oh, I have,” he confirmed, switching the hierarchy to the correct one. “Your slave is truly beautiful, Damianos. I have never seen anyone of his fairness in all of Patras and Akielos.”

The comment was seemingly offhand, but all of them knew it couldn’t be more direct. Indeed, Damianos couldn’t have tensed more than he did just then, and the reasons were aplenty; still, he kept up with the charade, focusing more on the bowl of fried potatoes in front of him rather than his interlocutor, as he hummed, “Hmm, perhaps because he’s not from these parts.”

“I did mean to ask, how did you come into possession of a Veretian slave? Is he from Delpha?”

“It would still be an Akielon slave in this case, just one favoring the Veretian language,” Damianos corrected and clarified, piercing the potato with a fork in a way that made Laurent think of impaling a piece of soft, human flesh, atop a trident. Perhaps this was exactly what Damianos was imagining at the moment. “But no, he’s as Veretian as they come, as far as I know.”

“How exotic,” Torveld commented, and it was so funny to Laurent, to whom the entirety of Ios and Patras fell under that definition, with their heat, opulence of rich colors, the deep tones of their skins and hair. In comparison, his pale face and even paler hair could hardly be considered ‘exotic’, and neither could the grey, muddy city of Arles. “And unusual. I was under the impression all Akielon slaves were ethically sourced.”

Good that Laurent was not allowed to drink or eat anything while he served the table, or he would get orange juice stains all over the fine tablecloth. ‘Ethically’, ‘sourced’, and ‘slaves’ were not the words he ever thought of hearing said in the same breath, in the same sentence, without a hiccup of a pinch of hesitation.

Damianos also seemed offended by the notion, if only for different reasons. “What are you implying, my brother of Patras? I’ll pay it no heed, for the sake of the ancient alliance of our motherlands. But to ease your conscience – I assure you, he was not abducted by Akielos for our entertainment.”

He indeed wasn’t. He was trafficked by his own people, by his family, and for their entertainment and convenience. Not by his enemies – a fact with which Laurent still could not make his peace.

“And we treat him kindly here, I’ll have you know,” Damianos added, clearing up any further misunderstandings; although Torveld didn’t seem convinced.

If anything, he appeared surprised that the Akielon side hadn’t kidnapped him to make him into a slave. Laurent couldn’t help but think what Torveld's personal opinion on his allies was, if he was inclined to jump to such a conclusion this easily. Or did something prompt this sort of idea?

“I meant no offense, my brother of Akielos,” he nonetheless lowered his head in apology, “but I could not imagine how Vere could have parted with someone so fine.”

“It only shows the Regent’s willingness to improve Vere’s relationship with Akielos, which is noted and appreciated.” Damianos turned to Laurent, looking him in the eye as he said, “Laurent makes a valuable addition to our household, and for that, we are very grateful.”

The Master of Slaves would be of a different opinion, labeling him as more of a troublemaker and agitator without whom they could easily do. He wasn’t particularly nice to Damianos himself, either; and unless he had a degradation kink, Laurent wasn’t certain what of value a traditional, slave-supporting Akielon could see in Laurent's rotten, agitating personality and sharp tongue.

But, Damianos did, just like Torveld; but only one of the peacocks puffing their feathers came to know him at all, even though he was unaware of the most important part. His identity.

“I can imagine,” Torveld nodded, sagely, steering the conversation exactly where he intended it. “Akielos is famous for its slaves, after all. Torgeir always praises their quality, although we haven’t been honored with one that came from under Adrastus’s revered care.”

Judging by Damianos’s expression, he already knew where the foreign prince was going with it, but chose not to acknowledge it. “I am sure this can be arranged. There are quite a few awaiting their First Night that we could be parted with, as a gesture of goodwill.”

“It is noted and appreciated,” Torveld parroted Damianos’s own words, “although there is no need for such a sacrifice. For the right of the First Night, I don’t care much, it is the slave’s bearing that attracts me. And no one has quite caught my attention like that one.”

Great to know someone didn’t care Laurent has been fucked into every single fuckable hole in his body previously, but still, standing there – invisible, as other men talked about him, haggled him – was a vastly uncomfortable experience. Dehumanizing like few things in his life have been, and there was quite a variety of painful instances to choose from.

As if he heard his thoughts, Damianos sent an apologetic glance his way, before turning back to Torveld. “I fear we have arrived at an impasse because Laurent is not on the offer.”

That did not dissuade the Patran prince who, without missing a beat, made his proposal.

Laurent wanted to whistle at the sum, which wouldn’t be sufficient for a Veretian crown prince, but was more than fair for a slave, even one that belonged to Damianos’s household. Not that he knew anything about the going rates, but it was almost ten times what Ancel’s current market value was, and everyone knew that one wouldn’t sell himself short.

Bitterly, he thought it was also much more than Uncle would hawk him for. Because, from experience, Laurent already knew he was peddled away completely free of charge.

“It’s a fair price for one this kingly,” Torveld insisted, far from intimidated by Damianos’s hard expression.

Laurent himself, on the other hand, had to hold back a snort. Oh, he was kingly, indeed. He would refer Torveld to his grandfather to congratulate him on a fine choice of breeding— sorry, marriage politics, but sadly, he was not here to be found. Probably resting somewhere in the pits of Hell, alongside most of his other family members.

“I know that in Bazal, he would have just the right environment to bloom to his full potential,” he continued, but it wasn’t helping his case much. If anything, as much as Laurent would love to get out of Ios, he was certain that one more flower metaphor would end up with his fist up Torveld’s nose; and judging by Damianos’s tense muscles, he probably needed even less than that.

“He’s not for sale,” he gritted out, his hand dangerously clutching around the fork, which miraculously didn’t bend. “And he’s not lacking anything in here, either.”

“Or so you have assured me, I know,” Torveld leaned back, his relaxed stance at odds with his tense, combative tone. “And I am not implying anything, merely that Patras is more up north, so perhaps the climate there would be more preferable for that one. More similar to that one’s native Vere, and less risk of him being hurt in the sun. That one’s disposition is so delicate, after all.”

It was only a matter of time until Laurent’s severe sunburn would be pointed out, one which didn’t even come close to fully healing in the past few weeks. The comment did throw Damianos off; allowing someone under his care to suffer being burned to a crisp could easily be seen as a sign of negligence, and perhaps, it was one. Still, Damianos wasn’t backing off, and his riposte did surprise Laurent.

“He’s not a dainty little flower,” he made Torveld aware, but the Patran prince still seemed unconvinced. “Don’t be mistaken. As for the Akielon sun, we have already found ways to mitigate its effects. There’s no need to worry about it.”

Laurent was no better than a statue, his breath caught and all movement of his body ceased as he stared at Damianos, unabashed. But, even in his frozen state, for once, he wasn’t heavy, he wasn’t tense – there was something in his chest, expanding, overwhelming him with a feeling he never knew.

No one had ever recognized his strength before.

Born against all odds, he always had a weak constitution as a child, suffering from illnesses constantly – but every single time, he prevailed. As a teen, burdened by the weight of the crown and abuse, he was weak, not able to withstand it – and yet, here he was, an adult. Bitter and bruised, but alive. His mind sharp like a blade, which he painstakingly learned to wield.

Stronger than anyone could ever imagine.

Stronger than even he realized he could be.

“I see,” Torveld said in a level voice, not revealing anything of his emotions. He stood up, his chair dragging on the marble, its squeak resounding in the hall and alarming the courtiers, all the heads of which turned in their direction. The conversations died out, the focus turning to the two princes, gauging each other with daring looks. “If that one is a prize won, and not bought, I will not back down from a challenge. Will you meet me in an honorable combat, Prince Damianos?”

Loud gasps passed through the crowd, Laurent a part of this choir. He wanted to travel through time and space to tell his little childhood self to stop hoping for a Florent, Galahad, or Tristan, or he might just get one, and wish to disappear underground to be anywhere else, but there.

He wasn’t the only one taken aback by this development. Damianos stared at Torveld for quite a moment, and it was only for him to know whether he was giving his challenger a chance to decline, or perhaps waiting until it would all be turned into a joke. But alas, it wasn’t.

With the gauntlet being thrown so publicly, Damianos had no way to decline. And so, he followed Torveld, standing up as well, taking the offered hand and shaking it firmly.

“Name your time and place.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The rest of the dinner passed in good spirits, in an atmosphere of laughter and cross-border bonding, everyone equally excited for the upcoming friendly duel between the princes, which quickly turned out to be an unexpected highlight of the Patran visit to Akielos.

It wasn’t one for Laurent. He wasn’t particularly fond of being involved, even vicariously, in a royal duel in which Damianos was a party. It didn’t end well the last time.

And of course, his discomfort didn’t go unnoticed. However he was pouring wine just as dutifully – trying to think of it as a throwback to his days as a squire to Auguste, rather than the late nights with his Uncle – Damianos did glance his way every so often, brown eyes filled to the brim with questions of concern Laurent would rather not answer. By the end of the evening, their frequency grew to the point where he was convinced Damianos would cut the dinner short, if not for the prominence of the event. And indeed, when time ran its course, there was no overstaying, the courteous goodbyes made with all the fanfare and well-wishes before the next day would come, and arrangements for the duel would be set in stone.

The moment the Patrans disappeared for the night, shown to their quarters by selected servants, the palace returned to normalcy, if just for a few hours; and the normal, as Laurent quickly realized, meant being escorted to the slave quarters personally by Damianos.

How did he end up in this situation yet again, he did not know, but he supposed he should get accustomed to it.

Despite Damianos being the one to offer his company, he wasn’t particularly talkative this time around. A few times, Laurent thought, perhaps he wanted to say something – with the way he stopped in his tracks, looking at him, as if hoping Laurent could hear his mind and spare him the need to voice what was bothering him.

“Are you treated unkindly here?”

It was so quiet Laurent almost believed he might have heard the question in his head, but turning to Damianos and seeing his restless fingers, playing with thin air, proved to the contrary.

He wanted to say yes. It was almost as bad as Arles, and it was the extent to which anything good could be said about his stay in Ios. He hated being reduced to a slave, he hated being watched at every move, he hated Adrastus from the bottom of his heart, and above all – he hated the injustice, the disparity between social classes.

But he couldn’t say it. Not to him. Because against all odds, it was not Damianos who was making his life in Ios hard. In fact, it was Damianos who was doing what he could, what he was made aware of, to make it better.

Just because Laurent asked.

But Laurent didn’t want to be dependent on anyone, much less when a power imbalance was involved. Much less when it was him. The prince-killer.

Laurent was ashamed to admit he was forgetting about that fact, lately.

“Have you been slighted by anyone?” Damianos added a question when he was met with silence. He looked afraid of the answer like a child asking their mother if Santa exists.

Laurent never believed that. He was always a person of facts. “I am a slave, with everything that comes with it,” he reminded Damianos as if one look at him wasn’t enough. “You don’t have to keep asking. I told you I can take care of myself, and you can focus on other things.”

That needn’t be said, because even without Laurent assuring Damianos of it, his mind was burdened with everything and more. Every moment of peace stolen, and each phrase fecklessly uttered reminded of what loomed all around them. 

“How bad was it? When I wasn’t there to greet the Patrans,” Damianos inquired, even though he knew the answer, and was only looking to confirm it, perhaps to have more reasons to dwell on his shortcomings.

Laurent didn’t like that.

“Kastor was there,” he started, cautiously, not knowing what more to say. It was stating the obvious, but more than that was delving into dangerous territory. Of the dissonance between the reality of the royal bastard, and whom Damianos deemed him to be, still.

Nikandros tried to dissuade him and see where it got him. And Laurent had much fewer reasons to attempt that; quite the contrary.

“I hoped he would be,” Damianos sighed, looking at the stars shining above them. “I hate having to rely on him so much. He’s so much stronger than I am, keeping his cool when I— when I cannot.”

It’s not strength, Laurent thought to himself, but rather, a lack of concern.

For a moment, he wondered how many times in the past he confused a rotten core, a cold evil, for strength of character, and was afraid to count. He wasn’t much better than Damianos was – and what a scary thought it was.

And both of them could be thrown off their axis for one reason only, the reason that didn’t deserve their hearts and commitment in the least.

Family.

“Theomedes,” Laurent let out, and nothing more needed to be said. The name hit Damianos, a heavy breath escaping his lungs, making his shoulders sag in resignation.

“It’s so hard to watch someone who was the epitome of strength wither away,” he whispered, as if ashamed to state what everyone already knew, and what he tried to push away, time after time. “Each time I enter Father’s chambers, I hesitate at the threshold and stare at his chest, and each time I fear– it barely moves at all these days.”

Laurent felt like a herald of death personified, and it wasn’t as thrilling as he had once imagined. “It was deemed to happen—”

But it didn’t make it any easier. “He’s not even sixty yet,” Damianos curled his fist, and if any tree was closer to them, Laurent was sure it would feel his helpless wrath. “He’s not even sixty. Men in my family live to see a century, and he’s dying of old age now? It’s not what should happen.”

His brother shouldn’t have died before seeing thirty, either; Laurent himself shouldn’t have been abused and raped all as a child, and yet that was exactly what happened.

The world wasn’t fair, and how naive this kind brute was to still believe it?

“I couldn’t tell the Patran delegation I wasn’t present, because I am not as strong as Kastor, and had to stay with our Father. I have to think of Akielos, and cannot expose its weakness so blatantly.”

“It’s hardly weak,” Laurent chose to say, seeming it not the right time for a lesson in nihilism, not when Damianos was struggling with the conflict between duty to his family and his country. “Akielos is still strong. It will be assessed when you defeat Torveld of Patras in a single combat. Choosing a morning was a smart choice, but it won’t help him much.”

“A smart choice?” Damianos repeated, not following.

“He may be hoping that you’d be hungover,” Laurent explained. “That’s what I would do.”

“That’s not very honorable of you,” Damianos remarked, a small smile returning to his face.

Laurent shrugged. “I play to win.”

“I don’t doubt you do. But, I hate to inform you, I never drink so much to suffer a headache,” he waved his hand in the air as if he was brushing aside the very idea of it. “I’m a big man, a couple of glasses of wine don’t have that effect on me.”

“Big, you say? I haven’t noticed.” He rolled his eyes sarcastically, and Damianos smiled at it, content. “But, I haven’t said it would be an effective strategy.”

“Haven’t you?”

“No. This is what I would do if I was him. I wasn’t speaking for myself.”

“Torveld of Patras is quite a formidable warrior, from what I heard. He has quite a few years of experience on me, after all.”

“I don’t recall any ballad lauding his achievements in battle being sung,” Laurent pointed out, exasperated and indignant he had to admit to knowing of those to begin with. “Patras has avoided any sort of conflict since the moment King Torgeir took the throne. They haven’t even supported Akielos against Vere. Torveld at forty is wetter behind the ears than when you were at nineteen.”

“To what do I owe those compliments?”

“Those aren’t compliments, but rather a cold assessment,” Laurent corrected, although the prideful smirk hadn’t disappeared off Damianos’s face. “If one isn’t very good, they have no chance of winning against you.”

“How good?” Damianos inquired further, seeking the thrill of having his ego stroked. He leaned in towards Laurent, just in the slightest; knowing better than that, he stayed clear of his personal zone, which was appreciated more than Laurent thought it could be.

Still, the next words wiped that smirk right off Damianos's face. “Very good. At least as good as Auguste of Vere.”

The flattery didn’t sound so sweet anymore, and Damianos’s poise changed instantly. He straightened back up, his face no longer youthfully flirty and smug, but rather contemplative. Serious.

Now, only the crunch of gravel under their feet accompanied them, and the rustling of trees in the wind, a bird chirping now and again. A happy sound, jarring in the air heavy with words unsaid.

It was Damianos who broke the silence. “He was a great warrior,” he said simply, “and the greatest loss of the war for Vere. Worth twice as much as Delpha ever could.”

Truer words have never been said; although residents of the region, those who lost their lifetime earnings at best, and lives of both themselves and their entire families at worst, probably wouldn’t agree. But for Laurent personally, dozens of Delfeurs couldn’t even begin to compare. Thousands.

If he could make the exchange, he would do it in a heartbeat.

But he hasn’t said any of that. He hasn’t as much as looked at Damianos, only at the silhouette of the walls of the slave gardens, still a distance away.

“This is me,” he announced, even though he knew Damianos intended to walk him to the entrance, if not further; but, in the circumstances, the man hadn’t made a note of that. He only nodded, staring at Laurent with eyes heavy with guilt and the weight of many a good life he had taken.

And would take in the future, because this was the sort of a man he was.

No.

This was the sort of time they were living in. The sort of men they were forced to become.

Laurent turned, and as he walked, he felt the gaze following him, all the way until he faded out of view. Only then did Laurent hear the gravel crunch once again, fainter and fainter, until it was completely quiet again.

Or, it wasn’t.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

In the late hour, the soft wails were eerie, reminding Laurent of the tales of la Dame Blanche, and every rational cell in his body was chastising him. After all, he was twenty years old, educated, and overall a skeptic; there was no such thing as spiritual, only what can be perceived, checked, and tried.

A foolish part of his brain reminded him there was nothing wrong about caution; if anything, not stirring the hornet’s nest was more than advisable, and perfectly reasonable. This was how, inch by inch, he had found himself stalking forward warily, as if anxious a ghoul could jump at him at any moment. 

But there were no phantoms, no wraiths or monsters. Only a very real, tangible lost soul, weeping helplessly in the most desolate part of the gardens, all alone.

“…Lykaios?”

Hearing her name, she jerked her head up, startled. A pair of reddened eyes stared at him fearfully, a deer caught in the headlights, tense like a spring and ready to run, if any hurt would come from his direction.

He knew those eyes. So many times he had seen them staring back at him from the countless mirrors in Arles, many of which had ended up broken, smashed into pieces.

Maybe this was why his last six years were such a misery. He had one more year to go.

But it wasn’t the right time to think of such superstitions. “Lykaios?” he repeated, crouching to get on her level. “Are you okay?”

A dumber question has never been asked. Truly, it was the kind he would accuse Damianos of, rather than himself. She clearly wasn’t alright. More than that – Laurent never imagined he could see the extroverted, happy-go-lucky Lykaios of all people, crying alone in the gardens late in the night, away from everyone. Whatever happened, must have been serious, and Laurent felt a bile rise in his throat, thinking of all the possibilities.

“Lykaios?” he kept trying.

She shook her head, eyes squeezed shut and silent tears flowing down her cheeks, now followed only by quiet heaving sobs. Like a child, she was rocking back and forward in the slightest, clutching to her stomach with both arms. She couldn’t let out a word of reply even if she tried.

It was up to him to decide whether the shaking meant dismissal, or perhaps a nonverbal confirmation.

“Are you hurt?”

No response came, the girl curling in on herself tighter, the grip on her abdomen growing stronger. With each second passing, nightmares of the past began to fill Laurent’s head – the pain tearing through his whole body, the blood, the shame. The overwhelming loneliness of a person left alone in the world, helpless against the abuse.

He didn’t want to think it was what had happened. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on one truth only – that Lykaios wasn’t him.

She wasn’t alone.

“Would you… like me to get a palace physician for you?”

He didn’t expect enthusiasm. The humiliation of sneaking into Paschal’s quarters, night after night, was burned into his soul, much too familiar – but because the emotion was something he knew intimately, he also understood more than anyone else the necessity of it. And, like a hurt animal, he presumed Lykaios would grit her teeth and allow him to help her. Allow them to help her.

She didn’t.

The moment the phrase left Laurent’s mouth, she shrieked “No!” and jumped forward, clutching onto his sleeve and keeping him in place, desperate to not allow her weakness to leave the confines of a neatly trimmed hedge surrounding them. Her hold was strong, bruising, and her gaze – pleading.

“Don’t. Please, don’t.”

The grip tightened, while the other hand remained on her abdomen, protective.

Oh. Oh, no.

It clicked then. The clutching to her stomach. The crying. The absolute panic the moment the palace physician was mentioned.

His face must have spoken louder than his words did, because Lykaios only smirked bitterly, lowering her head again. “Seems like I didn't know what I was doing, in the end.”

“Lykaios.”

“Go on, tell me. Tell me how I’m wanton and loose. Tell me how my child is a perversion. Tell me.”

The child ‘would be’, because Adrastus would never let the babe breathe its first breath and see the light of day; and whether or not Lykaios outlived her baby long enough to grieve it, was not certain. He didn’t know what the punishment for slaves soiling themselves like this was; but judging by Erasmus’s horrified reaction the moment Lykaios revealed her affair, it wasn’t anything good, to say the least.

“I don’t think any of that.”

“That’s not very Veretian of you,” she tried to joke, but with her red eyes and puffed face, it sounded more pitiable than anything.

Because this was true. Laurent pitied Lykaios. There was no disgust, no revulsion; and the Veretian sensibilities, one of the very few national characteristics he was guilty of, were gone as if by the wave of a wand. “It isn’t,” he confirmed, and sat down on the grass next to her, placing his hand on her shoulder.

That, perhaps, was the last straw, because once more, Lykaios broke down in tears.

She accepted him then, throwing herself at Laurent and taking the comforting embrace he hadn’t offered, crying her eyes out into his chiton. Not knowing particularly what to do, he sat there, stiff, petting her slouched shoulders from time to time.

He hoped it would be enough, for now; but it wasn’t. It couldn't possibly be.

“Laurent, I don’t know what to do.”

It was bold of her to assume he knew what to do, with the cultural background he had and the stark lack of a womb to account for, but he would do his best. “Ios. You can’t stay in the palace, not for much longer.”

Lykaios stared at him, wide-eyed, as if he just devised the most outrageous plan, and not simply stated the obvious. Lykaios couldn’t stay in the palace, she had to disappear, to have any chance of evading the repercussions of her actions. Time was not on her side; the sooner she would do that, the better.

There were still the logistics to figure out – after all, Laurent himself had wanted to escape Ios for weeks now, with no success thus far – but he was certain it could be done.

But, there was one small problem.

“I… I can’t leave the palace,” Lykaios whispered shamefully, twiddling with fingers laced on her stomach, just to avoid looking at Laurent and the confused face of his.

“The moment others realize what has happened when they see the signs– Lykaios, you can’t. You have to gather whatever belongings you can grab, your partner, and escape this damned place.”

“No, you don’t understand,” she tried, but finding the words to explain it to Laurent came hard to her. Still, he was patient, and gave her the time she needed; and with a sigh, she attempted to make her point. “I have been here my entire life. Who will take care of me when I leave? I can’t fend for myself. I never learned how.”

“Your partner will take care of you,” he stood firm, but the ground was a moving sand rather than hard stone. Laurent wanted to believe that – wanted to reassure her – but he has been burned one time too many to still trust anyone other than himself. But maybe it was just him, his damned blood, his own taint; maybe Lykaios was free of it.

Maybe love did exist, just not for himself.

“He will,” she agreed, but there was no relief in her voice. “He would do everything he can to protect me, but what can he do? The moment we leave the palace, we will be marked traitors, and him a deserter on top of that. We would be on the run for the rest of our lives. We wouldn’t know peace.”

Perhaps it was an exaggeration because he couldn’t imagine Damianos so vindictive to search the land far and wide for his former favorite and her beau, or Kastor wasting precious resources for it – but it was less about the real threat and more about the risk of it. Because while unreasonable and uncharacteristic, no one could say with full confidence such wouldn’t happen. Not when it was legally allowed.

“If you don’t want to leave the palace,” Laurent started, carefully, and it was the most uncomfortable statement he ever had to make, “you can’t… you shouldn’t…”

“I shouldn’t keep it. I know.”

He expected another wave of tears, a burst of crying and wailing, the overwhelming hurt of a mother who was not to become one. Forced to take a life that hasn't even started. The misfortune of a person, whose first decision in her life is one no one should ever have to make.

But there were no tears. Only a deathly calmness, and resignation, freezing him to his bones.

“Does that make me a bad person, Laurent?” She whispered, and it was less of a question, and more a statement of the fact. Of her fears and convictions, which couldn't be further from the truth.

“No. I don’t… I don’t know.”

He didn’t, even if it was his to judge; and shamefully, he must admit he used to, not too long ago, condemn the men and women who let such a situation happen in the first place. He never thought of the reasons. He never thought of the consequences, the tragedy, the fear, just because someone dared to love.

Erasmus’s words echoed in his mind. They are born out of love. It isn’t always this simple.

How could he ever think it was? How could he have been so cruel? How could Vere be?

“I don’t know what to do,” she despaired. “Whatever happens, my baby will end up dead. Whether Adrastus kills it, or the struggles of trying to fit into the world, or… or I will. With my own two hands.”

What does one say to something like this?

“Is there any way I can help?” He asked, and every word was like a sharp stone passing through his throat.

There were few things he hated more than having to say that, few things he hated more than being involved in this situation, but he knew it was a thousand times harder for Lykaios. What sort of man would he be, if he left his friend by herself in such horrible circumstances? If his passing discomfort could alleviate her tragedy, he would do it, no questions asked.

No one did that for him, but he would not repay an innocent person in kind.

“I can’t go to the palace physician, he will immediately alarm Adrastus, and I will be done for. I should get help from one outside, in Ios, but I can’t leave. I wouldn’t know how,” Lykaios fisted her hands, letting her nails bury into the soft flesh of her hands, powerlessness overwhelming her. “I can’t ask him for help, because how could I break it to him that I intend to murder our baby in cold blood? It would kill him, too.”

“Will you tell him? Once it’s done?”

The question was quiet, barely a whisper, and he didn’t know why he asked. It was none of his business, and he would be the last one to preach to her. Priggishness wasn’t his style. Curiosity, then? Perhaps that, or something for which he had no name.

Lykaios unfolded her hands, placing them back on her lap. She stared at them as if they held all the answers she could wish for. He noticed a piece of a ribbon there, wrapped around her ring finger, decorated with a small embroidered pattern of myrtles and apples. She fiddled with it before she closed her hands again. “No. It’s my burden to carry. He doesn’t… I have tainted him enough.”

Taint. The word made Laurent straighten, tense. How could a good, kind soul like Lykaios taint someone? She had no darkness in her, only pain. One caused by others.

She couldn’t taint anyone, and she wasn’t tainted, either. How could she be? She wasn’t like him.

She wasn’t like Laurent.

“If not the palace physician, then how…” he couldn’t let the word out, not with Lykaios staring at him with her eyes red, glossy, and so worn. “It’s dangerous. You could hurt yourself.”

Both of them knew more than they could ever wish for about the lengths to which desperate women could go. And Lykaios was desperate. “I can’t go outside, and we don’t grow abortifacients in our gardens, so I… I thought I might steal something from the kitchen, or a lady’s closet—”

“I can go outside.”

His mouth blabbered before his rational mind could verify this statement. He didn’t have reservations of the kind Lykaios did; he didn’t worry whether he could find his way outside, because he used to be outside. Used to be free. Not within Ios, of course, but how much different from Arles could it be? If anything, it seemed less stuffy, with its streets less littered with tenements squeezed in every little hole that could be found. Navigating it would be a piece of cake.

Theoretically. Because practically, there was one small caveat. 

“You would have left already if you could,” Lykaios smiled sadly, thinking of the same issue. “Your blond head is like a beacon, and we are heavily guarded. You will be noticed within minutes.”

“I have a hat,” he pointed out, dumbly. She blinked, and then snorted at the idiocy of the statement, quite unexpected from Laurent of all people. That small, genuine smile – even if it was at his expense, he counted it as a win, though unintended.

“You do have a hat. In fact, you are the only palace resident that wears a hat,” she pointed out, but did purse her lips, thinking. After a moment, she lifted her head, eyes sparkling with newfound hope. “Unless… there’s the Dionysia. Each year, selected few slaves accompany the Royals to the celebrations outside. You are Damianos’s favorite now, but– I can’t ask that of you. That’s much too dangerous.”

“You don’t have to ask.”

The look on Lykaios’s face – the shock, the bafflement, the sheer disbelief that someone could offer to help, just because – would be enough to justify whatever Laurent would have to go through for his irresponsible stupidity of finding friends he wanted to help when it was needed.

“I don’t know how I will ever repay you,” tears glistened in her eyes, but not of sadness, but rather – of thankfulness.

Laurent tapped his lips, feigning intense consideration. He saw her watch with bated breath, now afraid of what the price could be, knowing full well her promise was empty, because she had nothing; just like him. “Balls.”

The look of confusion on her face was priceless.

"Yes. Those honeyed dough balls. I want your share for the next… month?”

She furrowed her brows, his explanation not helping her understand in the least. “Do you mean loukoumades?”

“Yes, that’s the name,” Laurent confirmed with full seriousness. “It will be a great sacrifice, I am aware. I don’t know how many times I saw you stealing them from Erasmus’s plate before, you know. I stopped counting after a few dozen.”

Lykaios blinked once, twice, thrice, her mouth opening and closing and finger rising and then lowering. She rightfully hadn’t expected that to be said, and the bafflement of this made her break out in tears. One of laughter, and relief, this time around. “This is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

For a while, they stayed silent, letting the tranquility of the darkness envelop them, easing the pain, easing the anxiety. It didn’t do much – it couldn’t – but Lykaios wasn’t crying anymore. She was staring forward, contemplative. Lost in her own world again, after the fleeting moment of pretended normalcy passed.

“I heard the ladies talk,” she said into the still air. Laurent listened. “Among themselves, they referred a physician, who receives patients in a lane just outside the market square, where the main Dionysia celebrations take place.”

Laurent nodded in acknowledgment. Whether she saw it, or not, he couldn’t be sure; it was getting late, and the only light was the one of the moon and the fireflies, waking up to roam the gardens when no one was left to adore them.

He stood up after a while, readying himself for the telling-off Adrastus would surely grace him with the moment he walked through the doors of the slave quarters. Perhaps that would be the best moment for Lykaios to make her return, too; while the monster would be occupied with another prey.

There was no need to tell her that; she knew, and she was grateful. No words were needed.

Except that when the grass lifted and he made the first steps away, a faint voice stopped him. "Laurent?”

He turned around.

“Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Human tragedy never had the power to make the world stop in its tracks.

The wine still poured in rivers, pennants still waved in the air, and courtiers still gossiped in the gardens, the same ones where Lykaios was crying her eyes out, and Laurent was sitting helplessly by her side. It still resounded in his brain, a distant echo he couldn’t muffle, made all the worse with the exuberance of the days preceding the holy Akielon celebrations of life. Those that would be sullied by death and tragedy, unseen, lurking just behind the corner of ignorants’ eyes.

It was unsettling. It was eerie. It was grotesque.

Was it what soldiers felt, walking into the field with swords clutched in trembling hands, knowing they would kill men there, damn themselves, to save those they held dear?

Would the yells of the herald announcing the beginning of a duel coming up shortly unnerve them, those who had tasted pain, death, and mutilation, just as much as they did him?

All around him, men and women sprang up from their seats, holding their chitons as they thrust their fists in the air, hollering cheers at the daredevils of the day, currently standing at their respective sides of the training field with their seconds helping them get clad in their gear. The moment Damianos stretched his arms, checking the fit and nodding at Pallas in confirmation, the Akielons’ animation threatened to rupture Laurent’s eardrums.

He didn’t share the crowd’s enthusiasm, neither now, nor back in the day, when it was Auguste competing in the numerous tournaments, organized for the delight of onlookers. The reason was simple – for him, the man clad in a decorated iron tin, smiling beatifically as he unsaddled fellow knights, causing them to break their limbs more times than anyone would care to recall – was not his brother. It was someone different, someone foreign – because how could it be the same man who held the sword with such reverence in the training fields, knowing its power? Knowing the responsibility that came with wielding it?

But when the thrill of the hundreds was involved, it all seemed to evaporate.

It’s tradition, he would explain to Laurent time and time again. It’s chivalry, he would say, like in the books you read.

But the books were fiction, and that was the real-life – real life, in which Laurent didn’t have a penchant for violence, especially such a needless one, based on nothing more than an illusion of valiance and longing for glory.

You’ll understand when you grow up, Auguste would assure, and bitterly, Laurent came to agree with him. After all, since the moment he turned thirteen, his soul has been marked with nothing but an all-compassing need for brutal, vicious revenge. 

As it turns out, a taste for violence came with age. And trauma.

Maybe he should keep his mind open, then. Maybe he was lying to himself, thinking he was different than the men and women around him, so eager to see the first drop of blood drawn and feed off the success in which they had no hand.

Most of them, anyway; because when he looked around, he saw the empty face of Lykaios, the way Erasmus closed his eyes shut in terror, and how Kallias reached out to squeeze his shoulder in quiet reassurance.

Those who got hurt didn't enjoy watching senseless violence dressed to impress and dissimulate from its true evil.

But soon enough, Laurent began to realize the colorful banners and ebullient onlookers were the only similarities between what he knew from Arles, and what was happening in front of his eyes. Here, the circus was nothing more than a mirage, meant to fool the masses, but one inconsequential to the men accepting sharpened swords from their seconds’ hands.

This contest wasn’t a show of chivalry, the mendacious kind prevailing in Vere. No; it was something Laurent hadn’t seen before.

There were no challengers favoring the most ornate, flourished series of guards and ripostes, meant not for practicality, but rather for the exhilaration of the masses. No laces and frills meant to impress, to prolong the recounter, all just for show. Oh, Laurent recalled how many times over, he was finding himself falling asleep on his throne, yawning at the dragged-out acrobatics of boys who would not survive two seconds of real combat.

He wouldn’t be taking a nap now, because the men standing in the center of the training field were no greenhorns, but seasoned warriors, each with years of experience behind their belt.

There were no rash lunges forward following the trumpet blare, no premature leaps toward the enemy, no loud exclamations meant to provoke and degrade. There were only encouraging yells from the audience, and controlled breaths of the opponents, as they sized each other up.

Laurent wouldn’t be able to tell who leaped forward first.

A screech of steel against steel tore through the field, seconded by a wave of whistling from the stands. There was no rhythm in how the opponents met and backed out, ebbing and flowing in the middle of the dry ground. There was no elaborate technique Laurent’s fencing master tried to drill into his mind as a child, and then Jord and Orlant proceeded to beat into his bones as he took on a more practical approach. It was simplistic – Damianos, an unmoving boulder, in which Torveld tried to make a dent, a riptide colliding into it with the force of nature.

But in the end, they were only men. They didn’t have years and centuries, like droplets of water falling onto the solid stone, pitting at it until the obelisk would break in half. With each clash, the Patran’s frustration was becoming more apparent, while Damianos’s stance remained perfectly stoic.

Rooted deeply into the ground, he was unmoved, effortlessly blocking each of Torveld’s attacks, growing more frenzied by the moment. There was no artistry in either of their movements – just sheer efficiency, one learned in real combat, where the price was lives, rather than a drop of blood and hurt pride.

Laurent watched the fight unfold with bated breath, his muscles tense, a drop of sweat breaking on his forehead and falling onto the hot sand. His eyes were following each movement of the fighters, noting each step back, each shift of the sword, each dodge. His mind was in the middle of the arena now – assessing the dangers, the advantages, the risks. Factoring their styles, searching for weaknesses, and studying their strengths.

Caution and forcefulness. Discipline and daring. Order and mayhem. Steadfast earth and a storm, losing its strength with the last raindrops falling, and the sky cleaning following the last bright bolt of lighting.

For a split second, his eyes met Damianos’s.

And then, there was only thunder of a mountain falling with its indomitable strength, turning the rapid sea into a mere puddle, splashing helplessly until it could move no more.

Damianos could have pushed Torveld’s sword away, out of reach, pointing his weapon to the prince’s throat, to leave no doubts to the triumphant. He could have pinned him down with his sandal, rubbing his victory in, affirming what lunacy it was to challenge him to begin with.

He did none of that, simply looking at the Patran’s cross-hilt sword, glistening in the sun a few feet away. Giving Torveld a chance to pick it up, and go for a second round.

Breath caught in Laurent’s throat, a stop motion playing before his eyes. A misstep. A blond head hitting the ground. The wide-opened gaze of the last realization. The deathly strike.

Torveld shook his head, his hair wiping across the sand, matted and clumped with sweat. Damianos smiled and extended his hand, waiting.

Laurent wanted to scream. He saw an opening there, and if it was him lying in the sand, it wouldn’t have ended this way. He would have swept his legs to cut Damianos down and gain advantage. He would have thrown sand into those soft, brown eyes, and hit.

He wasn’t like them. He wasn’t honorable.

Because Auguste was honorable. And Auguste ended up dead, just like Damianos would.

Torveld took the offered hand, gripping it in a strong, powerful hold, and pulled back to his legs. The crowd erupted in roaring applause and the princes congratulated each other on a fight well fought.

“It was an honor to lose to you,” Torveld insisted, breathing heavily from exertion and leaning against his sword fetched by his squire. “The Akielon lion is as formidable as the tales proclaim.”

Damianos folded his arms, a layer of sweat glistening on his biceps like olive oil. Laurent fixed his hat then, surely the sun being the culprit behind heating his face. “You were holding back,” the Akielon asserted, although it was more of a courtesy than anything based on reality.

Torveld knew, of course, but he seemed nonetheless glad for the courtesy. “Maybe if I was ten years younger,” the older warrior shrugged nonchalantly, but there was nothing blasé about the way he looked when he turned to Laurent, the glance he sent his way guilty and apologetic. “These old bones aren’t what they used to be.”

Laurent grimaced, trying and failing to understand the intention behind Torveld’s sorry posture. Challenging Damianos of Akielos was insanity, to begin with, but – did he genuinely think he could win? And if he didn’t, why would he risk the humiliation? After all, Damianos could have folded him within minutes, at most; it was his gallantry to allow his opponent to save his face.

Torveld of Patras didn’t strike Laurent as a man who thought with his dick but perhaps looks could be deceiving. He couldn’t imagine another reason why the man would go this far for him, other than an indescribable need to fuck him.

Where Laurent stood, it would be going much too far, but who was he to judge? He fixed his petasos absentmindedly, ensuring no further assault from the Akielon sun would harm him. Other imperilments were lying in wait, after all; and not surprisingly, he wouldn’t be saved by a knight in shining armor this time around, either.

Meanwhile, in the middle of the arena, the princes continued to exchange their pleasantries, and Laurent wondered for how much longer would they keep up the charade.

“I am lucky to never have met you in the field back then,” Damianos asserted, and Torveld smiled in response.

“And let’s hope you never will. I do intend to live a long while still, you know,” he slapped Damianos’s back, a resonating boom shaking the Akielon on his feet, taking him by surprise. Torveld should have tried this strategy in the duel, then, Laurent thought to himself. “Perhaps your visit to Bazal could ensure that. We have a lot to discuss still, and we shouldn’t taint the Dinoysia festivities with further boorish talks of politics. Especially when I did hear you were considering doing us the honor?”

“I was?” Damianos asked stupidly, perhaps a bit too idiotically taking into consideration the few dozens of people watching them. He realized a moment too late, and hoping to mitigate the faux pas and not offend the foreign prince, he explained, “I’m afraid, my visit to Bazal could encounter some difficulties at this time, with– with the state of affairs in Ios. I am much too needed here.”

It was a close call; Damianos's sincerity was an admirable trait, but perhaps not in a political setting. After all, he  himself had mentioned how dire Theomedes's health was making things for Akielos; and how disastrous it could be if its consequences would be learned by the outsiders – as if they didn't know of them already. 

“I am certain your everyday tasks could be relegated to others without detriment to Akielos’s well-being," Torveld gestured vaguely. "In fact, your visit could be beneficial to straighten the relationship with Patras further.”

A blue chiton sparkling like the sea foam lapped against the sand of the arena like water against dry shore, as Lady Jokaste made her way from the stands into the center. She inserted herself into the conversation of princes as if she belonged there, and the lack of her was an omission she would gracefully forgive. Behind her, Kallias walked, with his head down – a shadow of the grey eminence, steadfastness where Jokaste was the power pushing through.

Damianos’s face upon seeing her barge in like that was priceless – perhaps, before, she was content pulling the strings from the shadows, not being brazen enough to walk into the light in all of her blonde glory.

However, something has changed, something Damianos wasn’t privy to – and not only him.

“Jokaste.”

For once, the royal brothers were in tune. Following his wife in short order, Kastor spoke up where Damianos – being the honorable man that he was – could not find the words to bring the court’s grey eminence back to order. It wasn’t the right place for her to speak up, surrounded by strangers; it could easily reflect badly on them all, but – she didn’t seem to care much.

Whether Kastor got this trait from her, or the other way around – they were like two peas in a pod, truly. “It is only fair to answer our guests in kind and accept their invitation,” Jokaste carried on, unabashed. “It would be a slight not to.”

“I need to stay here,” Damianos repeated, eyes hard as he fought a silent battle with Jokaste, much more taxing than the duel he just fought with Torveld. “I am sure our guests will understand how pressing internal duties can sometimes be.”

“Of course,” the Patran prince bowed his head but didn’t say anything further. He leaned against his sword, no doubt intending to attribute his silence to exertion; but Laurent saw the uncharacteristic quietude for what it was.

Assessing. Calculating. Getting the measure of the political climate no moles could relay to him.

Laurent raised his brow. Some of Akielos’s brother-nation's characteristics seemed to be closer to Vere than he would ever dare guess.

“But, perhaps Kastor could go in my place. He’s a great negotiator and a shrewd mind, as you could have already seen.”

Judging by Torveld’s pleasant, but utterly fake smile, he had a bit of a different impression but was too polite to admit it.

"How honored I am," Kastor drawled, but his expression was more like a scowl right after biting into a lemon than anything remotely resembling pride, "to be the first person about whom you think when delegating crown prince's duties. Unfortunately, I too am needed at the capital in this very sensitive period."

Oh, that displeasure about assigning tasks, where what he wanted was the relinquishing of the crown prince’s title, wasn't subtle. Even Torveld startled, blinking ungainly at Kastor, but Damianos remained oblivious.

So, no going on delegations now, but rather assuring the matters in Ios follow the exact notes Kastor was playing. That could mean just one thing.

The finale was about to reach its coda.

"It’s true, the times do need as many willing hands to work as possible,” Jokaste tipped her head elegantly, “however, I am sure we could have managed without Damianos for a fortnight or so. Even if his hands are the biggest ones in this part of the country.”

The last comment made the man in question choke on his saliva, while Kastor’s face reddened – not a blush, but rather, a shocked flash of displeasure, for Jokaste daring to make such a comment.

"No," he cut in, his tone firm and imperative, "Damianos is needed here, in the capital, too. He's not going away anytime soon."

One could almost think Damianos was a ten-year-old kid who was getting grounded, and not a warrior in his prime, about to ascend the throne. Funnily enough, it seemed to work – like a Pavlov's dog, Damianos deflated, looking at the ground with a downcast expression, and the only thing missing was him shuffling his sandals in the sand. 

He didn’t shoot back with a riposte. He didn’t straighten up, looming over Kastor with all the glory of his physicality. He didn’t look down at him, bringing him to order with a glare. He didn’t even clear his throat meaningfully.

He just let Kastor school him.

It was unbelievable for Laurent that Damianos would take such insolence, and in public no less; so irked the disrespect for authority made him, he almost butted in with a snarky comment of his own. But, curiously enough, before he could, another fiery blonde did it on his behalf.

"I am certain your statement was heard loud and clear. No one would dare forget such a booming voice of command, and it will not skip anyone’s attention just who was so concerned for Ios’s wellbeing to ensure the crown prince stays in its walls,” she lauded, with no sincerity behind her smirk, “rather than work for its greatness far beyond.”

Laurent didn’t need to look at Kastor to feel the glacial cold radiating off of him. The deathly silence in lieu of a reply served as enough proof the moment was hardly rehearsed and would be discussed later, in private – as if Jokaste’s barbed remarks weren’t enough to justify that.

Indeed, the display was thoroughly unexpected. A coup is not a one-man affair, and while Kastor had the advantage of – when compared to Jokaste – better birth (even with his bastardly pedigree – a fact utterly baffling to Laurent, still), he didn’t have nearly enough brains to pull something like this off on his own. It was a mutually beneficial affair – enough for Jokaste to leave an objectively much better prospect for the sub-standard version. At some point, though, their paths must have diverged; trouble in paradise, if you would. Curious; with that turn of events, Damianos might yet get to live a little bit longer.

“We understand the importance of prioritizing internal affairs all too well. Our own obligations are awaiting us back at home, which is why we can only stay until the holy celebrations of Dionysia conclude, even though we do enjoy your hospitality greatly. This excursion was truly an eye-opening experience we will be recalling fondly, and it is with a heavy heart that we will leave.”

While the bulk of Torveld’s little speech full of political sweet nothings was directed at Damianos and Kastor both, the last sentence was spoken with the man looking straight at Laurent. The tone of it was different – less of a platitude, and coming from a more genuine place. More than that – Torveld bowed his head at him, a faint gesture, but one unseen from a prince towards a lowly slave.

An apology. Apology for what? Losing? It was to be expected, even if a small part of Laurent did hope for a miracle and a way out of Ios with Torveld in tow; but it was foolish and short-sighted.

And yet, Laurent apparently opened their eyes. Opened them to what, exactly? And what, pray tell, is making the Patran’s heart heavy? If anything, Laurent would think the only things currently weighing on Torveld could be his blue balls, but alas, it wasn’t the right thing to point out to the prince of a foreign nation, who had just recklessly fought for your honor.

But, just maybe, there was someone who had a splendid idea of how to make the burden resting on the poor Partan prince lighter.

“Perhaps there is a way to mitigate your departure and give you something to remember us by,” Jokaste pondered, walking around them like a lioness circling her prey. “A gesture of goodwill and the friendship we share with Patras.”

“Oh?” Torveld asked, perking up like a curious cat, his pupils widening. He leaned forward, entering Jokaste’s space – keeping his distance respectfully, but showing his interest in whatever she had on offer. A true businessman on a mission, who might have just met his match.

A small hum of interest passed through the crowd. Even Kastor's coldness gave way to attentiveness, curious where his loose cannon of a wife might aim now – all while Damianos's focus kept shifting, no doubt exhausting his brain cells to keep up with the two sharks.

Only Kallias was steadfast, lifting his head to smile softly at Erasmus, still in the stands, utterly engrossed by the confrontation no one expected to happen.

“I do know it was your ardent wish to take the Veretian slave with you back to Patras. However, sadly, as Damianos-Exalted said and the gods have backed up by siding with him in the duel, he is not on offer,” Jokaste stated, and one could almost be fooled into believing her devout piousness; just as much as they could think indeed it was the divine intervention, rather than raw skill and physical advantage that granted Damianos victory.

"I don't wish for a consolation prize," Torveld started, carefully, walking the tightrope of not wanting to offend, either. "If it was the gods will to confine this slave to Akielos, then here he would remain."

A curious choice of words, Laurent thought, and one look to his side was enough to determine Torveld had fallen off the tightrope, indeed causing offense – because while Damianos’s slightly tilted head spoke of inquisitiveness, his tightness and pressed lips left no doubt whether or not Torveld’s phrases landed well.

They didn’t, even though they were true, or perhaps – exactly because they were true. Laurent was trapped here, after all. Held against his will.

Now it was Laurent’s turn to ponder, because — could Torveld possibly have realized that? And if so, did he also consider the prison he had to offer was only better in one aspect: being much easier to escape from?

Laurent sighed, resigned. He never thought he would be left at the mercy of a white savior, and yet, here he was. Back in Arles, his Uncle’s Laurent-suffering sense must be tingling, and he must be beating himself up for not being there to witness it and revel in his helplessness in person; what a shame, truly.

"We wouldn't dare to offer you a consolation prize,” Jokaste quickly assured, addressing Torveld’s concern. “Only the most shining of Akielon gems would be worth a warrior fighting so valiantly."

She turned her eyes to Damianos and lifted her eyebrows barely noticeably, but enough to prompt him to take up the conversation and reclaim the lead that had been stifled by Kastor previously. It was almost comedic, and Laurent wondered how often it was happening in the past – Damianos spacing out, lost in the layers of double-meanings and cleverly crafted words, and Jokaste just there, giving him knowing looks and hoping by some wireless miracle he would know what to say in the given moment.

It took a while, but indeed, the marvel had happened – after a moment of consideration, Damianos seconded her; although, if Laurent was being honest, there was still confusion in his voice – one betraying he most likely didn’t exactly follow her, but decided to go with the flow anyway. Desperately grasping at straws to leave things with the Patrans on a good note enough to trust her, of all people – a woman who left him and then worked tirelessly to have him killed, for her gain.

Men’s pitifulness knows no bounds, and with that in mind, perhaps Torveld’s brazen challenge was not as cringe-worthy as he thought. At the very least, his tastes were questionably an ounce better, seeing how he showed no interest in Jokaste, other than a professional one, and was very interested in Laurent. Modestly speaking, of course.

"The respect we have for Patras and its princes runs deep,” Damianos’s voice boomed, so that everyone gathered could easily hear him – notwithstanding the fact the crowd was already straining its ears to catch everything that was being said up to this point. “Indeed, we wouldn't dare offer you anything second grade. Letting you leave Ios without feeling our utmost high regard and hospitality isn't something we would ever wish for."

With a single nod, he gave Jokaste way to proceed, to which she smiled beatifically, bowing her head low, a perfect picture of an obedient subject. She lifted her eyes then, her chiton rustling luxuriously as she called behind her back, “Kallias.”

There was not a trace of shock in his features as he stepped forward, poise personified, curtsying in the peculiar Southern fashion, and it was only right – it was not vanity, but a well-known fact, that Kallias was the most learned of the slaves, and so stunningly beautiful, too; no one could deny it. He was a perfect product of Ios, with the only caveat – Laurent supposed – being that he had long since passed his first night, however, Torveld did state he wasn’t one for fetishizing virgins; unlike some other men Laurent knew, he couldn’t help but add in his mind, a shiver of disgust running down his spine.

He would miss the quaint melodies of Kallias’s kithara in the evenings and his sharp mind, one he didn’t believe to find in Akielos. They all would – he could only imagine how devastated Erasmus would be to be parted from his dearest companion. Laurent didn’t need to look to the stands to see his doe eyes widen with a silent plea and a prayer to the gods, wishing for Kallias to stay in Ios, rather than embark on the long journey to Bazal.

Another person Laurent expected to display reserved uneasiness at best was Kastor, from whom the shining gem of his household would be taken – but Kastor displayed remarkable placidity as Kallias sauntered with truly royal grace, equal to the calmness on Jokaste’s features.

She suggested it after all, but in an eye-opening moment, Laurent realized it wasn’t adding up. There was no haggling, no trading of suggestions back and forth – she instantly called for Kallias, the one person Jokaste wouldn’t want to part with. Switching up her partners wasn’t a problem – she could always go for another brother, as was proven – but her shadow? Her eyes and ears where she could not go? She wouldn’t let him go that easily; he was more than just the highlight of Kastor’s household. He was a co-conspirator.

He wasn’t the one leaving. Erasmus’s prayers have been heard; but oh, weren’t the Akielon gods cruel, playing tricks on mortals and laughing at their expense.

Time stopped as Kallias turned just in front of Torveld, ambling not towards the Patrans, but the stands, right where Erasmus stood. He extended his hand to the confused boy, and a smile was fixed on his face – one that didn’t reach his eyes.

And Laurent understood. He understood the longing, poignant gazes; he understood the superficial calmness; he understood the emotional detachment.

Kallias knew, from before Damianos and Torveld bared their swords, from before the Patrans got off their horses and stepped into the city of Ios, from before they were even invited. He knew.

He knew, but it didn’t make it any less heartbreaking.

Only the wind would know the soft words he had whispered to Erasmus, before the hazel eyes glistened with tears, and the soft hand held his as he descended from the stands, walking back into the center side by side with his closest friend, his confidante.

His other half.

“I think there has been a misunderstanding,” Damianos uttered tactfully, the moment he realized what was happening. “That one is still in training, and a member of my household.”

“That he is,” Jokaste confirmed. “And also, the best of the boys currently occupying the palace. No second grade for our Patran allies, or have I overheard?”

“That one is young and gentle. Not yet ready for the service, and much less for a journey this long.”

All eyes turned to the poor boy, with his hands laced so tightly they were turning white, and his shoulders trembling in what certainly wasn't cold. Torveld raised his brow skeptically, but before he could say a word, Jokaste promptly interjected.

“I have been assured that one is more than ready. In fact, that has been eagerly awaiting the First Night for weeks now, but its master has been failing to provide. Isn’t that right, Erasmus?”

With his shy disposition, he never did well with being put on the spot, unlike Kallias who was accustomed to the spotlight. His bright hazel eyes opened wide, searching the surroundings as if looking for another Erasmus in the audience, one they could be addressing, because it certainly could not have been him. So surreal it must be for the poor darling, to be brought to the forefront like that. 

He looked at Jokaste pleadingly, so very beseechingly, but she showed no mercy, patiently waiting for his answer with a smile as gentle as vicious. “It is true. This one has finished training already. Master Adrastus had feared this one had offended the Exalted somehow,” turning to Damianos, he knelt on the floor, posture perfect as always. “Forgive this one if this one did, please.”

Kallias leaned along with him, a gentle touch still resting on the boy’s back – a silent sign of support. The one more vocal was Jokaste – even though her goal was definitely not aimed at helping Erasmus with his social anxiety. “There is nothing to forgive, darling. Please, rise.”

Obediently, he did, still keeping his head bowed, blond curls falling onto his face in a shining halo, the curve of his dark lashes highlighted. The posture, was more ingrained than intentional – and on top of that, allowing him to ward off the environment as much as he could, blocking it from his view. Be as it may, it didn’t take away from his demure beauty – if anything, it highlighted it, to anyone who might have been watching. And oh, they were watching. Very intently.

It might have been lighting, but Laurent could say he saw a faint blush light up the Patran prince’s neck. However, if asked, he was sure Torveld would attribute it to the physical exertion, still.

The liar.

“If anything, you aren’t the one who ought to apologize. After all,” Jokaste continued, and the way the soft expression was making way for a devilish, ugly smirk, was not biding well for the progress of their conversation. “Slaves trade their obeisance for perfect treatment. Denying you your First Night, for which you have been training your entire life isn’t exactly that, or is it?” 

In all of the impressive education the slaves were provided, the meaning of rhetorical questions wasn’t explored – perhaps deemed too Veretian to be of real use to them. With his brows drooping, Erasmus stared at Jokaste, terrified she would make him answer, again; and there was not a right thing to say to a statement like that.

His bright red blush was enough of an answer; just like the way Damianos averted his eyes, looking to the side with his lips pressed.

“He hasn’t been denied anything,” he attempted, and to a point, it was true; but a blatant lie in the aspect that had been questioned. “I care for my people.”

“Oh, I know. There was a time when the whole palace was privy to the sound of your thorough care. It has been a while since our sleep has been disturbed, though.”

Laurent blinked and inadvertently, smiled like an idiot, while Damianos’s face turned beet red – whether in embarrassment or anger, or perhaps both, was hard to determine. 

“Perhaps you are mistaking yours with mine,” Damianos retorted with a smoothness that Laurent couldn’t help but approve – right after he stopped choking on plain air out of shock.

They were far past the point of niceties, alright; and notably, out of everyone present, Torveld – who could be the most offended – had seemed to mind the least. If anything, he looked seconds away from leaning towards the nearest servant and asking them to fetch him a bowl of roasted nuts to snack on while he watched the chaos unfold, with the catfight barely staying in the confines of the proper royal behavior.

Proper for Akielos, that is. Frankly, it was like every other day in Vere.

If only it wasn’t human trade being the point of discussion, and a friend of his an object of it, Laurent would monitor whether Torveld did actually call for refreshments and perhaps steal a handful, but as it was, he wasn’t in the mood for eating. The very idea of it, of Erasmus being quibbled, disgusted him far too much.

Which, to be honest, was funny and hypocritical of him, seeing how the best outcome of the fight he imagined was being traded off himself, and escaping Akielos for a chance of better prospects at Patras.

Among all the chaos and the ridiculousness of the situation, this sudden thought gave him a pause.

Kallias knew everything from the start, and there was no doubt he loved Erasmus dearly. He wanted to jump in and take the hits himself, just to spare the poor boy the pain and humiliation, back when Adrastus had picked him as his target. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt him; in fact, Laurent couldn’t imagine Kallias partaking in any sort of plot that would end with Erasmus anything other than perfectly safe and sound.

And so, it was not Jokaste’s scheme to remove Erasmus from the equation, to make Kallias more obedient, and to Laurent with one less person on his side. It was Kallias’s. 

Kallias, who followed Erasmus around like a longing crane staring across the pond, was the one who arranged for the boy to leave. Perhaps he struck a deal with Jokaste exactly to ensure that outcome; loathing every second of it, but hating the alternative even more.

And if Erasmus’s safety required taking him out of Ios – the last thing either of them wanted – Laurent could only imagine the scale of destruction Kastor’s faction expected to follow. One far exceeding Laurent’s calculations, which were hardly modest.

Whether a visible flame of enlightenment lighted up over his head the moment the realization hit him, he didn’t know, but the silent pleas Kallias was sending his way were unmistakable; he was asking for backup. Because soon enough, Damianos could foil all of his carefully laid out plan, and make the sacrifices he had made along the way useless.

But what could he do, exactly? A slave butting in on a quarrel between a crown prince of Akielos and his former whore in the middle of the arena, with all the court and foreign dignitaries watching with bated breath, was hardly going to improve the standings.

Well. Laurent lived for chaos in Vere, he might as well try it out in Akielos. How much worse could it be, at this point?

“Exalted.”

The shock of hearing the official title from Laurent’s lips, rather than the usual lack of any sort of address or a very repulsed Damianos was enough to give the crown prince a pause. In fact, Laurent speaking up was enough to bring everyone to a stop, and perhaps this was exactly what was needed. He glanced at Kallias, seeing him exhale heavily.

“This one thinks the matter is best discussed in a more comfortable setting,” Laurent said, turning to Damianos. “Perhaps without the sun further heating the atmosphere?”

A loud clap of hands followed, startling the small group. “Excellent idea,” Torveld approved. “I am sure we can come to an agreement sitting down, like civilized people, with a glass of good wine. And I don’t know about you, but I would have given a kingdom for a soft pillow to sit on, at this moment.”

There was no trace of animosity in Torveld, and perhaps this was what was needed to remind Damianos that while he was standing in the arena, he wasn’t fighting anymore – and the Patran prince wasn’t his enemy, against whom he had to brace and protect his people. He rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose, before acquiescing, “That could be arranged.”

And just like that, the Patrans made their leave for the negotiation chambers, talking among themselves in their strange language, as if nothing special had just occurred, as if they hadn’t just seen a display of discord and internal weakness of their ally greater than if Theomedes has walked into the field, fell over and died here and there. Maybe, it was their graciousness – to pretend nothing had happened at all. Let it all disintegrate into loose grains of gossip and spread rumors.

But such a favor had its price, and it was going to be paid in gold; but not the metal kind. Following behind Damianos as was customary, Laurent and Erasmus exchanged knowing glances.

All of this, just to come full circle. He sighed.

Those negotiations were going to be truly intense.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Of course, he wasn’t privy to them – all he knew was that when Damianos disappeared behind the heavy doors, he wasn’t seen again for the rest of the day, going as far as to skip the official dinner. For all intents and purposes, he vanished into thin air – but no one dared to look for the crown prince, leaving him to lick the wounds of embarrassment on his own. The great victor of the physical duel, but the sorry loser of the verbal one.

Besides, if the loud clanking noises coming from the training field could be any indication, everyone had a suspicion about where Damianos could have disappeared.

No place in the palace was free of the sound, or perhaps, the clash of steel has etched itself in Laurent's mind, present throughout the rest of the day, the evening, and night. Tossing and turning, he still heard the clamor like a siren's song, tempting him with doubled strength. It was irresistible, more so than when he had just arrived, and asked Erasmus whether there was any way he could work everything off. Now, after having just seen a duel fought, he was like an addict with a glass of wine placed right under his nose. Really, he from just six years prior would never believe such a craving could ever emerge in his heart.

But alas, it did. And the call of the sword, he would answer.

Lifting his head slowly, he looked around, before determining Erasmus had been fast asleep right next to him. Just to be fully certain – but not without pangs of conscience – he kicked him gently, and when his only response was a quiet, dissatisfied grumble, Laurent made his way to the exit.

It was strange, sneaking through the corridors at this time when there was no trace of the usual chatter and loudness filling these halls. Every single one of his footsteps, he could hear, echoing in the halls. A few guards he did pass – but in this godforsaken hour, even they were taking unscheduled naps on the job. He couldn’t blame them – night shifts at the internal palace weren’t exactly exciting – but nonetheless, if they were his sentries, they would be sacked the very next day.

Alas, they weren’t, and he wasn’t a stool pigeon. That, and he was hardly stupid enough to shit in his own nest. Asleep, they were much easier to bypass.

This was how Laurent found himself meandering the last of the vast corridors, leading right outside into the soldier’s quarters, and into the realization that perhaps, he wasn’t insane, but simply had a superior sense of hearing bestowed upon him by nature, like so many other traumatized children. Because the muffled thuds, they weren’t just in his head. They were very much real.

So real, in fact, the moment Laurent stepped into the patio, he ducked, a chunk of a straw dummy sent flying his way, sliced into sad little pieces.

There were at least a dozen other pells already defeated, sorry little scraps of leather and filling scattered all around, and in the middle of them all, Damianos, in all of his sweaty, muscled glory, breathing heavily. 

Laurent wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it, of the army of straw men lying defeated, but knowing the strength required to cut through a dense, well-made dummy, he wasn’t amused. No; he flinched every single time Damianos’s sword slashed into his targets with a loud thud, rampant, unstoppable, free of moral qualms of being observed and having to keep his power in check. He could easily imagine him, leading an army, his sword not dusty with chaff, but with dried blood of anyone who dared stay in his way. Powerful. Unyielding. Invincible.

A god of war incarnate.

He saw a flash of it the moment Damianos spotted him, a sheen of scarlet fury where the warmth of his gaze used to be. And indeed, the second he realized it was Laurent who dared interrupt him, a helpless slave, he lowered the sword he was ready to throw his way like a javelin and relaxed his stance.

“Laurent? What are you doing here? It’s late, you should have been asleep.” Damianos made his way towards him, his sword sheathed away in one smooth motion before he approached him. In answer, Laurent leaned forward on his arms, theatrically humming at the sky and the nonexistent sun.

“Is it?” he asked, shifting towards Damianos. “One would think it’s the middle of the day with all that hoodlum, keeping half the palace awake.”

“Have I? Gods, that’s—”

“You haven’t. It’s an exaggeration,” Laurent admitted, sitting on the marble steps. A moment later, the air next to him shifted, as Damianos joined him. He smelled of musk, and Laurent felt it dizzying his head. “As in, a statement that represents something as worse than it actually is. In reality, I’m the only one awake, I think. Everyone else had drunk one too many during the celebratory dinner.”

“The dinner. Right. I… skipped the dinner.”

“Don’t worry. With the amount of wine flowing, I think the majority will skip it, in the end. At least when it cones to remembering it,” Laurent shrugged and then turned to Damianos. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and he could see him clearer, now – the tenseness of him, unchanged since the moment he saw him last as if the relentless exertion did nothing to set his mind at ease. Perhaps, it didn’t. “Are you alright?”

Even though it wasn’t the first time Laurent asked him that, he looked just as shocked – and he wished he could just bite his tongue and take the question back, giving away more than his mind was comprehending. “I suppose so,” Damianos answered with his eyes staring into the darkness of the night, “just, working off the anger of a diplomatic failure. As it turns out, destroying a bunch of practice dummies does nothing to quench it. Who would have guessed?” He shook his head.

“I don’t think Torveld was offended,” Laurent reassured. “In fact, I think he was quite amused by the end.”

“On my expense,” Damianos sighed. “I’m an idiot. I should know better than to let myself be riled up by Jokaste’s ruses.”

“She does know how to get under one’s skin,” Laurent confirmed, remembering all too well his confrontation with her at the library, and how he was hoping for at least a metal bookmark he could attempt to cut her throat with. “But, what else would you propose?”

Damianos's eyes narrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“What else would you propose," Laurent repeated as if that could help. "Do not be mistaken, there is not one person in Ios who abhors slavery more than me right now—”

“–I told you, it’s–”

“—but anything less than one of your best slaves would be a slight towards Patras, especially after that vehement declaration of eternal friendship between your nations and whatnot. Torveld isn't a lesser lording you could get your way with by offering him any other pretty John or Jane occupying the palace."

Laurent's tone sped up in irritation, once again wondering why would he bother explaining anything to Damianos, who – having a few years on him – should have all of it already ingrained in his brain. But, perhaps he didn't have to, and more than that: shouldn't, because the Akielon crown prince already knew all of that, and was simply patient and kind enough to put up with Laurent's hot-hardness.

“I thought they were offering Kallias," Damianos elucidated. "Someone she actually could offer. Not one of my own.”

Maybe the vehemence would be admirable if it didn't come from the mouth of a slave owner at the very top of the hierarchy. Laurent wished he could have forgotten about that negligible fact.

“He wasn’t yours yet," he pointed out. "Which is exactly why Erasmus can go, and Kallias cannot.”

Damianos stared at Laurent intently for a moment, as if he could read his soul, all of his intentions, from his expression. Alas, he couldn't; and frustrated, turned around, picked up the discarded sword, and faced whatever was left of the practice dummies.

It seems even the deepest wells of patience had their floors.

“Are you schooling me, too?” He asked, without looking Laurent in the eye. His voice, curiously, wavered; as if he was disappointed. As if it wasn't an everyday occurrence for Laurent to be lecturing everyone around him, in a more or less pleasant way.

“Do I look like Kastor to you?” He was sarcastic as ever, and he didn't even know why. He didn't know why Damianos ignoring him, pretending he didn't hear his words, irritated him as much as it did. "I didn’t think so.”

His biting comment was smothered by the thuds of a sword against the dense effigies, but certainly not enough to pass unnoticed. Laurent puffed out his chest, and the only thing left to complete the picture of childish indignance was stomping his feet like a toddler, whose object of interest dares to be working, rather than give him his desired share of attention.

“They aren’t Kastor either. Or Jokaste.”

It was Damianos's turn to be offended. He whipped around. “I wouldn’t want to hurt them. They are my family.”

As if that changed anything. As if sharing blood with someone didn't only make you more vulnerable, and the first in line to get hurt, and betrayed.

A pang throbbed in Laurent's chest, because, deep inside, he wished he could still be as grounded in his family as Damianos was, despite all the evidence to the contrary. Any delusions he had left were thoroughly wiped at the ripe age of fifteen.

“You only make your frustration worse by lying to yourself, you know.”

Damianos lowered his sword, now hanging by his sides just as helplessly as his arms, slumped, resigned. “What do you suggest I do, then?”

“Fight someone on your level.”

Laurent didn’t know where that came from, whether it was the back-and-forth squabble, the empty training field, the pull in his muscles, the craving, Damianos in front of him with his hands clutched on the hold of a sword – but it did, and once it was between them, in the still air of the arena filled with nothing but the stench of male sweat, he couldn’t take it back.

“You know how to fight.”

“Yes.”

He never expected to answer this question with such certainty, him, the man with a body built for poring over tomes night after night, rather than exert himself with physical pursuits. He, who has been training in secret for the last half a decade, to have the advantage of an element of surprise once the inevitable civil war would come.

He didn't take into account that Uncle might use some more back-handed methods, even though frankly, it was very much in character.

“It wasn’t a question," Damianos stated, firmly. The way he talked to him, it wasn't a master to a slave or a concerned prince to someone who had found himself in his care; it was man to a man. A warrior recognizing his kind from a mile away. "You know how to fight. I saw you watching, during the duel. You weren’t dazed or ecstatic like your everyday onlooker. You were studying us.”

“Maybe," he neither confirmed nor denied, even though at this point, it was hardly necessary.

“And what did you see?”

This was even more obvious. “That Torveld didn’t stand a chance.”

“Do you think you do?”

The question threw him off. Did he? He saw Damianos destroy a man with years of experience on him, without breaking a sweat. He heard stories of Damianos's blood thirst, the dramaturgy of them only partially exasperated. He saw the grotesque picture his sword had painted on the one he loved so dearly with his own very eyes.

Was he good enough to face him?

“Yes.”

There was no question about it; there couldn't be. Not when Laurent has been plagued with thoughts of this moment coming every single day for his whole damned teenagehood, and beyond. Not when he had the fulfillment of his life's purpose at his fingertips, resting on a sword waiting for him somewhere on the weapon rack.

He would say Fate had put him through everything for him to end up right here, in that moment, but it wouldn't be quite right, wouldn't it? It was his Uncle's doing, and then Damianos's own. In a way, it was the Akielon prince challenging him to a duel, in the middle of the night in an abandoned training field; all that when just a day ago, Laurent had been perceived as but a delicate flower.

It was baffling. It was unsettling in a way Laurent didn't want to read into, and yet, he did.

“How did you… how did you notice me observing? During a fight, the split seconds… how—”

“I always notice, Laurent.”

His voice was not quite a whisper, and not quite a rasp – there was no usual jest in it, no playful undertones, just candor and raw emotion he couldn’t place, but felt burning everywhere in his body, from his chest rising and falling, and the tiny hairs standing on his neck. 

They stood like this, staring at each other for a long moment – or maybe it was a split second, before Damianos reached out to a rack, pulling out a weapon. He sized it up for a moment, and then turned the blade around, pointing the hilt wordlessly towards Laurent. Waiting. Expecting.

He took it.

What a strange feeling, the weight of a sword resting in his hands after such a long time, and an even stranger one seeing his own face reflected in the blade, illuminated with moonlight – pale, so very pale, but unwavering, from the set of his jaw to the stare: hard, focused, wiped of emotion.

Closing his eyes, he let the sword settle into his grip, noting the rough texture of the handle underneath his fingertips, balancing the steel against his body. It was much heavier than what he was used in Vere, more powerful, more blunt.

Breathe in, breathe out. 

When he looked into the mirror of the polished metal again, a different face stared back at him, cut in half and distorted by a groove: a much younger one, with eyes huge like a pair of painted saucers. Terrified. And so, so pained. 

The clutch on the handle tightened, and the sword raised high in the air. Like in a prism, the light scattered against it, shining like a beacon in the sinister darkness enveloping him, cold and uninviting. Tearing through the night as Laurent left his guard, leaping forward.

He didn’t care whether he should have waited, and let Damianos make the first move. He didn’t care about the technique, the honor, the gallantry. There was only blood pumping in his veins, the breeze burning his lungs, the heady rush in his head.

The screech of steel against steel deafened him, the first clash radiating throughout his body, a shiver in his arms, his shoulders, his back. It was like charging at an armed wall, even though there was not a piece of armor anywhere on his opponent to account for. Damianos didn’t need one – not when he was countering all of Laurent’s attacks effortlessly, as if he was granted a third eye from his gods, telling him from where exactly the next strike would come. And he hasn’t even moved two paces away from his position.

Infuriating. He more than understood Torveld’s frustration now.

But where the Patran prince was sea raging, Laurent was a blustering wind. The night breeze billowing tousled his hair as he rushed around the unwavering ridge in blasts, fast and elusive. An attack after an attack, relentless, never-ending, until drops of sweat started to drip off his forehead like a drizzle of rain. Breath heaved heavy in his lungs as he stared at his opponent, rooted in the spot, unmoved. A fire igniting him the moment he saw the dark brown eyes sparkle with laughter in the faint glow of the torch, mounted on a nearby wall.

A burst of a current, and it was extinguished, just as the confident leer on Damianos’s face, the moment his carefully kept guard had been breached for the first time.

Crack, crack, crack, and the stone walls chipped, falling apart at their base in debris. The Akielon’s eyes widened in shock.

Even the most secure of strongholds falls in a hurricane, Laurent thought, and it was his turn to smile as he returned to his guard.

There were no dodges, no nonchalance, not anymore – the game was on, and it was fascinating how Damianos’s stance changed the moment he realized he indeed might have just met his match. He widened his stance, no longer an unmovable mountain, but a landslide, threatening to crush Laurent the moment his focus would lapse – but not a single pebble skipped his attention.

The gravel shot from underneath their sandals, scratching painfully against their calves as it burst all around at the impact of two elements so different, yet so harmonious. Strength and agility. Order and chaos. Past, future, present, and forever.

The heavy sword fell, and like a zephyr, Laurent darted to the side, narrowly escaping its path at the last moment, his garments following him in a whirl of smooth silk, so much slower than his body.

There was no place for listlessness.

A sharp tear alarmed Laurent, a rip echoing in the stillness, and from the corner of his eyes, he saw a scrap of blue fabric fall to the ground, covered in sand and gravel. Grimed and forgotten, stomped upon time and time again with no mind, like the starburst banners at Marlas.

Like the pennant covering Auguste’s coffin when it was lowered into the ground.

Was it the pain, simmering like a hellfire deep inside Laurent’s heart still, or the night that had covered his eyes in the darkness, warping and transforming reality into a thing of nightmares? No distant lights were illuminating the halls of the palace anymore – just the soldiers, walking around the field with torches, searching for bodies. No moonlight, but only the dark, muddy sky, covered by grey clouds from the funeral pyres. Silence, and in that, soul-tearing cries of those who could not scream anymore, because they were long dead – and the clamor was only the guilt in those who dared stay alive. Never quieting, never fizzling out.

The tear in his throat, was it a yell escaping him? A howl of rage, or perhaps of desperation? He wouldn’t know, not when his senses drowned in darkness, thick as molasses and impenetrable. Covering his heart and soul in muck no light could ever penetrate.

“Laurent.”

The voice was faint, familiar, and so warm, so at odds with the bruising grip closing on his wrist, and the coldness freezing his mind. How did they get here? They were inches away, like this – separated only by the edge of the sword, scratching against the skin of Damianos’s neck, and the weight of the unsaid past hanging between them.

“Laurent, it’s me.”

It was him, wasn’t it? And that was the problem.

A clank, the sword discarded carelessly on the ground, its sound ringing in Laurent’s ears, ringing like laughter and ridicule. He deserved it – him, who had the murderer of his brother at the end of his blade, but couldn’t push. Couldn’t watch a single drop of blood fall and stain the crimson of his chiton.

What did that make of Laurent? A failure? A traitor?

“You are a great fighter,” he heard Damianos say and the hold on his arm loosened, the bruise cooled by the night breeze. “Your swordsmanship, it’s…”

“Unchivalrous?”

“Fascinating. I have never seen anything like it.”

Laurent wanted to laugh it off, maybe throw in a biting comment – then maybe you haven’t killed enough Veretians yet – but no words were passing through his throat. There was only a bile, rising, threatening to suffocate him.

The last six years, the countless bruises, the cuts, the scrapes, all so meticulously laced up and hidden underneath the impenetrable mask of a feckless aristocrat. All for naught, because in the end, he could never win against Damianos. He wasn’t good enough, and even if he was—

“You should teach me sometime.”

“What?”

Damianos could have asked him to bend over backward, literally, and he would be much less bewildered. Him? Teach Damianos of Akielos, the so-called Hero of Marlas, something other than reading comprehension or the basics of getting by in life and not dying out of naivety? Absolutely ridiculous.

But he wasn't joking.

“You should teach me,” Damianos repeated, sitting on the ground with a loud plop, “your parries. I don’t know how you make something so intricate seem so effortless.”

“It’s not effortless.”

“I know.”

Laurent didn't just mean the intricacies of the Veretian school of sword fighting, but also the hundreds upon thousands of hours he forced himself to spend to have even a figment of a chance of winning against a god of war incarnate; and yet, he still lost.

And the worst of it was that Damianos hadn't even done anything. Not one of his attacks and defenses were unfamiliar to Laurent. 

“Yours is so… simple," he said, going back to their duel, before he blacked out, taking it apart in his analytical mind. "Effective. It’s like you approach everything with such disarming sincerity.”

“And yet, I didn’t disarm you.”

“You could. Why didn’t you?”

“You didn’t let me.”

Laurent couldn't help but wonder, how was it in Damianos's world, where one didn't have to clutch and tear desperately for everything in life, fighting till the last breath, and beyond. Just to not be pushed to the ground, and defeated. Just to not be humiliated. Just to not be hurt. Just to not be killed.

Let him? Laurent was never asked for permission.

There was more stillness than words between them, now; no witty remarks, no flirty comments, no cutting phrases. Just a whole lot of racing thoughts, and the silence – not uncomfortable, but tranquil, there to give space to breathe to his overworked mind.

Simple. Sincere. Soothing.

“Laurent?”

He shifted, angling himself towards him. “Yes?”

“I’ll see you. At Dionysia.”

It wasn't a question, but only because Damianos didn't seem to dare ask one; even though he could have ordered Laurent to do whatever he pleased, and there wasn't much he could have done to counter him. He was just his slave, after all. An item for the prince to use as he pleased.

You didn't let me.

Dionysia, Laurent thought. The celebrations where life and death met, united in the perfect harmony of nature. Not enemies, but two aspects of the same whole; a contiguity destined to be joined, together, for all eternity.

An antithesis.

“Yes," he said and was answered with a smile. "Yes, you will.”

Chapter Text

This was the most absurd thing Laurent had seen in his entire life.

And it wasn’t as if Laurent had low tolerance for insanity. After all, he was Veretian. Love his people he may, but they weren’t exactly the most pragmatic and serious-minded bunch. Quite the contrary.

At just four years of age, he got slapped in the back with a very dead, very stinky fish by his royal brother for the very first time, such being his introduction to the mid-spring pranks. Officially, they were to honor their Lord and Savior (whose name apparently anagrammed to the word 'fish') or something along those lines, but to be fair, it never really resonated with him; from where he stood, it was simply the Veretian’s strange obsession with seafood. Because, yes, it was hardly the only instance where it was publicly included for reasons other than consumption – God be with the brave fellows who would dare to visit Fortaine or Marlas around the same time of year, unless they enjoyed being thrown a herring at by the esteemed lords of the two principalities. 

And yet, Akielons took the cake when it came to the most ridiculous public holiday he would ever witness by far. He could only imagine the farcicality the festivities in Delfeur must have become, taking into account the unavoidable merger of cultures, usually tending to mix the worst, rather than the best traits. Truly, with not one, but two such idiotic influences, the whole population would need to be admitted to a mental institution, Laurent was sure; and if that wasn't a sound agreement as to why the county shouldn't stay in Akielon hands, he didn't know what was.

Because, for a nation ridiculing the Veretians for their supposed promiscuity so much, Akielos seemed to have a bit of an unhealthy fascination with all things phallic.

Laurent leaned forward on the dais, looking down at the street, where the last finishing touches were being applied to what would be the famous Dionysian procession. Men and women dressed in colorful chitons showing more than they were covering, all clad in masks, fixed whatever they deemed out of place in the enormous flower arrangements, switching the placement of celebratory statues and other ritual objects of all sizes, but only one shape.

In the middle of it, covered by a curtain, stood the biggest one – and why was it concealed, Laurent couldn’t be sure, because the fabric wasn’t doing anything to hide its contour, quite the contrary. So enormous it was, four men would have to haul it once the procession started, holding it up so that every citizen of Ios gathered could get their share of admiring the biggest dildo Laurent had seen in his life.

A sarcastic part of his brain instantly began to ponder whether Akielos was where the Veretian eunuchs' manhoods went, dressed up as ghosts of all shapes and sizes for the amusement of the crowd. Unlike during the duel, this time around Laurent was very much a part of the bunch of engrossed spectators, indeed feeling very entertained, albeit probably for a very different reason from the devout Akielons.

Piousness was never one of Laurent’s numerous virtues, and as it turns out, neither was open-mindedness to traditions of other cultures, especially ones as foreign as this one. Could he be blamed, though? Akielons were, honest to God, worshipping dicks. Cocks. Peckers, for Heaven's sake. Even Ancel didn't go this far waxing poetics about the assets of a good schlong.

Deprived as the court in Arles was, the last Laurent was there, such a display would be unthinkable, and happen during a comedic show at best. Right before slapping someone in the face with a religiously sanctioned dead sea creature.

Mmm, now he thought of it, perhaps reconciling the herring-throwing Veretians loved with the Akielon phallic endeavors could be easier than expected if one only wished for that, Laurent pondered. At least according to the numerous soldiers he overheard crudely conversing more times than he would ever care for, ladies’ privates had the same exact aroma fish had; one of the many reasons why he wasn't exactly keen on the prospect of a Patran princess or a daughter of the empire, but alas, the connection was there.

The world was so small, in the end. So small, in fact, Laurent couldn’t help but think the whole thing was quite fishy.

Inelegantly, he snorted, perhaps a bit too self-satisfied with his joke. A few pairs of eyes turned in his direction, and if they intended to chastise, the result was very contrary.

"This must be so foreign to you," Erasmus leaned in, whispering, and Laurent couldn't help but keep grinning at the euphemism. “Our traditions must seem so bizarre to someone unacquainted with them.”

So they knew it was insane, or at least, Erasmus did. Oh, his self-assurance was truly amazing, then. Laurent loved it to bits. “You could say that,” he confirmed, holding back laughter, with only partial success.

He skimmed the crowd, thickening with every passing minute, the ones who dallied now trying to push to the front of the mass to get the best possible spots. Only by watching the thousands of people gathered, a shiver of demophobia ran down his spine, and he was glad for the space separating the elevated dais from the rest of the participants.

It was an exception from the rule of abolishing distinctions in the Akielon society for the duration of the celebrations, however, one more than understandable. While Damianos was well-liked and had an honest, open approach to the citizens of Ios, Laurent couldn't imagine him dancing and drinking with the general public whilst clad in all of his regalia. It was even less conceivable in Kastor’s case; with how constipated his expression was, it was unlikely he could enjoy even the prospect of letting himself loose with his subject, seeing how offended he looked by Laurent's very presence in the selected circle of palace residents present. If anything, he could see in his mind’s eye a well-meaning citizen offering the royal bastard a vial of laxative, to ease him of his issues.

When it came to Laurent himself though, as expected, he was one of the very few slaves chosen to attend the festivities. The only other one was Erasmus, there to accompany Torveld – a personal guest of the Patran prince and the apple of his eye, obvious from the besotted gaping following the slave’s every move. Even Kallias wasn’t present – but perhaps, it shouldn’t be surprising, seeing how Kastor was an idiot, but not one incapable of learning from his mistakes. One joined appearance of his wife and slave in public was more than enough; now, he would certainly be more careful to let those two roam around uncontrolled at the same time. Whatever the intense talk they had in private, Jokaste didn't seem particularly phased; as always, she sat with truly royal poise, a picture of steadfastness and grace.

All in all, aside from Kastor and Jokaste, the few of his companions on the platform were people he at the very least tolerated, if not liked. Moreover, there was one more very substantial perk to his current position – the elevation gave him the perfect opportunity for some social observation, while not being directly involved in the herd of exuberant humans, a third of which was already inebriated.

Not all of them were Akielon – it seemed everyone who just so happened to be in Ios around this time went ahead to join the celebrations, if not for religious reasons then just for amusement and the constant stream of wine. They were all mixed in a pot of colors, garments, and cultures – and, indeed, social status.

Aristocrats mingled with commoners, forgetting the boundaries for this one day, blurring the division of classes like the thousands of shots of alcohol would soon muddle all of their minds. Actors talked with the consecrated virgins, finding common ground for this one moment in time. Beautiful and ugly. Rich and poor. Young and old, all connected in the Festival of Life. 

In the multitude of faces, Laurent caught one with the corner of his eye that gave him a stop – a strapping older man with an impressive grey beard and full eyebrows, looking angry even when he was laughing heartily with his companion. He wasn’t quite sure why he caught his attention; there was nothing special about him – one of many rich men spilled on the streets of Ios – or anything out of the ordinary, and yet, his presence bugged him. He seemed familiar, somehow, as if he had seen him before, but that could be said about so many other people. Many faces passed through the court, after all; he couldn’t possibly remember all of them. And yet, this man, he thought he should recall, but he couldn’t figure out from where.

“Who’s that?” He asked Erasmus, who turned around and leaned in against Laurent’s shoulder the moment he called for him. 

The boy narrowed his eyes, staring into the crowd blindly. “Who’s who?”

“The man with the beard.”

“Laurent,” Erasmus’s doe eyes were indulgent, “half of the men here have beards.”

“The long, thick one. Grey.”

Erasmus turned obediently to the point indicated, but he laughed, a sound like a bunch of tiny golden bells. “You’ve just described a third of those dignitaries.”

Laurent craned his neck, but just as suddenly as he appeared, the man passed from sight between the numerous people once more. He sighed. “Never mind,” he waved it off, and that very moment the trumpets blasted, announcing the celebrations commencing in earnest.

“It’s starting!”

With a truly theatric flourish, the lady dressed in a chiton of all colors of the rainbow from the waist down and in her birthday suit from the waist up, in an almost Vaskian warrior fashion, pulled the curtain. Forgotten, it wafted onto the ground, uncovering the festive phallic figure, glistening gold in the sun and reflecting the light onto the amazed crowd, erupting in exhilaration. And, if that wasn’t bizarre enough, the mistress of the ceremony then proceeded to place her elaborate crown of flowers and ribbons at the very top of the sculpture, like a very excessive sort of cockring. Baffled, Laurent watched as she lowered herself right afterward, gracefully sitting down with her bent legs on the sides of the statue, its impressive girth spreading them apart ungainly. The processional platform was lifted then, the parade marching forward through the clumped streets, led by men dressed up in, you guessed it, phallic costumes.

“How can they even see through those things,” Laurent murmured, utterly discombobulated.

“I believe it’s semi-transparent at the eye level.”

Laurent craned his neck up, almost bumping his forehead into Damianos’s chin, the man leaning forward on the throne-like chair to bring himself closer, easing the conversation. Startled, Laurent jerked back, for a split second flapping his arms inelegantly to prevent himself from falling over, much to Damianos’s amusement.

“Not only at the eye level,” he grumbled back, his pride hurt almost as much as his hands as they slapped against the harsh wooden base of the dais. “I can definitely see the fabric trade route issues. Have they been resolved?"

Damianos furrowed his brows, not following the sudden change of subject. He glanced at Torveld, who only smiled in answer, and then Kastor, who promptly ignored him. "I suppose they have been. Why?"

"Oh, because half the Akielons I see are dressed in threadbare clothing. The slaves. The performers. Truly, no Dionysian miracle would be enough to prevent half the population from freezing their balls off."

His tone was positively sage, and behind him, Torveld snorted, all while Erasmus's eyes widened up dreadfully.

"I will be sure to relay your concerns to the royal silk weavers," Damianos's voice didn't even waver. "We cannot let the demographic growth stunt due to such easily preventable causes.”

Despite everything, Laurent didn't think Damianos would play along with the joke, not with so many other affluent people present, including his family members. For a split second, he gaped stupidly – enough for Damianos to notice and smirk, self-satisfied.

Oh, the game was on.

"Certainly, you cannot. I am sure, however, the festivities do include plenty of proactive measures. Are orgies included in the celebrations itinerary?"

Was it a blush spreading on Damianos's cheeks? No, it couldn't possibly be that the famed royal rake got so flustered at the mere mention of the word 'orgy'. "Uh..." he hesitated, scratching his cheek. "Not to my knowledge, but..."

"I was just jesting. Oh my god." Laurent was, not for the first time, absolutely confounded by Damianos's boundless obliviousness. However, with no mercy, he pushed forward, not backing from a challenge this easily. "Please remind me, how did it go? There is no nation quite as libertine and sex-crazed as Veretians?"

Leaning to whisper sarcastically to Damianos, Laurent could almost feel the heat radiating off the man as he blushed, caught red-handed along with his entire nation. “It’s tradition,” he stated, helplessly. “And it’s not just about sex. It’s about celebrating the circle of life, the passing of seasons, the—”

“She’s about to fuck a dildo that’s about three times her size.”

"For the glory of the gods!"

"For the glory of the gods," Laurent repeated, slowly. "Of course. How could I have thought otherwise."

Damianos pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning. "To be completely honest with you, the only reason I am keeping a straight face now is because I've been coming to those processions ever since I turned eleven."

"Eleven. How scandalous." 

"Oh, don't act like you have never seen a dick in your life."

He has, more times than he could ever wish for, actually, and that's not counting being flashed all day, every day since he arrived in Akielos. That, and didn't Damianos realize he was setting himself up? Laurent could barely resist the temptation to cleverly bite back. He only wondered, if would he be arrested for saying yes, I'm seeing one right in front of me right now? Still, he felt such a strong urge to try.

But, Damianos beat him to it, even though he probably didn't mean it as a sarcastic comment, but rather, genuinely thought so. Which was worse, Laurent couldn't be sure.

"Besides, isn't voyeurism an everyday occurrence at the Veretian court?" He asked skeptically but with a disarming conviction. 

"No," Laurent clarified, although felt it fair to add a disclaimer. "Not an everyday one, anyway."

"Not an everyday one," this time, Damianos parroted, using Laurent's weapon against him. It was vexing, especially when it was flaws in his words highlighted so blatantly.

"I know it might be shocking, considering," Laurent shot right back, making a vague gesture with his hands, pointing towards the procession, where the girl was currently attempting to give the ginormous golden dildo a handjob. Of course, her tiny hands were barely able to hold a tenth of it, so a few other performers volunteered to aid her endeavors, "but Veretians don't typically have a monster fucker kink. We prefer it tout-naturel, you see."

"We don't have a monster fucker kink, either. What about that," Damianos also pointed at the statue, going for unphased, but clearly piqued, "gives you unnatural? It's a perfectly naturally shaped male appendage."

"The size is hardly one occurring in nature, for starters," Laurent was matter-of-fact, humming for a moment after he made the observation. "Are you perhaps compensating for something?"

It was a sharp riposte, but not one to which Damianos had no response. One easily capable of bringing a blush to Laurent's cheeks, at that.

“Well,” Damianos smirked, positively devilishly. “For our subjects, I cannot say, but personally I wouldn’t have a need for that.”

"I don't doubt it. Kings are anointed by gods, after all, and your king of the gods has a very particular preference for turning into animals with impressive packages.” It was impressive how Laurent’s eyebrow didn’t even twitch. “There was a bull, I recall? And also a stallion, and—"

"Point taken," Damianos sighed, probably such being the least flattering way someone ever responded to his dick. Aside from Laurent's ridicule probably bordering on sacrilegious, of course.

"So, to seduce Akielon women, your gods take on forms of various animals, but that doesn't translate into a monster kink being your national trait."

"Exactly."

"In that case, is dressing up as gigantic phalluses your way of admitting the Akielons are dicks?”

The chortle escaping Damianos’s throat was almost a reflex, a noise uncontrolled by any of his conscious thoughts, accompanied by a loud snort threatening to choke him up. He barely managed to cover his mouth with his hand when all the heads of their companions whipped in their direction. Their reactions varied from startled to curious, with some indulgence mixed in. In truth, Torveld’s eyes sparked with amusement so much that Laurent was waiting for the man to ask him to perhaps repeat the joke.

He would do that gladly, however, he wouldn’t get a chance – because among all the joyful exuberance of the day, there was one bad egg, and unfortunately, the source of the stink sat in their closest vicinity.

"Need I remind you, you are currently attending a public event where your subjects are looking at your every movement?“ Kastor cleared his throat, his back straightening up. There was no need; even standing up, he would remain shorter than Damianos, Laurent was certain. After all, Kastor was such a small, insignificant man with an ego too huge for his body to contain.  Nonetheless, with his nose up high, he continued his tirade. “I don't interfere with what you do with your slave behind closed doors, but you are giving us all a bad face by snickering like a ten-year-old boy during religious processions."

"You are giving us a bad face by having yours perpetually contorted in a scowl," Damianos retorted, although there was no fire in it. As ridiculous as the circumstances were, Kastor was right; it was neither the time nor the place.

Laurent found it hard to care but still thrilled to hear Damianos snap back, even though it didn’t have nearly enough bite for his tastes. He should have been firmer, and keep reminding Kastor he might be older, but no authority is tied to it, and he shouldn't act otherwise.

Perhaps Damianos had heard Laurent's thoughts, because while he wasn't saying anything more, he kept staring at his brother – a grimace of an angry teenager, happy to blow up when provoked. Kastor was repaying him in kind – one more spark and an explosion would be sure to occur. Public space, or not.

Help came from an unexpected direction.

“Oh, Kastor, loosen up a bit, won’t you!” Torveld butted in, familiarly slapping Kastor on the back in the same way he did Damianos after the duel. However, while the strength only managed to sway the younger of the Akielon royal siblings slightly, the older one almost bent in half, inches away from slamming against the nearest flat surface. The tiniest of obstacles, and he would smash his face into the ground; Laurent would happily volunteer, but he noticed Jokaste had beaten him to it, the slender foot extended and ready.

Sadly, it wasn’t enough, and Kastor managed to lean back into his seat – largely unaffected, not counting his hurt pride.

“This is a celebration of life, and what is it if not fun and laughter! Time for solemnity will come, and now, let’s just enjoy ourselves!”

Laurent wasn’t certain whether enjoyment was something Kastor of Akielos was capable of, to begin with, but he must have ultimately decided that while he could have argued and whipped his younger brother into shape, there was no such possibility when it came to a foreign dignitary, who also so happened to be his elder. His lips pressed together, reclining back against his smaller throne, and no more words had passed through them.

However, the milk had spilled, filling the cracks in the floor and spoiling, souring the mood. Gone was the teasing tone of Damianos, the back-and-forth barter, and the dimples in his cheeks. Now, there was just royal restraint and distance, one that should be expected, and yet was so ill-fitting to his essence.

It took him a while to speak again as if he was collecting his thoughts beforehand. “Pretending Dionysia has nothing to do with sex would be a lie,” he said quietly, leaning towards Laurent, more reflective than he had been before. A private conversation between just them, to which no one else was privy. “It has, because isn’t sex where all life comes from? I don’t think it’s deviant to honor that. All in all, pleasure isn’t the worst of things to celebrate, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Laurent averted his eyes, turning to gaze at the parade, moments away from its climax at the main city square, right at their feet. The multitude of flowers thrown into the air buoyantly would litter the streets with their colors for the days to come, a reminder of the happiest days of the year, and plenty of good moments to commit to memory – supposedly.

Because personally, no; he wouldn’t agree. He never understood the men and women losing their minds to lechery, itching for the animalistic. He couldn’t comprehend how could anyone ever think of sex as something so desirable, so irresistible. What was there to enjoy about a cock tearing through you, leaving behind only blood and pain, there to remind you on every step you were just defiled, hurt, humiliated? Soiling the sheets, soiling your body, your very soul? Just for the few seconds of release, that so often didn’t come?

It was hardly something Laurent would want to seek, and much less happily commemorate.

"I can think of better things, too," he replied tactfully. “Ones that don’t involve bodily fluids and being stuck with holy yeast infection for an unknown duration of time.”

“Fair enough,” Damianos cringed. “Those aren’t the most enjoyable.”

“Speaking from experience?”

It was an inappropriate question, shot without thought, and Laurent didn’t expect him to answer. Perhaps it was the resignation after Kastor berating him, again, but Damianos only shrugged slightly, way past playing coy.

“I was young once, with an unquenchable appetite. Stupid. And before you rebut me,” he put in a disclaimer, “I like to think I’m at least a little less of an idiot now.”

Questionable. But, Laurent would fulfill his request, and not argue Damianos's social and emotional intelligence for once.

“Of course. With time come lessons, whether one likes it or not," Laurent remarked insightfully. "Now, you'd be sure to check whether the girls waiting for you in your chambers are clean."

Clear confusion marred Damianos's features. He squinted his eyes as if there was something in fine print written on Laurent's face, that could give him the answers he sought. However, there were none; and so, hesitantly, he asked, "What makes you think any girls are waiting for me there?”

"The Festival of Life?" Laurent shrugged. "I suppose it's expected of a prince to participate."

For a moment, there was only the mingled backdrop of cheers and the contemplative, empty gaze of Damianos. Laurent wondered if it was still just the consequence of Kastor's impertinence, or if he had contributed.

Perhaps Damianos wasn't the only one around these parts with the emotional intelligence of a dim-witted ant, in the end.

"They aren't," Damianos wasn't jesting, his tone turning serious. "You know they aren't."

The sparse clouds shifted, the sun rays breaking through the sky, so blazing it temporarily blinded them both. Laurent squinted his eyes, covering them with his forearm for a moment, before blinking away the ghost of the burning star and the bright spots in his vision. Everything was clearer now – more saturated, more colorful, more vivid. The height of summer, playing its grand refrain.

And its choir – the eruption of the crowd's cheers as the official part of the celebrations reached its climax. Laurent covered his ears from the assault of excited screams, but leaned over the railing, checking what could escalate the zest further – and his mouth opened wide because he certainly didn't expect anything of this grandeur.

Right underneath them, a heavy-set man gestured for another to join him, and together, they pulled a lever, the thud of the massive mechanism resonating through the tribune. Then, it was the sizzle of water erupting – first, in the horizon, and then closer and closer, each fountain’s reverse surging upwards with intense pressure, the crystal clear water turning first pink, and then deep scarlet. A dizzying aroma of fermented grapes inundated the air, intoxicating the few people who haven’t yet had their share of meads, wines, and griva already.

Cups clinked and heels clacked as men and women both made their way to the life-giving waters, a youthful spring in the step of even the most elderly of them. Handsome youths extended their hands to the old sages, weary bones meaning nothing when the wind was ruffling their hair with every twirl, glide, and turn.

“Come on!”

Erasmus’s warm hand grabbed his, and before he knew it, Laurent was at the very center of it. Wherever he turned, there were people – chitons swishing with every movement of their bodies, air bursting with laughter, with sweat, with boundless euphoria.

In the eye of the storm, he was, standing still while the smudges of color streaked before his eyes, like blurred fires of the torches lighting up the streets at night. He turned, searching for Erasmus, but his blond curls were nowhere to be seen – just a multitude of strangers, dipping and spinning, dancing in front of him and with him. Thousands of hands, reaching out for him, twirling him, touching him.

No one could hear his scream over the music and the laughter, see the labored gasps for what they were when everyone was heaving from exertion already. The clamor turned to a high-pitched ring, the daylight flickering in his eyes like the flame of a candle trembling in a late-night breeze. A wave of coldness went through his body, freezing, when the sun rays burned his skin, scorching, just like the fingertips grazing him, leaving behind invisible bruises, marks, blemishes. Blindly, he pushed, and heard a muffled thud and a string of curses, following him as he staggered through the crowd, bumping into one person after another. It was a slow, painstaking lurch forward, like wading through a thick bog, but in his screaming mind he felt as if he was running, the breath knocked out of his lungs. He needed to get out, needed to get out now, before he got stomped to death, before he suffocated, before there would be nothing left of him where others have touched.

An impact, slamming into him with full force from the back, pushing him forward until he lost his footing, his body crashing into a wall. His hiss blended with the flatline shrieking in his mind, but the blunt ache in his shoulders and loin eclipsed it into stillness.

There was only silence, now.

He blinked, and looked around the quaint lane he had found himself in, seemingly forgotten in the general frenzy. So narrow the buildings were that they were almost touching each other, hardly any light passing through and touching the pavement. There were no bright colors, no harsh sunlight – only the dimness and mudded colors of the painted doors and window shutters.

It was almost like Arles, and for a moment, he wondered whether he hadn’t fallen through a magical gateway in his blacked-out confusion – until the very Akielon writings on the doors and signboards confirmed how much of a laughable notion such a passing thought was.

One in particular caught his attention – a simple, carved snake, wrapping itself around a wooden staff. A typical rod of Asclepius, if not for the bunch of silphiums blooming at the top of the cane, differentiating this particular herbarium from the others. A beacon for the poor, unfortunate souls seeking a poison to cure themselves, forced into the ultimate by their circumstances, no matter their status, wealth, or birth.

United beyond their difference by a common denominator: misery.

An escape from which, for him, lay just behind the corner of the desolate laneway, with not a soul in sight, not a guard, not a warrior. Just a few steps, and he could have the freedom he had been dreaming of, far longer than since he had been brought to Ios.

He could leave it all behind, and start anew. Damn Damianos, Vere, everything that was, and live, whatever that meant for someone who had only existed for the longest time. Abandon his broken, burdened self, and maybe try and find the person he daydreamed about when he was still a hopeful, bright child, with ideals and innocent fantasies.

Abandon Nicaise, alone in Arles. Abandon Lykaios, waiting for him right here, in Ios, one of the so very few people who saw him as more than a pretty face with no substance. Who counted on him, leaving her fate in his hands.

He couldn’t do that to her. With firm resolve, he turned, not one thought more spared to the empty street.

His time would come, too.

The doors to the apothecary opened with a creak, a bell chiming when he pushed them. The air was stuffy in the chamber, heavy with the unmistakable, nauseating scent of an amalgamation of herbs, potions, and panaceas. From the base all the way to the ridge, the walls were covered with cabinets, storing a wide variety of vials, flasks, and jars, filled to the brim with dried herbs, potions, and cures, all tabbed with worn-out labels written with impressive calligraphy, marking their contents. So many there were, it was a miracle the rotten and full of holes cabinets (thanks to the worms happily gnawing on them throughout the years) hadn’t collapsed under all this weight. Such was the state of the other, very sparse furniture as well – the counter, littered with little pouches and paper bags, had certainly seen better days, and so did the table, wobbling on its legs at the gentlest draft from the windows, weathered-out.

The owner of this pharmacy certainly must have been putting all of his income back into the necessary compounds and curing materials. Truly, if not for the very visible wear and tear, speaking of the humble conditions of the physician, Laurent could swear he was back at Paschal’s rooms in Arles, the collection gathered here so very impressive. Even from the ceiling, bunches of herbs hung, drying for later use in a plethora of medicines.

Since there was no one at the counter, Laurent leaned over it, pricking up his ears. Judging by the soft hissing and bubbling certainly from steam escaping boiling liquids or vents, accompanied by a low hum of a cheerful tune, the physician himself was occupied at the moment. Not having anything else to do as he waited, Laurent idled around the store, glancing at the vials and perusing the labels, a lot of them ringing a bell. Willow bark. Valerian root. St. John's Wort.

And right next to them, a small, inconspicuous glass container, filled to the brim with a yellowish powder, an unmistakable faint, acrid, and earthy scent wafting over it. Laurent's eyes widened as he reached out for it, without thinking, confirming his suspicion.

"If someone has gotten under your skin and you're looking for remedies, I can guide you towards the assassin's guild, just down the corner," a voice said, and Laurent flinched, withdrawing his hand. "I don't dabble in poisons, medical code and all. Made a promise to Hippocrates, you see. Sorry."

The man didn't look like much – elderly, with a long beard in which stray dried herbs and powders caught, he didn't stand out from other Akielons his age Laurent had met. His back hunched, he was leaning on a staff, the passing time turning him frail – but doing nothing to extinguish the glint in his eyes, sharp and curious, so befitting a man of knowledge.

Not a person Laurent would ever accuse of being a poisoner, and yet, appearances could be deceiving.

"And yet, you have wolfsbane here," he pointed out, staring right into the man's eyes, looking for any trace of abashment, yet he found none. "Quite a lot of it."

"A keen eye," the physician remarked, a tinge of appreciation in his tone. With a limp, he walked towards Laurent, leaning over his shoulder to pick up the container. He shifted the small pot in his fingers and stared at the powder, rocking it back and forth like in an hourglass. "A curious herb, isn't it? A potent poison, more than capable of reducing a grown soldier to ashes, and yet, able to heal."

That, Laurent has never heard, raised in Arles where he beware of poisons at every step. A pit of snakes it was, after all – and this particular toxin, was perhaps one of the most famed ones. And yet… "Heal?" He asked, repeating after the man.

"When used wisely, and sparingly," the physician put the vial back on the shelf, where it belonged, “it can ease pain, calm troubled minds, reduce fever, you name it. But, as versatile as monkshood is, it’s humorous like a scorned woman. A gentle hand, like that of a lover, is required. A sprinkle too much and our patient would be relieved of pain perhaps a bit too permanently."

Laurent raised his brow at the peculiar wording, but the herbarium's owner seemed completely unbothered. He threw his one free hand in the air, exclaiming, "What? When walking the thin line between life and death is one’s daily bread, they have to whistle past the graveyard, lest they want to lose their mind."

Such must have already happened to the man, Laurent thought, wondering whether it wasn't too late to turn on his heel and look for a different physician's parlor, because that one definitely had a few screws loose. Whether the thought showed on his face, he didn't know, yet it didn't go unnoticed.

"There's nothing to fear. I won't slip a few spritz of toxins into your drink, and not only because I haven't offered you one. Would you like one?" He asked now and Laurent – predictably – shook his head. "Convalescents dying of wolfsbane, that's just an occupational hazard. Most of the time, anyway. Malpractice is a greater plague than the Black Death if you ask me," he hummed a low, happy tune, his staff hitting the wooden floor in rhythm. “But it’s been a while since anyone had asked me anything, other than a favor.”

Awkwardly, Laurent shifted on his legs, smoothing down his festive chiton as if nothing was said, and he didn’t come to the shrink’s establishment exactly because he needed a favor, or more precisely – his friend needed one, desperately. Still used to being a prince, it was at this moment he realized he didn’t have any means to reimburse the physician if he agreed to help him to begin with. He didn’t have anything on him at all, maybe except his clothes.

Which were, to be fair, very fine silks; Damianos didn’t need to enlighten him of it. Though no longer fully transparent, they still weren’t exactly Laurent’s preferred level of coverage, but nonetheless, he recognized artistry where it was due. They could be traded for a few dozen lei, for sure; maybe even up to a hundred, if one haggled well. Perhaps Laurent could talk the physician into a barter; some of his old rags and an abortive, and they would get themselves a trade.

How he would explain his sudden change of wardrobe at the palace, Laurent wouldn’t want to think about. Would the festivities getting better of him be good enough of an explanation?

It would probably make things worse, actually.

“You were just at the Dionysia, no?” The lunatic in a white, stained surcoat asked, his timing impeccable with Laurent’s train of thought; so perfect, in fact, he was baffled how the conversation turned in this direction.

“Yes?”

“A whirlwind, isn’t it? I used to go there every year, before one of those times, I danced with a stately old lady a bit too intensely and sprained my hip. It still acts up when the weather changes. It’s going to rain tomorrow, by the way,” he babbled, and something told Laurent the odd grandpa probably hadn’t gotten a chance to converse with someone about everything and nothing for quite a while. “You sure you don’t want some water? You must be parched after all the excitement, and with all the fountains turned into wine distributors…”

“No, thank you.”

He shook his head, clearly displeased Laurent wouldn’t be tempted with anything – and with a finger pressing on his lips, the physician surely was already thinking of what else could he try and get Laurent on some of his offers of refreshments. “The hat won’t help you with the sunstroke if you don’t hydrate enough, you know. You should drink something. Doctor’s orders,” he snickered. “Something other than alcohol, of course.”

“I don’t drink alcohol,” Laurent clarified, even though no one asked.

The apothecary smirked approvingly. “Good. Would be a shame if you ended up as yet another unfortunate soul drowned in wine fountains.”

“Is this a common occurrence?”

“Quite. But befitting the celebrations, if one thinks about it,” he said, ducking under the counter and sifting through a collection of glassware just underneath it. Through the clinks, Laurent wasn’t sure whether he could hear him.

“How so?”

“Passing of seasons, the revelry of the Wheel, the cosmic truth, and all of that shebang. It’s not just a Festival of Life. It’s a Festival of Life and Death.”

It was as if the Grim Reaper themselves had breathed out the last word, a cold breeze rustling the dried flowers hanging from the ceiling and sending a faint shiver down Laurent’s spine. The acrid stink of toxins shifted, turning into a pungent stench of decaying bodies, only partially masked with the faint scent of aromatics; dried flowers, rosemary, cloves, cinnamon. Vinegar.

"Oh, don't be so sour. It doesn't suit your pretty face."

The doctor's voice brought Laurent back to reality, where it was only a draft that had opened the doors, letting in the doubtful aroma of the streets, unchangeably covered in shit and excrements he would rather not know the provenance of. Still, he inhaled it all deeply, the scent of life and everything it constituted, rather than the miasma his mind conjured.

Calmer now, he opened his eyes to a gigantic round-bottom flask right in his face. Its neck was crudely smashed in sharp shards, the main part filled to the brim with sweets – if they could even be called that – shaped like little black snails. "Licorice?"

He was insistent, Laurent had to give him that. "No, thank you."

"Your loss," he shrugged, popping one into his mouth. Promptly, he grimaced, showing his tongue, stained dark. "Ah! The taste of disappointment. Never changing."

It wasn't often that Laurent couldn't measure a man, and this one evaded any of his judgments. Without a doubt, he was at the right place – the silphium at the signboard left no room for ambiguity. More than that, with how well-stocked the apothecary was, he could see why even affluent court ladies would go down here, and put up with the physician himself, who was eccentric at best, and clinically insane at worst. Not exactly the sort of man Laurent would trust, but to be fair – he didn't trust anyone. Besides, he didn't have much of a choice to begin with, and the time was ticking.

“Well, what I can help you with? You aren’t exactly the sort of clientele I usually get, I must admit,” the doctor cut to the chase, much to Laurent's relief. However, the next comment threw him off balance. "Knocked up your missus and don’t feel like taking responsibility, are you?”

The way he gaped, not one, but an entire swarm of flies could have passed through his mouth and into his throat. An outrageous presumption, the very idea of which made Laurent choke on thin air, his cheeks burning deep scarlet.

The physician was not amused – except that he was, judging by the faint ghost of a smirk, lifting one of his mouth's corners. "Have I offended your Veretian sensibilities? Accidents happen, you know.”

Still clutching to his chest, catching his breath, Laurent rasped out, "How have you known I was Veretian?”

“Your accent isn’t subtle,” the physician pointed out, shrugging and turning back to his cabinet of curiosities. Touché. “And neither is your affront. I assure you, no Akielon would ruffle their feathers this much hearing the word ‘accident’. To be honest with you, I doubt even all of your countrymen would. I mean, all of you Veretians cannot possibly truly have a preference for your own sex.”

They didn't. Despite being but a child then, Laurent still remembered catching Auguste in the middle of the night, dressed to impress as he snuck out through the palace window with his comrades, shushing Laurent when he caught him red-handed. At first, he tried to make excuses, but when one of those times he helped haul his drunk brother back to his chambers without alarming half the palace staff, doing his best to wipe off the lipstick marks and hickeys, there was no need to pretend anymore.

It became blatantly obvious why the golden prince had never taken on even a single pet.

“Maybe, but we have an amazing pull-out game," he retorted right back. "The prospect of the only head happening otherwise being the one severed from your own body does wonders, or so I heard.”

“So you heard.”

For a while, it was only the creaking of the building's old walls, fighting to stay upright, and the faint gurgling of concoctions still boiling in the backroom. They both had their ideas about the grave implications of Laurent's riposte – perhaps, in more ways than one, convergent – but neither voiced them, knowing they couldn't reach an agreement. And even if they could, it didn't matter.

They only found themselves here for business.

"So, what brings you here to my humble abode?" The doctor asked cheekily, the timing of the furniture squeaking from its old age much too rich as if the pharmacy itself intended to chime in on the conversation. "I don't believe you'd go through all that trouble for a little chat, although I'd be very flattered!"

"It's my friend," Laurent admitted, a soft flush still warming his complexion. "She had the... accident."

"I see," the physician hummed, "was it her first one?"

Laurent wasn't qualified to answer those sorts of questions, and in hindsight, he should have prepared much better for the medical reconnaissance. "As far as I know," he made an educated guess.

The herbalist tapped his lips. "I do approve of a young lady who knows what a contraceptive is. Happens to the best of us," before Laurent could voice his outrage at the comment, the man continued with his informative duties. "Is she far along?"

"No. Nothing is visible, yet."

"Actually, who am I asking. You're a man. And supposedly not the father," the physician stated the obvious, pointing his mortar at him, before reaching out for a clay box, filled to the brim with beautifully smelling dried leaves, dark green in color. Mint? "I'll account for up to a late first trimester. Tell the girl that."

Laurent nodded, and the doctor got to work in earnest. "Pennyroyal," he explained, noticing Laurent leaning over the counter and staring at all the little containers the man had procured, adding bits and pieces into the mix. "It induces uterine contractions and regulates menstruation. Besides, it smells nice. Doesn't it?"

It did, and thank Heavens for it, because most of the other things would make Lykaios vomit before she could even force the medicine in. He recognized most of the ingredients – rue, mugwort, tansy. Of course, silphium, a sprinkle of the precious, potent ingredient, the one making such a difference, but picked almost to the point of extinction by the greedy men, finding it a cure for every ailment.

And, to top it off—

"No hellebore," Laurent interjected, just as the doctor was reaching out for the twisting, gnarling root, with its musty scent only partially disguised by the intense aroma of ground mint, already added to the mixture. The healer raised his brow but put the herb back into its storage drawer.

"If not for the circumstances," the apothecary considered aloud, grinding all the other substances into a thick syrup, mixed with honey to make it in any way edible. "I'd love to take you on as an apprentice. But, alas," straining everything to clarity, with his chin, he pointed to Laurent’s collar, which suddenly weighed a ton, rather than a few grams. “You’re from the palace.”

Laurent didn’t answer, and there was no need to – where else would he be from, with his collar and cuffs golden and delicate, rather than harsh and iron? A chicken coop? He only stared back at the physician, wondering where he was going with it.

“You’re from the palace,” he repeated, putting away his tools and adding, “and Prince Damianos’s slave.”

Not removing the pin when he ventured into town was probably the greatest display of a mental lapse Laurent had displayed in a long while, even if the alternative was having to clutch at his chiton at the risk of it falling on the ground, leaving him completely naked. Oh, how he missed the security of Veretian laces, still.

But, the milk had spilled, and there was no going back from it. Laurent tilted his head in the slightest, inspecting the physician. His breath was calm, as the entirety of his mien – even the bizarre air he had about him before was gone, making way for something else. Something more solemn, but perhaps more genuine than the eccentricity.

“Then you must know,” the physician then asked, quietly, so quietly, as if a secret was being shared between them, “how is he?”

Strong, Laurent should have stalled. A true filar of Akielon tradition, he could have lauded, and it would be true. Ever the prince-killer, he could have said or tried to because the words would not pass through his throat – an issue he would dissect at a different, less frantic time.

But looking into the physician’s eyes, so worn down by the years and the horrors they must have seen, he couldn’t do it. Why, he wasn’t sure, but the man’s demeanor evoked kindness in him, one Laurent didn’t know he still had – compassion towards strangers, and trust in the intentions unspoken, but not less weak for it.

They were good. And even if they weren’t, the real danger was already closer than Damianos would ever guess, the naive, soft-hearted brute. “He’s getting by,” Laurent reassured, a heavy sigh leaving the physician’s lungs instantly. He stared at Laurent with his eyes wide, as if he was soaking up every single one of his words, like the most precious panacea. “The new-found responsibilities of managing the state matters due to the King’s indisposition puts a weight on his shoulders, but thankfully, he was born with a set of quite impressive ones,” Laurent stress-joked, uncomfortable with the situation and already regretting the uncharacteristic moment of softness he displayed.

"The King's indisposition?"

There was a clear shock in the physician's voice, and Laurent fumbled. Wasn't it as much of a common knowledge as he thought? Realistically, if this piece of information traveled as far as Arles, the streets of Ios should be bursting with it.

Shit.

“Age catches up to all of us,” Laurent sagely stated, careful. The physician blinked, before laughing out loud heartily.

“Oh, tell me about it, young lad! I am just so shocked to hear the rumors are true," so Laurent's assumption was right. He sighed with relief, but then wondered – why the surprise? "I remember King Theomedes strong like an ox, and just as stubborn. It’s so hard to conceive that a man like him would turn so frail so fast, especially with how long-lived and healthy his entire line was. But, the Fates' will is inscrutable,” the old man gestured towards the sky as if that was where the Fates resided. “At least, he can be at peace knowing he’s leaving everything in good hands. It must be a comfort.”

Laurent furrowed his brows, taken aback by the familiarity with which the pharmacist was talking about the royal family, not at all like a common plebeian, who tended to worship the very ground the kings and princes stepped on, convinced of their godhood rather than simple humanity. But perhaps, it was the virtue of his profession – no matter whether a king, a noble, a commoner, or a slave, all of them were born the same way, ate and shat the same way, and would die the same way.

A Festival of Life and Death, he said. A never-ending cycle.

He opened his mouth to ask, but before he could, the physician straightened himself up on his staff as much as he could, and kindly – but firmly – implied, “Well, I suppose there’s nothing more I can help you with,” a very unsubtle suggestion for Laurent to take his leave. A sudden turn from a man whose mouth seemed to never close, but alas, it was right – the hour was getting later than preferred, and each minute he dallied, the personal risk was becoming greater.

He nodded, reaching out for the small sack, containing the agent he came here for – but before he could, he stopped, his hand awkwardly hovering over it. There still was one issue left. "As for the payment—”

A dismissive wave of a hand. "You don’t have to worry about it. What, would I ask you to peel off and toddle back to the palace naked? Don’t be absurd,” the old man snickered, amusing himself greatly with the sub-par joke. “I’ve got more than I could ask for from you. I wish you all the best, and your friend, too.”

Laurent still hesitated, and then a pair of calloused, frail hands closed over his own. He didn't flinch or back down, faced with the boundless good in the muted eyes of the physician – he only bowed his head deeply, grateful, making his goodbyes.

A soft chime bode him goodbye, and for a moment, Laurent stood there, staring at the tiny pouch. How ridiculous that a thing so small could be so significant – and yet, it was the only salvation.

And damnation all the same.

Lacking any pockets, Laurent deliberated for a long minute, how on Earth was he going to successfully smuggle the medicament back into the palace and into Lykaios's waiting hands. A slave's garments didn't exactly account for storage space – such a thing unthinkable, if they were to be living and breathing decorations. He scratched at his temple, his hat moving up and down with the gesture.

He paused and then smiled.

With a few cleverly tied strings, Laurent attached the precious little cargo to the inside of his petasos, safely hidden away from the curious eyes.

Here, his headgear was less out of place than in the palace, and considering his delicate circumstances, he was very relieved for that. Meandering around the streets, trying to find his way back – and failing more times than he would ever admit, Ios proving itself to be a bit more complex to navigate than expected – he passed at least a few dozen other men with similar ones, all vendors, travelers, and men of work.

Nonetheless, the crowds had thinned out in the last hours, celebrations moving to more private locations. The further from the place of main festivities, the fewer people there were – only a handful of merchants of all provenances, wandering listlessly when there were no clients interested in their wares.

Laurent spared them a passing glance, but it was enough to give him a stop. Foreigners dwelling around in Ios wasn't strange in itself – even Veretian ones were to be expected, with the trade routes opening for the first time in decades. However, what he didn't understand, was why the supposed silk sellers would have physiques almost rivaling Damianos's, and carry actual swords at their sides, rather than decorative junk only there to signify their status. That, and their faces didn't exactly strike him as belonging to a bunch who could add two to two, not to mention more complicated calculations, filling out taxes, and overall charm potential clientele.

He still skimmed through them, and then froze, making a double take – but he couldn't be wrong. He would recognize that ugly mug everywhere.

What the fuck was Uncle's right-hand man doing here?

He didn't get an answer when two pairs of hands, big and rough like a set of claws, closed around his shoulders from the back, and his face went ashen.

He whipped his head back, trying to catch a glimpse of who was it to grab him unceremoniously like that, and his worst fears came true.

He was caught.

"The Veretian slut jumping on the first opportunity to have his pussy full of Akielon cock," one of the guards snickered, his breath a stench right next to Laurent's ear. "You could have said, we would have offered to help."

"Thought you could get your load of Akielon cum up your ass, and then stroll back to the palace as if you owned the place?" Ridiculed the other. "Some favorite you are."

The sudden rush of blood to his face made his head dizzy, but the words he had at the tip of his tongue he never said. What good would it do? He was a whore, after all. The piercings he still had in his ears reminded him of it as if he could ever forget the shame of hastily leaving his uncle's chambers in the dead of night.

But the only way an Akielon would ever have him would be fucking his cold, dead body.

One of the dirty paws traveled down to grope at his ass, and more out of instinct than conscious thought, Laurent jerked in his restraint, going at the first thing his eyes landed on. A set of perfectly groomed – and surprisingly sharp – teeth sunk into the stupidly exposed arm of the guard, a loud shout of pain tearing through the night sky.

But the spark of victory was as bright as it was short-lived. Laurent's blooming smile was beaten down to the ground before it could grow, a punch coming right at him. One against two, in close combat, he had no chance; he closed his eyes, bracing himself for impact.

"No."

The fist swished right next to his ear, its trajectory switched in the last split second. Two pairs of eyes turned to the other guard, now clutching at his hurt arm; one riled up, and the other baffled.

"The order was clear."

Laurent heard the next time loud and clear in his mind – they want him alive and in one piece, the famous command which he read repeated time and time again in his novels. If not for the fear burning bright at the back of his consciousness, he could laugh at the thought; he never expected the Masters to be so kind as to care for the state of his well-being.

And he was right.

"We are not to do anything to numb him," the first guard wiped his mouth, straightening up. He roughly grabbed both of his wrists, twisting them painfully behind his back. A kick urged Laurent forward, and when he refused to make a single step out of pure defiance, the other guard's clutch on his biceps tightened, dragging him forward. The wicked smirk returned to his face.

"Ah, yes. Because, how did it go? Oh, I remember now. The rapid pet," the man hawked, his spit almost hitting Laurent in the face. Beside himself, he shuddered. "Isn't to have a mercy of relief."

Behind him, faint music still played a distant sound of laughter and happiness, the peak of a cycle refusing to pass.

In front of him, the palace loomed – everlasting, unforgiving, cold.

Dead.

Chapter Text

There was not a soul walking the corridors of the palace, all of them hidden behind closed doors, indulging in physical pursuits. As thick as the solid marble walls were, even they weren’t capable of fully concealing the muffled moans of pleasure coming from behind every few doors they passed, acting as a truly grotesque backdrop to Laurent’s circumstance.

The goal was to make him moan too, if for a completely different reason – but his pride was stronger than to let that happen.

The order of not doing anything to numb him didn’t mean the guards would handle him with kid gloves. The barbarians indulged in pushing Laurent around and ruffling him up, very much like the moment he was abducted from Arles, with one core difference.

This time around, there wasn’t a drop of chalis in his system.

He was aware of everything. Every single hand touching him, closing in a bruising hold on his flesh. Every single push, so strong it threatened to dislocate his shoulder. Every single kick, meant to bring him to his knees.

He promised himself he would never kneel again, for any man, so he wanted to see them try.

The struggle continued all the way to the slave baths, dark and deserted with all the residents occupied with the busiest night of the year. The sound of Laurent’s feet squeaking against the wet floors, still smelling of roses, echoed through the chambers in an ear-splitting screak, jarring and cacophonous. In the middle of it, only one man stood, waiting, his arms laced behind his back. The clatter of struggle seemed insignificant to him; he didn't even twitch, as if Laurent wasn't worthy of as much as one of his glances.

In the light of day, it would amuse Laurent, and he would shoot back at him with no hesitation. Under the sun, he would ridicule his sluggishness and self-absorption, not allowing him to see further than the end of his bulbous nose. By day, he would not be cowed.

But the sun had long since set. It was nighttime, and in the darkness, with a looming sense of dread weighing at the back of his mind, Adrastus wasn't a small, insignificant man, whom he could handle with his eyes closed.

He was seven deadly sins incarnated, and Laurent was alone.

The marble was cold when he was thrown against it unceremoniously, slimy with water overspilling from the pools. A blunt force spread from his bruised hands and knees through his body, aching, but not enough to keep him down.

Unlike a heavy foot, slamming his head right back against the flooring. Laurent grunted, trying to strain it up to look the Master in the eye, but each effort was rewarded with more grinding against his cheek, rubbing dirt, soil, and horse shit into his face.

A soft rustle of a sleeve moving in the air, and the pressure was gone, now the clutch returning to his back and arms, hauling him up. Heavily, he breathed, face to face with Adrastus.

There were no words spoken. No biting remarks. No humiliating comments. Even the smirk, the classic I knew it, wasn't there; just a cold mask of seething, encompassing disgust, and perhaps that was more terrifying than anything Laurent could see.

He couldn't bear the silence. He couldn't stand the anxiety building within him, the tenseness rising in his muscles, the erratic, shallow breath. Putting on a brave face, he opened his mouth, anything, just to kill the eerie, horrifying stillness.

He didn't manage to, not when a heavy hand tore through the air, the impact of it enough to jerk his head to the side, almost snapping his neck with the force.

"You have some gall returning here," the master spit in his face, repulsed. The tight hold on his wrists strengthened. "You would do better to just bleed out in some back alley."

His cheek burned, and unconsciously, he wanted to reach up to cool it with his ice-cold hand, but he couldn't. His wrists twisted, and Laurent recoiled, which only gained him another kick of a knee to his loin.

Two and a half against one wasn't fair odds. It was almost flattering how much Adrastus must have thought of him, to send such burly men after him.

He smirked in Beelzebub's face, ignoring the sting such gave to his irritated cheek, disregarding the fly buzzing to sit right on his other one, covered in filth.

“One would think you missed me,” Laurent ridiculed, paying no heed to the crushing hold the guards still had on him, “with how you sent these dashing gentlemen to escort me back.”

Adrastus stretched out his hand, flicking it to release tension after the strike. He still didn’t spare Laurent a glance. "Don't be absurd,” he barked. “I wouldn't care much if you rotted in some corner covered in cum. It would be a rather fitting end for a nauseating piece of filth like you, wouldn't it?" Only then did he turn to Laurent, the hint of his usual smirk spoiling his face. "No. No, it wasn't me that sent for you."

Laurent’s breath caught. Because if it wasn’t him, then he could think of only one other possibility. One turning his soul and mind into a whirlwind, a hurricane of fighting sentiments and convictions.

Perhaps the chain of command was satisfied once more. Perhaps Adrastus was carrying out his Prince’s orders.

Why was Laurent even surprised? He shouldn’t be. Damianos was the source of all the pain and sorrow in his life so far, after all. What’s one more thing added to the mix?

He shouldn’t be surprised, and yet, he was. Because in his wondrous mind, he could not conjure the soft, dimpled face, contorting into unjustified anger and subjecting anyone to treatment this cruel. He couldn’t imagine the man who came to him so many times to apologize for the smallest of transgressions, never minding the vast difference in statuses and disposition, humiliating him through Adrastus’s hands. Not having enough guts to look him in the face as the new layers of degradation were being met.

How naive he had grown to be. Perhaps a reality check was truly in order.

Fat fingers closed on his jaw, clamping down on it like iron. Bluntly, forcefully, the Master yanked it back and forth, inspecting Laurent’s profile. "It's a shame a pretty face is wasted on such a slut,” he muttered, dropping his hand and letting Laurent’s cheek drop ungainly, unprepared for the sudden change in force.

“You know, when you first came here,” Adrastus recalled, introspective, “Perhaps naively, I was hopeful. Who am I to refuse a lost lamb, even a Veretian one?”

“One would think,” Laurent glared at the Master, “sheep are rapid animals in Akielos, with how you are inclined to put one in a muzzle— what- get your fucking hands off me!”

The struggle grew frantic when fingers reached out to his mouth, prying it open. The force brought tears to Laurent’s eyes, and in the fear, the anger, he let them flow freely. He was a child again, not knowing better than to fight against what was so violating in the humiliation. His jaws strained, trying to close in a biting hold, but this time the guards were prepared – there was no escape, just his pulse running and heart beating fast like that of a rabbit when a piece of cloth was pushed into his mouth, secured with another tied tightly at the back of his head. Tearing his lips at the corners.

Tear-streaked and gagged, with only his eyes still blazing in fury, restrained, he must have looked like a vision straight from his Uncle’s dreams, albeit about ten years too old for his preferred tastes. The only saving grace of his position was that unlike his pedophile Regent, the Master wasn’t at all aroused by the sight. If anything, he was disgusted.

To him, the sight was far from pretty, but he was learning. Letting Laurent talk was leaving his greatest weapon right at his disposal, and that just wouldn’t do.

“Oh, blessed silence,” Adrastus sighed. “Should have done that much sooner. I wish we could just cut off your wicked little tongue, but we are not cruel enough to take away a whore’s livelihood. How would you suck all those cocks then?”

An angry mumble.

“Ah, you can’t reply. What a pity,” he mocked, stepping back and motioning to the side with a brief nod, immediately followed by the guards hauling Laurent in the direction indicated. “Where did I leave off? Ah, yes,” he continued on his villainous speech, following Laurent’s hauling through the baths with an attentive gaze. “When you arrived, of course, there was always a risk of the sudden gift being nothing more than a Trojan horse, deception being such an inborn Veretian trait,” Adrastus shrugged. “And you were. Except not hiding treachery, but complete emptiness. Lacking any sort of substance. Just a void spew bucket, waiting to be filled.”

How could a dimwit like Adrastus see right through him? Was it all this obvious?

Laurent tried to tune it out, not letting his demons taking the shape of the Master twist his mind, remind him how he’s not the young, scholarly prince anymore, but rather an overripe, rotten seconds of a middle-aged man. A boy who let his own family use his body. A boy who enjoyed that.

No. No, he didn’t. He didn’t.

“You are not a gracious gift, but an insult to Akielos covered in a shiny wrapper. Enticing enough to have Damianos-Exalted fooled, but no longer,” his arms were lifted, thick pieces of jute rope tied on his wrists, rubbing them sore. “Your disgusting soul should match your exterior.”

He took a step back, his face contorted, as he gave the sign for a new actor to enter the stage, dressed in a black himation, his face covered with a hood. In his hand, a scourge rested, already splattered with dried specks of blood.

An executioner.

The raw wood of the cross scratched against his tender skin, leaving behind a rasping chafe and a multitude of splinters. He hissed, pushing back at the risk of shredding his skin away, but the resistance was met in kind, the guards pushing him against the post. The coldness of their gauntlets would be almost comforting, if only it wasn't so forceful, so brutal, so violating. If he didn't feel their hands all over his body, rough, unconcerned about his discomfort, and pain.

If only they weren't reaching for the shoddy fabric of the back of his chiton, the sound of it ripping making a wave of coldness wash through Laurent's body, which still remembered what it heralded. Panic-stricken, the trashed, but the loop was only tightening, until it was only him, his labored heaves, and the frantic beating of his heart echoing through the chamber.

He was a child again, too weak to fight back, terrified, torn between the self-destroying temptation to crane his head to look danger in the eye, and squeezing his eyes shut, escaping into the depths of his mind to pretend nothing at all was happening. That he was still chasing around the halls of the palace with Auguste in tow, blatantly ignoring his governess screaming he would trip and hurt himself. That the stinging was just burns from the carpet that would soon come to pass because his brother would lift him and carry him to the palace physician, who would tenderly see to all of his little scratches.

But there was no Auguste, it was no Vere, and it wouldn't end up with just a few grazes.

It was a million years and a second all the same when the first sharp whistle, a crack, tore through the air and sent a jagged sting of pain shooting through his back, jerking him in a spasm. His hands fisted into tight balls, fingernails burying into the soft flesh of his palms in a white-knuckled clutch, and he bit down on his lips, forcefully, the taste of iron filling his mouth. It didn't disincentivize him; he only bit down harder when the second lash came, his jaw tense like a vice, sawing his mouth shut to prevent pained screams from slipping past.

He thought it would be like arrows he heard at Sanpelier, the first whistle tearing through the air so loud in his ears that it might well be a cannonball, the storm of them following turning into one cacophony of pain and fear, an amalgamation washing over him and sticking like molasses, making him stuck in a place in fear. But it wasn't like this.

The first, the second, the third, the tenth lash – he felt every single one of them keenly, tearing his skin. Soon enough, he couldn't separate his very self from the encompassing pain anymore, couldn't focus on the tingle in his lips as he bit down on them. The pain became a constant, the only thing he was sure of, there at the back of his mind and the forefront of it – and yet, when the fifteenth hit came, he realized at the same time he could feel nothing at all, the hurt becoming all he would ever know.

He was nothing more than a pig flayed by an unskilled furrier, but this is where the real skill lay. In prolonging his pain. In drawing it out, every single drop of blood, every single severed nerve that would never feel again.

Every single bitter tear he withheld in silence was choking his throat, a flood of arid air filling his lungs like water would to a drowning man. Stinging his insides, his nostrils, his eyes, bubbles of helpless gasps fizzing out of him, disappearing into the dry ocean crushing him under its weight, the pressure tearing him from the inside like the scourge did from the outside.

And yet, he refused to let a single peep echo through the room, music to Adrastus's waiting ears. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Compared to the pain he suffered through his life, soul-wrenching and tearing him apart, this was nothing. They could try, but they wouldn't break him – because how could you break what was already broken?

You couldn't break what was already broken.

Or so he thought, and oh, how wrong he was.

Because it was nothing like when Jord, riled up, cleaved at him, splitting his armor in half. It was nothing like when in his early childhood, Auguste – jealous of suddenly having to share the attention of their mother – grabbed him by the hair and dragged him through the halls of Arles, deaf to his little cries. Nothing like falling off the horse for the first time, the blunt impact numbing his senses with pain so encompassing that for a split second, he thought he would never walk again, didn't begin to compare to the searing burn flooding his entire body with each slash. Nothing like... nothing like he ever did.

Don't come back to me running, a faint voice sneered in his mind, the handsome face contorted in a ghoulish grimace. Laurent heard it so many times when he dared disobey his uncle, and it used to burn his cheeks scarlet. But he swore to himself he never would, not to anyone, and certainly not to his abuser.

But he was nothing but a repulsive oath-breaker, he realized in a split second of clarity between the strikes of a flog, when the burning in his back was settling, spreading throughout his entire body. Because right here, right now, he would do anything to make this stop. He would abandon whatever crumbs there were left of his dignity and gladly get on his knees, letting himself be choked with a half-soft, wrinkled cock instead. He would let himself be head-fucked in front of a mirror, in front of a window. He wouldn't protest a hand pulling hair out of his skull; he would place it there himself if that would be enough. He would swallow and lick his lips for good measure, like a common whore.

There was only blood in his mouth, now.

Bile rose in his throat. Was torment the cause, bits of skin chopped off his shoulders and loin and littering the floor in a gory display, or the last spark of his morality, disgusted by what a repulsing slut he had become?

He deserved everything that had happened to him.

Please, he still wanted to weep, but he couldn't speak anymore, and not only because of the gag. Please, stop.

And for a second, he naively thought his silent prayers were heard because, for a moment, no next lash came. There was a muffled murmur he couldn't hear, of voices talking, of concern, of reluctance, and of a firm order. He didn't care, not when there was a minute of respite for his pained body to revel in.

How stupid he was to believe, even for a second, that this would be the end.

His pleas for a break were twisted by a cruel god, if there was one at all; now, the lashes weren't a storm, but strikes without any rule or order, coming at irregular intervals Laurent could not predict, could not prepare for. A soundless whisper, he begged for the breaks to cease, because the second of rest wasn't easing him. Rather, they made the pain settle, and spread, before being ripped open again. And again. And again. 

He was being burned alive, and he could no longer struggle against his restraints. The fight died in him because the truth hit him like a boulder: hope for the pain to stop hurt more than any physical assault could. He always knew it was his greatest enemy.

Exhausted, he slumped against the post, giving up, like the cowardly weakling Uncle always said he was.

He was right, and Laurent refused to accept it. He was always right.

Every single scrap of skin torn hung helplessly from his back, revealing a marred bog of blood and lacerations, no longer resembling anything human. A pulsating wasteland of gaping wounds and exposed tissue beneath, twitching with each of his shaky breaths, filling his nostrils with an acrid scent of shredded fat and muscles. Pus and blood pooled in the hollows created by the long gashes, meandering between the rises of swollen welts like a red river, dripping onto the floor in a measured, soft tone. Tap, tap, tap. Like clock hands moving in the deep of night, urging him to finally put his book away, close his eyes, and let the sleep embrace him.

It was getting so dark…

There was no light in the static filling his eyes, nothing but the jagged sting of pain surging through his body, from every single inch of what used to be his skin, with no clear source and no end in sight. It was a buzz at the back of his mind, one it was learning to ignore – had to ignore, lest he lose the remains of his sanity.

No new lashes were coming. He closed his eyes.

He didn’t open them when yells tore through the room, only for a moment wondering whether they were still his, captured and played on loop in this chamber of horror when his voice gave up, but it was too deep to be his own. Too furious, like an unrestrained forest fire, scorching everything in its path. 

There was a dull thud of something soft hitting a hard surface, and a whimper, choked up in someone’s neck.  The unmistakable gurgling of desperate breaths, escaping a strangled throat. Snaps of sandals against the marble flooring, a commotion, men fighting. Gentle hands untangling the knots at his wrists, almost topping over when his unyielding weight dropped, but doing their best to let him fall onto the ground gently, not straining his mutilated body anymore. All the noise dying, a sharp voice of a woman tearing through the air. He didn’t understand the words, all muddled and murky underneath a pool of dirty water flooding his mind.

Then, a pair of strong, tense arms, wrapping around him and lifting him slowly. His own soft wince, his back's tissue igniting on contact, and the soft, comforting whispers that followed. The breeze of the air as he was carried away, away, away.

Silence.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Hell wasn't supposed to be soft.

It wasn't supposed to be tender, like his mother's hand caressing his cheek when he fell gravely ill as a child, as the prayers muttered quietly under her breath, begging whatever gods there were to not take another child from her, and to be merciful, for once.

Laurent's memory of that time was faint, muddled by time and delirium, but he remembered slipping in and out of consciousness, someone always by his side. His Mother, usually. Occasionally, His Majesty – who hadn't yet written him off as a lost cause, and still hoped for the spare to turn out to be of some quality.

Most of all, he remembered Auguste, and how big his heart grew when his brother sat by his side in the worst moments, acknowledging his existence for once.

It was the moment when everything changed between them, Auguste growing from the golden prince who didn't have regard for an attention-starved younger sibling, toddling in his step with such a bottomless need for scraps of his validation, into the brother Laurent would miss for the rest of his life. Only when he was about to lose him did Auguste recognize Laurent as his: no longer a spoiled only child, but a boy crying for a brother he didn't yet get to show care that he should, the one Laurent's little heart was praying for so dearly. In whispers, he promised to make up for all the time he wasted on teenage sulks.

And he did, even if he wasn't given much time in life to begin with.

With a dissatisfied grunt, Laurent squeezed his eyes, refusing to open them and face the world, but the longer he dallied, the louder the alarm his body was blaring. No longer under the grace of unconsciousness, he felt his self keenly, a constant ache in his back like a low-pitched screech in his mind, from time to time interrupted with little pricks when he shifted even in the slightest.

His pained moan was so unbefitting to the soft sun rays of the early morning caressing his skin, and the soft notes of kithara playing just outside the window. He tried to focus on them, hoping it would distract him from the ache – with poor results.

Resigned, he opened his eyes, the world spinning and fuzzy, like a mirage. Straining, he turned to look towards the window – and the moment he did, his heart stopped, for the longest second of his entire life.

"...Auguste...?"

Shining with the bright backlight, a halo of golden hair surrounding him, Laurent couldn't see his face, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, except this, the overwhelming relief of this moment; not even the small voice at the back of his head reminding him that if he got to see his brother, it meant he had failed. It meant that he was dead.

Heaven was the last place Laurent was supposed to find himself in, but he guessed he shouldn't complain he wasn't convicted to eternal damnation. Perhaps he got away with only the horrible throb in his back, but he could live with that. Or well. Exist?

It would be so much more than life had to offer him.

"Sorry to disappoint."

Laurent recoiled, for it wasn't his brother's warm baritone.

Jokaste's voice was the coldest bucket of water ever thrown on him, more freezing than the depths of the Ellosean sea. Just like this, the illusion dissipated into thin air – and where Auguste just stood, she sat, blasé as ever. The moment he realized what it meant, his face turned scarlet, and he dropped back onto the pillows ungainly.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He grunted, not bothering with needless pleasantries.

"A hello would be nice," she rolled her eyes nonetheless, turning to look at the bay rather than Laurent, naked except for a blanket barely reaching up to cover all of his buttcheeks, in fear of rubbing against the edge of his scarred tissue, and the bandages covering the wounds. Whether it was courtesy or disgust, Laurent didn't know and didn't care. "How are you feeling?"

He didn't dignify the question with a response, neither spoken nor grumbled. In other circumstances, he might have graced her with a skeptical stare, but alas, Laurent didn't plan on lifting himself anytime soon.

Not when the last time they talked, he came close to jumping at her like a rabid cat and ripping out her tongue, or at the very least considered clawing out his ears. Seeing how now he had to be much more mindful and appreciative of his functioning organs, he would rather avoid such happening.

Jokaste sighed but didn't seem too phased with being ignored. "Can't a lady ask how her fellow palace resident is fairing?"

Laurent continued laying flat on his face, beyond caring whether it was dignified enough of him to do. "Not when the fellow resident is quite certain it's hardly the reason the lady is disrupting his rest," he muttered into the pillow, not entirely certain Jokaste would understand a word of it. Surprisingly, she did.

"People change, you know. I truly may have just concern burdening my heart."

It was a testament to the absolute absurdity of this statement how fast Laurent whipped his head around, still resting, but now staring at Jokaste's figure. Now that he looked at her more closely, he noticed inclusions on her perfect, diamond exterior – the few hairs sticking out of her otherwise perfectly made braids, the shadows hiding under the layers of powder, the slightly slouched posture. Jokaste was tired, and it showed – and like him, as a rule, she never let that show.

"So? How are you feeling?" She repeated the question impassively, not truly counting on getting a reply this time, either. Which was perhaps why Laurent decided to give her one.

"Like shit," he replied, as curtly as crudely. "Now that we established that, is your curiosity satisfied and would you be so kind to leave me to convalescent on my own?"

A glint in her eye, so familiar that it was eerie – and for a moment, he considered whether his dislike towards Jokaste was just the fact they seemed to be at the opposite sides of every coin, or maybe because looking at her was like seeing his reflection, and there were few people he hated more than himself. 

One, he thought. In the past, he would have said two, but now he wasn't so sure anymore.

"Hmm, no," she sent a brief smirk his way, and then turned to the window again, crossing her legs. "I don't think so."

"Who would have guessed."

Was he curious what it was that had her so engrossed outside? Yes. Was it enough to make him crane his neck, or – God forbid – sit up? Definitely, positively no.

She must have realized, and after they sat in silence for a while – Laurent growing impatient and frustrated with her presence with every single passing second – her brows furrowed, again glancing at him.

"Aren't you bored, just laying around like this? You could use some fresh air."

Why was she so insistent? Was there a longbow archer just outside, waiting for him to stick his head out and place an arrow right between his eyes? He had enough of a migraine without it, to be honest.

"There is air in here," Laurent countered, albeit its freshness could certainly be argued. Arles, Ios, or Marlas – all physicians' chambers smelled the same, of potions and concoctions' putrid stink, only barely masked by herbs and aromatics. He hated that reek – it reminded him of many a humiliating moment spent at Paschal's quarters, late in the night, secretly getting patched up after his uncle went at it perhaps a bit too hard, forgetting he was fucking a tiny pre-adolescent, with body not made for taking cock. How, Laurent couldn't be sure, seeing how the Regent never stuck his prick into anything taller than five feet, tops.

He wouldn't mind some fresh air, even if it was the salty breeze of the sea that would surely prick at his skin. However, what he would mind, was moving as little as an inch – and as it was, his laziness was winning.

"And besides, I don't think I should be moving. Doctor's orders," he added, even though they both knew it was complete bullshit because sadly, Laurent wasn't awake to hear any sort of dispositions the medic might have for him.

For once, he wouldn't blame Jokaste for not being amused. If anything, if she truly was as smart as she appeared, he expected her to be more insistent than that. As annoying as it was.

"Because you're such a dutiful patient," she ridiculed, urging him once more. She rolled her eyes for good measure, and the stare she directed his way was nothing short of a very exasperated mother dealing with an insufferable teenager.

He wasn't certain the look suited her, and that wasn't even touching on the fact she had only a few years on him, at most. Still, she was relentless; he sighed, giving up. "Will you leave me be if I go get that precious, precious fresh air you are so concerned about?"

"Maybe." She stood by his side, crouching and extending her arms. "Up, now. I'm risking my chiton being stained with your pus, you could at least be a bit grateful."

"My gratefulness knows no bounds," he muttered, leaning on the arm she offered, lifting himself with truly inhuman exertion.

She would not be a good nurse, and for Kastor's well-being, Laurent hoped he would die first to not experience Jokaste's gentle hands in his old age. Cooks in the royal kitchen handled bags of potatoes with more tenderness, and they were throwing them into scorching oil daily.

Why she suddenly wanted to play caretaker to a Veretian she struggled to stay in one room with, he wasn't too sure, but only the view could give him an answer. Or just finish him off, and frankly, either possibility he would gladly accept.

Even with her aid, he only managed to sit on the bed, walking towards the windowsill being something he refused to as much as consider. The bright light was irritating, now, but at least he could see the far-away port.

For a moment longer, he narrowed his eyes, focusing, and refusing to lose a game of where is Waldo against the Akielon royal whore. Alas, it seemed she had no other motifs to force him to get up than torturing him a bit more. 

"Seagulls. Sailors. Pretty boats. Truly uncommon sight in a maritime nation's main port," he leaned back on his arms, catching a breath. "Are you satisfied? Can I go back to dying, now? Thank you."

He was already falling back onto his stomach, when Jokaste's hand rested firmly on his pectorals, pushing him back up, unceremoniously. 

"I know men aren't exactly the most well known for their ability to differentiate colors," she ridiculed, narrowing her irises at his face, as if inspecting if perhaps one of the flogs landed in his eyes, impairing his vision, "however in this regard, I had high hopes for a Veretian."

Excuse me, what?

No help was needed when he shot back up again, his back cracking as if he turned seventy years old overnight, but he ignored it. He looked at the picturesque view again, noting that indeed, not all of the ships had the signature red banners of the Akielon fleet.

More than half of the ships were in a much more ominous shade.

The scarlet of the Regency, spilling like blood over the cyan bay of Ios.

Like a rope tightening over Laurent's neck, his throat closed up, feeling a ghost of a slender, elegant hand wrapping around it, squeezing. Stealing away his breath. Killing him, with a touch masquerading as one oh so tender.

"I always doubted the lauds about the quality of Veretian silk, seeing how the moths don't inhabit your lands naturally, but perhaps I stand corrected," she pondered, eyes still fixed at the numerous scarlet-flagged vessels littering the port. "The threads must be quite heavy if the ships sit so low in the water."

Laurent narrowed his eyes, ignoring his building headache and focusing on what was happening in the port more closely. At first glance, indeed nothing out of the ordinary was happening – except the ships close to sinking under their weight, the waterline creeping upward and obscuring the lower hulls, reaching just inches shy of the scuppers. If the merchant vessels were truly carrying the intended load, they should never be this perilously heavy.

Not to mention the unseen amount of meatheads in fine robes, almost bursting at the seams – hardly the stereotypical picture of day-to-day necessities vendors, and that was just at the top of the usual multitude of lugs carrying around crates of goods, the muscle to the merchants' minds. Their right-hand men, sort to say, the physical strength without which they wouldn't go far.

Then, like lighting, a memory shot through his body, opening his eyes wide and straightening him up.

He saw Govart. Govart was right here, in Ios.

He should never be here.

It was one thing for his Uncle to have his hand in the coup, perhaps throw some money Kastor's way to ensure a favorable outcome and make the bastard his debtor. It was a completely different thing to get involved personally and send his men all the way to Ios. His best men, even if 'best' was questionable in regards to those particular lackeys.

Uncle was going all out, and he wouldn't do that unless completely necessary. He wouldn't do that unless the curtain was about to rise – days before it, and most. To account for possible delays at the voyage by sea, of course.

Seafaring was a genius move in on itself. Not only was it much quicker than traveling by land; but it also meant they would control the ports, closing the possibility for Damianos to use that escape route: the easiest and most fail-safe, leaving only the torturous march through inhospitable land, all under Kastor's thumb.

They thought it through well, and now, there was no stopping the machine. For better, or for worse, Laurent couldn't stop its cogs from turning, left to be only the spectator.

That, and a possible target. Seeing how he was already close to being eliminated from the game, he needed to determine who it was who wanted him out, to have any chances of survival.

Kastor. Jokaste. Damianos?

And they said Veretians were two-faced. He could learn a thing or two from Akielos and its wondrous skills in public relations.

The assessing gazes turned fierce, and piercing, but a man and woman of reason, they were ultimately forced to relent, because obviously, they could not read everything from their expressions alone. Only the determination and refusal to step back.

It was up to who was willing to take the risk first, and show hands they both suspected, bordering on certainty.

Jokaste threw her cards on the table first.

"The hour is getting too nigh to continue playing games," she cut to the chase, hardly meaning the hour in the day. "I want things from you, and you want things from me, so let's talk, one royal to the other. I'll start. Were you sent here as an agent of the Regent?"

If not for laying down once more, Laurent would certainly topple over, because – excuse me, what?

He supposed he knew why she could come to that conclusion – if, let's say, Kastor suddenly arrived at his doorstep, he would be wary too – but it didn't make it any less presumptuous. The last time he did anything for his uncle out of his own free will, he was thirteen and appointed him his regent, to begin with, the mistake he began to pay for immediately, and would for the rest of his life. Anything after that, was very much against his volition, while the old prick still had the superiority of physical strength. Now? He wouldn't force Laurent to do anything. Never again.

"You aren't a royal simply because you fuck one. Or two, actually," he corrected, unmoved by the dangerous glint passing through her expression. "But no. I'm not. Why would I support someone who's been trying to usurp my throne for a third of my life?"

“Mutual hatred for someone else, perhaps. The enemy of my enemy is my friend or something along those lines.”

Her slender fingers trailed along the armrests, a blithe gesture as if she wasn't giving thought to what she was saying at all. Laurent knew better.

“One would think this would make us allies," she continued when no answer came.

“Mmm," Laurent hummed, "that depends on who you count as your enemy.”

Jokaste's fingers froze, just for a moment, before continuing their travel. Restlessness hidden by poise. Confusion concealed by smugness.

“For someone suggesting we put aside our charades for a moment, you are holding your cards close to your chest," he pointed out into the still air.

“I don’t trust you,” Jokaste enlightened Laurent as if that wasn’t clear as day. “I don’t trust any Veretian. I was against an alliance with the Regent, but desperate times call for desperate measures,” she shrugged as if the confirmation coming from her was frugal. “I was only half surprised seeing you show yourself at our doorstep out of nowhere, throwing a wrench in our plans. If I were the Regent, I would want to have my own man close to the epicenter of events, and who would be better than his own blood?”

Laurent wanted to laugh at the irony.

“Family means little, as you know,” he scoffed, referencing the very strained relationship between the Akielon royal siblings, the very foundation of the upcoming coup. Jokaste scowled. “Believe me when I say, I share this sentiment, and I would rather have my eye on him. Alas, I wasn’t asked for my input when I was drugged, tied, and thrown onto a ship and then on the marble right in front of the people I despise most.”

“He wanted to get rid of you.”

“Is it a question, or a statement of fact?” Laurent stretched, keeping up whatever nonchalance he could still muster. “Not an original one, either. My uncle is hardly the only one who wishes me dead. Isn’t that so?”

Her eyes turned into slits.

“Kallias was right. You couldn’t be a secret agent. Not with that filthy mouth of yours,” she fixed her chiton, removing imaginary dust from it. “Like a cockroach.”

He felt a spasm in his back, and it was indeed as if a cluster of blattids marched through it, their tiny legs scratching and itching. A shiver of disgust ran down his spine, and he jerked in place, casting the feeling away.

“You could have given me a prettier insect, at least,” he quipped. “I don't know, a butterfly.”

She nodded slowly as if pondering the thought. Then, her lips pursed. “You look like a chrysalis which has been through shit, at best. But, you are very hard to kill, I have to give you that.”

“Ah, well. I have years of experience behind my belt,” he would shrug if it didn’t force him to move his shoulders. As it was, he only sent her a skeptical glance. “And I wouldn’t want to make it too easy for you.”

For a split second, her eyes opened wider, her irises growing huge and dark – but with how brief it was, the sudden ray of light shooting through the room could have been the culprit as well. With shadows falling once more, Jokaste’s expression turned impassive, careful. Contemplative.

“I overestimated the hold I had on Kastor,” she admitted, and with how her teeth gritted after each word, Laurent could see how much the acknowledgment must have cost her.

His heart stopped, as one thing became clear, the doubt that started to take seed in his soul, battered by disappointment, crushed to dust. The royal giving Adrastus orders, the one who orchestrated the torture, the pain, was not the crown prince, but the bastard.

The relief washing over him – he shouldn’t feel it. Not as strongly as he did.

“And I have underestimated the reach of the Regent’s influence,” Jokaste continued, watching each of Laurent’s involuntary movements closely. “As Kastor grows impatient, the mead of instant gratification Vere is offering is becoming all the more tempting. He’s uncontrollable and no longer listening to any voice of reason. There’s no time left. The bloodbath is about to start.”

“What do I have to do with it?” Laurent would lean back dispassionately if only he wasn’t already laying flat. “You can all kill each other for all I care. In fact, I can’t wait to see the prince-killer dead.”

The word felt foreign in his mouth. Foul, choking him when in the past, he used to squander it so easily.

The conviction once saturating all his soul was feigned now, no longer coming straight from his heart. An image flickered in his mind, of Damianos falling, a javelin sticking out from his back, his sword lying forgotten, filthy with gore, and useless with no strong hand to wield it anymore. His dark curls crusty from dried-out blood, gushing from the huge gash in his head. His eyes, no longer warm and comforting, but cold, and dead.

His voice shivered, and Jokaste noticed.

“I know you have no love for Akielos and even less for Damianos. But it isn’t a moment for choosing who you love, but rather, who you hate less.”

He had loved his uncle, once; not in a perverse way, but like any child would love a close relative, the kind one who would always turn a listening ear to him and sneak some sweets out of nowhere, just to wipe his tears. Now, he would happily strangle him with them.

He used to love his uncle, and now, there was nothing but hate left in his heart. And Damianos...

“There isn’t time,” Jokaste repeated, her head whipping to the door, faint steps behind them getting closer. She turned back to Laurent, staring right into his soul. “Believe me, I hate having to choose the desperate route more than anyone, but perhaps, desperation did turn us into allies in the end. With you stranded, and Damianos dead, nothing is standing between the Regent and his absolute rule over not one, but two countries. What would you rather happen: that, or Damianos’s corpse rotting at your feet?”

It should have been obvious. The one goal, overshadowing everything else, a singular focus pushing Laurent through life, all leading him here, to this moment. To a question, and an answer. Forcing him to find a reply, there, in his heart, one that has been brewing for days, for weeks, but one he refused to acknowledge.

“You have to make your choice, and you have to make it now.”

Was it really a question, when the answer was so obvious?

“What about you?”

“I have already made mine,” she said, standing up. “And by gods, let history hate me for it.”

The last step was like thunder, followed by a second of silence as the man behind the door hesitated before ultimately grabbing the handle, squeaking when he pushed it open.

The way Damianos peeked into the room reminded Laurent of a child, and how bizarre it was, seeing that in a man almost twice his size. First, only his wild curls were sticking out the doorframe, closely followed by the rest of him. Slowly, so slowly, he sneaked in, not wanting to disturb the room's occupant, in case he was resting, still.

But then, Damianos's eyes landed on Jokaste, and he straightened up, apprehensive.

“Jokaste.”

Laurent waited for the inevitable ‘What are you doing here?” to follow, but before Damianos could as much as open his mouth, Jokaste cut in, sharp like a knife’s edge.

“The curse has come to visit, and yet, the physician is not at his post,” she sighed, explaining preemptively. “New month, same old.”

Damianos furrowed his brows, put off his stroke. “What curse?” He asked stupidly, and he would soon wish he had rather temporarily lost the ability to speak at all. 

“Menstruation, Damianos,” Jokaste sighed, enlightening him of the obvious, and he turned as red as a beetroot, his mouth falling open and closing as she made her leave, uninterrupted. As the door closed, he stared at it for a while longer, before running his hand down his face, hoping it would calm the scarlet blush down.

It didn’t.

Laurent applauded Jokaste’s ingenuity and wished he could use that excuse to get from uncomfortable situations too, but alas, there was no escape for the bed-bound – and if he was being true to himself, just for a moment, he would admit he didn’t mind Damianos’s visit. Not at all.

"I wouldn't expect a visit from the Prince at such an early hour,” he nonetheless greeted, voice as pompous and ironic as ever, masking any joy that might have seeped through it. “Forgive my state of undress, Exalted."

Laurent had never before seen such joy bloom on someone's face upon hearing his prickly comments, and for a moment he thought Damianos would forget the decorum and Laurent's disdain towards physical contact and close him in a firm embrace – but at the last moment, he must have realized he might make the patient more hurt than he already was, and backtracked. Almost falling back from the last-second change of mind.

“There’s nothing to forgive. I’m just so glad you’re finally awake,” he said, and Laurent didn’t doubt the sincerity of a single word leaving his mouth. Then, Damianos’s forehead wrinkled. “Although, the hour isn’t early at all. It’s sundown.”

It was Laurent’s turn to be confused. Indeed, he hadn’t realized that the pastel colors he saw before weren’t turning to bright blue of the day, but rather were becoming darker, softer, announcing the dusk falling. In the port, the last crates were being hauled away, the crowd much thinned out.

He bit his thumb, thinking. It couldn’t be, could it? "I slept an entire day?"

"Two days."

The joy was still there but muffled by the deep worry inundating Damianos’s voice. He sat next to Laurent, taking the chair just occupied by Jokaste, and looked at him with his eyes wide, and watchful. Ever so slightly, he was leaning forward, his hands clasped together as if that could conceal their fidgets.

“Are you… are you alright?”

Laurent didn’t want to send the most awful side-eye Damianos’s way, but it was hard to resist when a question this well-meant, but so insanely stupid was being asked. The bandages covering his back, which he supposed were white at first, were now a disgusting mix of yellow and maroon, waiting to be changed. Laurent wondered how often it needed to be done, and how many times he had been touched as he lay there, unconscious.

He didn’t want to think about that.

Damianos seemed to understand the idiocy of his inquiry too, as he looked to the side, not expecting a reply. He was deflated, his skin not the usual, beautiful shade of bronze, but dull, with a grayish undertone. He wasn’t looking straight at Laurent, but rather, stealing glances – and while with Jokaste, it could have been being put off by his physical state, it would be unreasonable to think a warrior like him could be disgusted by something like this. No; there was another reason.

Damianos’s tiredness was nothing new, but now – suspecting Laurent could have been a reason for such – it had cast a different light on it, and a delicate flush on his cheeks. However, Damianos’s focus was elsewhere, as he recounted what had happened.

“I’m… I was anxious when Erasmus lost you in the crowd, and you weren't returning. I sent men to look for you,” he admitted quietly, and his hands curled into fists as he looked down on them, with his head bowed and curls falling, shamefully. “I didn't... I would never order anything like this. Never."

And Laurent believed him. God, he believed him.

“If there’s something, anything, I can do for you, please tell me. Please tell me, and I’ll do it.”

Take it all back, he wanted to say, but he knew it would be cruel, because changing the past was one thing Damianos wasn’t capable of, no matter how much he himself would wish for it. No matter how hard he would try – and one look at the man was enough to say that there was nothing Damianos wanted more at this moment.

The realization made the breath catch in Laurent’s throat.

There were so many things he could have asked for, so many things he wanted. Freedom: of body, of mind, of conscience. Silence and solitude were not the kind that made his mind race, but rather the one that put him at ease. 

But Damianos was only capable of providing a few, and at the moment, there was only one he thing wished to know.

“Lykaios. How is she doing?”

Funny how out of all the grandiose things he could have requested, the simplest, most innocent of questions threw Damianos off the most. It was subtle, his soft smile growing more forced, and eyes darting to the side for a moment as he attempted to regain his footing. Press his lips firmer for a moment, keeping back a question threatening to slip from the tip of his tongue.

He inhaled deeply, and when he turned back to Laurent, he was back to his soft, simply worried, self. "Overall alright, as far as I know. She has been sick all of yesterday and is looking quite pale today, but I was assured it's a passing ailment," Damianos reassured, and then inquired, "Why do you ask?"

Taking a page from Jokaste's book, Laurent turned to the window, as if to marvel at the view – currently pitch black, the sun already retired after a long day. "No reason," he said, lacing his hands below his chin.

So many things could have gone wrong, and they did; but in the end, it wasn't all for nothing. Of course, there could be a different reason for Lykaios's affliction – as great as the royal kitchens were, mishaps were bound to happen sometimes – but the timing was much too impeccable.

She had found the medicine, and Laurent hoped to Heavens it had worked as intended, and she wouldn't be joining him in the physician's quarters as a fellow patient anytime soon.

"She's a great... friend," Damianos's voice wavered at the word as if his mind wanted to splutter another one entirely. "And much more fearless than I have known her to be. There was no guard strong enough to stop her when she burst into the room and unceremoniously hauled me along.”

It was almost amusing, imagining the slight, petite woman that Lykaios was, manhandling a warrior four times her size, but there was nothing funny about the situation. As much as she was the reason he got into the predicament to begin with, if not for her insistence and bravery, he would not be standing where he was now. Or well, laying.

“You have made some loyal companions here,” Damianos pointed out, and Laurent couldn’t disagree.

How and why in a timeframe so short, he wasn’t sure; gaining allies in Arles was much harder, and in the end, proved to be all for nothing. And back then, he had something to offer – he was a crown prince, at odds with the roi de fait, but had a strong position nonetheless. Stronger than here, where he was just a mere slave, an alien in a foreign land. Nothing, except just… himself.

He hasn’t replied to Damianos’s unspoken question. He only hummed, pensive.

“And some enemies, too,” Laurent pointed out the obvious. The crystal clear the kind barbarian refused to acknowledge.

“No, you haven’t– no,” Damianos disagreed, as if his vehemence could wish reality away. “Adrastus acted on his own, and has been punished accordingly for being out of line.”

“Punished accordingly,” Laurent repeated, skeptically.

What could that mean, he wondered. A slap on his wrist? As Master of Slaves, he was more than authorized to discipline his most recalcitrant charges, and oh, hadn’t Laurent’s offenses piled up! Running away to take advantage of the pervasive debauchery was just the cherry on top. A good patriot, he couldn’t let the crown be disrespected like that. What’s one slave in comparison to Damianos’s honor and repute?

Except that Adrastus wasn’t just a devoted defender of the homeland, acting in a misguided, but well-meaning way, all on his own. Nor was he fulfilling a standing order of Damianos; no, what the poor brute still refused to see was that there was another power in the palace, for reasons the most bizarre inspiring enough integrity, that a scum like Adrastus could refuse to spill the beans on his true Master, even when faced with prosecution. If only he wasn’t so repulsive, Laurent would applaud his integrity.

For a moment, Damianos remained quiet, as if debating whether he should explain further. Eventually, he did. “An eye for an eye, and a tooth for tooth, as the ancient stele predicates. He was tied to the post and lashed in turn, but he’s not fairing well with the same being done to him. He doesn’t have your disposition.”

“One of a cockroach,” Laurent helpfully supplied, perhaps a bit too amused, and Damianos blinked, before shaking his head frantically, bewildered at the comment which seemingly came completely out of the blue.

“What? No! That’s ridiculous. Someone has told you that???”

The sheer offense on Damianos’s face was so comical Laurent actually snorted with a short, unrestrained snicker, the sound reverberating through his body. But soon enough, the little amused shakes turned into a single groan as one of his back muscles stretched in a way that it shouldn’t; in a split second, Damianos was at his side, crouching with his hands hovering helplessly, but with genuine intentions.

“Well, I do stubbornly stay alive,” Laurent joked in a slightly strained voice, Damianos’s eyes scanning him for any further signs of discomfort. When none came, his expression relaxed, the flicker of worry easing out of him with a shallow exhale.

“And I am so glad for it. So glad.”

Laurent didn't know how to react. He simply stared at him, looking for any signs of insincerity.

He hasn't found any.

"I have assigned some of my most trusted men to stand watch," Damianos assured, sitting back on the chair. "They are a part of my personal guard, and I do vouch for them."

This did nothing to put Laurent's mind at rest and in more ways than one.

"I'm not going anywhere if that's what you're worried about."

The sharp swish of his blond, stubborn hair, indicating his very incapacitated position, was unnecessary, as seen from the grimace Laurent barely managed to catch when Damianos ducked his head, hunching his shoulders in a truly pathetic, guilty slump. So pity-worthy, in fact, Laurent instantly felt bad for the theatrics. 

"No. I'm not worried about that," he swore quietly. "I'm... just worried."

If his wish was to keep Laurent alive, then there certainly were reasons for that, no matter how strongly Damianos chose to believe no one in Ios wished him harm. However, he was being watched closely by the guards since the moment he arrived in Ios – more so than he ever was in Arles – and yet, it didn't stop anything from happening. Perhaps because most of all, Laurent would need protecting from himself, and for that, no guard ever received substantial training.

Still, he would indulge Damianos – who knows, maybe they could be useful, keeping distractions away at the very least. Providing they don't let other unwanted visitors in. Like Jokaste. "Do I know them?" Laurent asked and Damianos perked up, taking it as his concession for the arrangement.

"I... think so?" He rubbed his chin for a moment, before calling to the door, "Pallas? Naos?"

The doors opened, and the two soldiers stood in the archway, tall and straight like arrows. Indeed, Laurent knew both of them – the handsome youth Nikandros had left behind to watch after Damianos in his place (and would probably have a lot to say about his crown prince now relegating him to guard some random, blond slave), and Lykaios's beau, whose name Laurent had only now learned. They were both staring at him, now – one with curiosity, which had previously gained him quite a bout of irritation from the kyros of Delfeur, and another with guilt and apology almost as strong as Damianos's woeful gazes. He wondered whether that meant Lykaios changed her mind and talked with the would-be father of her child.

It was none of his business, and he only nodded at the men in acknowledgment.

Trained well, they did not flinch when Damianos dismissed them with no order coming, with a mere flick of his chin. The doors closed behind them with a click, leaving behind just Damianos, Laurent, and the heaviness of things for which there were no words.

It was uncomfortable. Knowing Damianos had no hand in what was done to him this time around, Laurent didn't hold it against him – there were enough things to hate him for, ones that were beginning to feel so bleak when faced with the reality of the man, so there was no need to add to it. But Damianos himself didn't agree – not with how he was sulking, not voicing a single thought, but at the same time refusing to take his leave.

It annoyed Laurent to no end.

"Funny how all your best things come from Delfeur," he broke the silence, cheeky. Damianos blinked, brought back to Earth, and seeing his expression, followed along – albeit with only half-sincerity, meant more to reassure Laurent, than stemming from true amusement.

If Damianos was twenty years younger, he would probably stick out his tongue at Laurent. As it was, he only sighed heavily, just for show, shaking his head stagily. 

"You aren't from Delpha. Arles, was it?" He interjected smugly, a faint flicker of flirtyness in his eyes. Laurent should have seen it coming, but he didn't; and as soon as it appeared, it was gone, before Laurent could regain his footing.

Damianos spent all of his capacity to lie in good faith on just one joke, his mind circling back to the issues burdening it.

"You must... miss home," he whispered in a tone much more somber. "And here, now... Kastor isn't happy, no one is, but I won't stand for mindless abuse taking place just under my nose," his hand tangled in his curls, his knuckles turning white. It hurt to even look at it. "How am I supposed to take care of all of Akielos' subjects one day, if I cannot even protect my own household?"

The truth was, Laurent didn't miss Arles. An aspect of it, sure; the happy days of childhood cut short before they could even happen, his brother's steady steps as he walked the corridors looking for him, his mother's soft smile. All the things he had lost and could never regain, only clutching desperately to the ghost of them, and all the things that slipped away from him, too – Nicaise, the few horses he had at the stable who still came from under Auguste's hand, his books, being surrounded by the language he could understand so easily, rather than have to strain his mind at every second of every day. The familiarity of it all.

But Arles, he did not miss, because it also represented danger. One that would cast a shadow over Ios now, too.

"I don't blame you for wanting to run away."

If Laurent wasn't looking at him, he would have missed the indiscernible movements of his lips, forming the words Damianos didn't want to voice. Didn't want to acknowledge, even after he gave them life.

Laurent believed him. He trusted that this man was not capable of holding resentment, not even figments of it. Between them, it was Laurent whose soul was made of vindictiveness.

And so, Laurent would hold the blame against Damianos. If not for keeping him in Ios, then for the passing thought that perhaps, despite everything, Laurent no longer wanted to leave.

How insane it was to consider. 

No; he wanted to leave. How could he not? This wasn't where he belonged. It wasn't with whom he belonged.

But did he really belong anywhere?

“Who’s overseeing the slaves now?” Laurent asked, his focus turning singular before he would be stung by the blade of his sharp mind. There was a good reason he didn't turn away in that stuffy alleyway and ran, towards freedom and liberty. He had to hold onto that reason.

“Tarchon, the first trainer," came the direct, factual answer. "He is the second in charge after Adrastus, so it was the most natural for him to step in, but... I've been meaning to ask. Do you have any concerns about him, any at all? Laurent?"

A prince himself, he should be used to being asked questions, and yet, he wasn't; his lips parted as though about to speak, but truth to be told, he didn't know what to say. Both because hardly ever an input from him was being sought, and because he didn't know Tarchon – Adrastus's focus on him was so singular that no other Master had the pleasure of meeting him for more than five minutes.

But Damianos couldn't know that, and his silence, he must have misinterpreted.

"If there's anything, please tell me. There's nothing to be afraid of," the crown prince reassured a man who had just been flayed to the brink of death based on nothing but assumptions, prejudice, and animosity. "If only I knew... Laurent, why haven't you told me about Adrastus? I did have a premonition, but I would never expect... I didn't know. I should have known. You should have told me."

And just like this, one of the many lead balls, hanging over their heads, have dropped.

In hindsight, he was right; perhaps if he made Damianos aware of the abuse his Master of Slaves was perpetrating, a lot of pain could have been avoided; perhaps he would have changed things, found someone better to fill the role, someone the slaves wouldn't have to be afraid of.

But the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. He could have also appointed someone much worse, who would tighten the security so much that no one could sneak out, damning Lykaios and no doubt more slave girls. And that's the best-case scenario of the bad ones because just as likely, Damianos could have decided the whole matter ridiculous, simply because there was no physical proof of abuse taking place.

He was a stubborn man, who rather than face the music, was constantly choosing to stay delusional. 

“Would you have believed me?”

Damianos shot up as if wanting to confirm at the top of his lungs, but then his movements slowed, as rational thought began to sink in. Because they both knew it wasn't so simple; not with him.

“Of course, I would,” he tried to convince as much himself, as Laurent. "I would have looked into it,” he rephrased, and it was much closer to the truth.

"What if you didn't like what you would find?" Laurent pressed. "What if it was–"

"I doubt I would hate it more than seeing you hurt."

How could Damianos knock the breath out of Laurent so easily, just like that? How could he lie so easily?

Because there were many things he would hate more. Those he wouldn't acknowledge even if he saw them happen right before his eyes. Even if it was an arrow shoot between them, or a sword piercing his stomach.

As long as it was his family wielding it.

What would need to happen to open his eyes?

"Kas–" Laurent began, but was cut short by the physician making his entrance, hauling a basket full of gathered herbs, ready for drying. Ever so helpful, Damianos jumped to help him with the load, carrying it easily to his workstation, even though the old man was almost doubling over under the weight.

The visiting hours were over, and when before, Damianos acted as if no power could pull him out of the room, now he seemed relieved for the excuse. As though he knew what Laurent was going to say, whose name he was going to utter.

Laurent wanted to hit him over the head, but it would be hard to reach even in normal circumstances. He would find a way, though.

You have to make your choice.

There were words exchanged between Damianos and the palace medic, quiet ones Laurent wasn't privy to, ones to which only a heavy sigh came as a response. The shrink bowed his head as the crown prince turned away, dallying in the doorway, torn between going forward and staying right where he was. 

"Get well soon," he said in parting, a worried reassurance, as much to Laurent as to himself, before the doors closed after him.

A clock chimed, one Laurent hadn't noticed before, announcing a new hour. The handles ticked, moving relentlessly, not waiting for anyone's readiness or opinion. Forward, always forward.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Tick.

Chapter Text

The last time Laurent found himself sleeping until noon, he was amazed by how the knots in his body and mind seemed to ease. Back then, he wished his life would allow for such laziness to happen more often. And, as it happens, his prayers have been heard – and as always, twisted by whoever was up there, playing with him.

He has never been so bored, and restless.

It wasn’t for the lack of occupation. There was a constant stream of books coming his way, and he was free to lay in bed on his stomach, reading away the hours – something he would consider Heaven on Earth as a child. Now, though, it felt more like a prison, when his mind couldn’t get lost in the fantasy worlds, too stuck and anxious with the issues at hand.

“Easy, now. Easy.”

What were his feelings about being talked to like a horse, Laurent wasn’t certain, but the bursts of burning that had always followed the words were enough to squash any thought that might bloom in his brain. 

“Stop fidgeting,” a familiar phrase came, and Laurent wondered whether it would be preposterous of him to request Lykaios’s assistance in place of the doctor himself. With unexpected fondness he recalled the gentleness with which she applied her ointments back when he got beaten by the sun after his first severe punishment in Ios, and how soothing they were; so unlike whatever this shrink here was gracing him with.

It was an eternity ago, and yet it wasn't. What a funny thing time is.

Recovery isn’t a straight path, is what Paschal always used to tell him, and rolled his eyes when Laurent complained about his medicines being disgusting or stinging, or smelling funny, or everything at once. They aren’t supposed to be pleasant, he used to say, and if it hurts, it means they are working.

Laurent clutched to this belief like a man drowning. Nowadays, he  wondered whether it was this bad for every fellow he ever saw lashed, or whether his disposition was indeed particularly delicate. 

As a child, he used to heal like a champ, but his regenerative properties seemed to have diminished with age. Now, days had passed, and his wounds were nowhere near closing. It felt as if they were close, so close to doing that at night, to only open up again when the doctor patiently rubbed the salves into his back; still sore, still swollen, and painful.

But, truth to be told, he had also never experienced injuries this severe. A few grazes to the knees and a torn asshole at worst could hardly compare to being brought to the brink of death, and back; still, he wished he could be up and running already, the idleness drawing him mad.

The time didn’t stop as he lay in the physician’s quarters, useless and able to walk only due to his stubbornness and proficiency in ignoring the hellfire grazing tearing his back apart each time he attempted such a feat. In the web of uncertainties, one thing was for certain: the coup was happening, sooner rather than later.

And yet, Laurent couldn’t wait for its conclusion to come naturally, as he should; no, he was itching to ignore all the pain he was in further, and do something, anything, to perhaps turn the tides more favorably.

What was favorable, you ask? Laurent didn’t know the answer, or more precisely – still refused to admit it, comfortable in his little cocoon of self-told lies and convenient omissions.

But did it matter, when he was rendered useless, laying confined in one spot, covered in bandages? Not that he would have much of a casual power trotting around the palace with a collar and cuffs weighing on him, but he would have at least a chance to try and perhaps hammer something home into the thick, delusional head of the crown prince. Just because Jokaste – with whom Damianos had been, for all intents and purposes, madly in love with – and Nikandros – Damianos’s childhood companion, and so much more than that – had failed, didn’t mean Laurent would too. He was very stubborn, after all. And annoying.

But, it was all just in his head, a bunch of maybes and perhapses, because since that first day, Damianos hadn’t graced him with his presence again, letting it go at providing him with enough interesting reads and plenty of loukoumades to sweeten up his days. Always accompanied by a servant, apologizing for the lack of the crown prince himself, followed by a shallow bow and some excuse, like having to attend to pressing matters of state, or to his sick father, or generally doing the good work of the heir of the throne.

Laurent didn’t miss him. Not at all.

The metal, embellished container in which the salve was kept closed with a clack, the acrid smell hitting Laurent’s nose with the sudden gust caused by the unexpected cluck. His nose scrunched up, and he held his breath for a while, refusing to let the stench reach his lungs any more than it already did.

The physician raised his brows but didn’t outwardly comment on his childish reaction. Not much, anyway.

“All done," he said, reaching out to a bowl filled with clear water, in which he began to thoroughly wash his hands off the scent, with a varying degree of success. "Was it  truly so bad?" Laurent didn't grace the question with an answer, deeming it rhetorical. "I should be back here in a few hours. Do not move too much until then."

The first few days, if Laurent answered him at all, it was a low grumble – not capable of reacting much due to his pain and overall exhaustion. He didn't exactly notice the passage of time, either; the hours the physician disappeared, likely into the King's quarters, blurred into one big undiscernible smear of brief wakefulness, dreams, and nightmares, combined.

However now, he was very much awake, at all times. Irritated by the silence, on edge, like a cat longing for a mouse to play with, to scratch the itch for at least a moment.

“Oh, I have to reschedule my planned trip to Isthima, then," Laurent thus complained, embellished with a sigh both disappointed and theatrical. "I heard it’s beautiful this time of year.”

The physician was, clearly, not as amused as Laurent was by his retort. Really, with this much sun and wine, one would think the Akielons would be a more positive bunch, but alas. Perhaps even combined with the Festival of the Giant Enormous Grand Cocks they couldn’t get enough vitamin D in them. What a pitiful, pitiful circumstance. Tragic, truly.

“Is it against the doctor's recommendations?" Laurent feigned surprise. "I heard iodine is great for convalescents."

Ostensibly, the physician pulled the curtains, gently billowed by the sea breeze. “You have plenty of it here,” he grumbled, “and I am not foreseeing you leaving these quarters anytime soon, unfortunately.”

It was up for interpretation who was more disappointed by this fact – the doctor, or Laurent himself.

The manner in which the palace physician grabbed all of his odds and ends, throwing them without order into an impressive leather bag, was so urgent Laurent would be tempted to ask him if perhaps he had received a mental alert about the King's health taking a decline once more and requiring his attention if only the rush wasn't an everyday occurrence. The man wasn't running somewhere; he was running away from someone. Namely, Laurent.

Good riddance.

He was always a loner, but in the past, it was a choice – or at least, it was what he had convinced himself of. Now, forced into solitude, the ringing silence weighed on him more than he ever imagined.

There were the occasional visits from Lykaios, of course, whenever she found the time; however, they were hardly jollying him along, seeing how they tended to turn into a session of reassurances, with him being the uplifting party. The guilt, he understood – even though he didn't hold blame against her, focusing it on Adrastus, solely. Sometimes, Laurent wondered how the old monster was doing – whether he was still breathing, or perhaps was already making space for him down in Hell.

In moments like this, he longed for Erasmus's company. His quirkiness was bound to provide some entertainment; however, sadly, by the time Laurent awoke, Erasmus had already left for Bazal, alongside Torveld of Patras. He left behind just a single letter, full of worries and well-wishes, providing that Laurent would ever awake to read it. The departure could not be helped, he guessed; such was the order of things.

Just as it was expected of Damianos to not have time in his busy schedule for any random slave whipped almost to death in his care. A miracle he did find it back when Laurent awoke, really. He didn't owe Laurent his time, or attention. Laurent should be more than satisfied with the impersonal care packages.

Except that he wasn't. And the very fact was infuriating, too.

Almost as infuriating as how a soft knock on the doors made him perk up, causing him to abandon the book he held in his lap, and to turn to the doors expectantly, cocking his ears to listen to the step pattern, the thud of sandals against the marble. Holding his breath impatiently, waiting to catch a glimpse of the unexpected visitor.

Only to get sorely disappointed.

“You look like shit,” Kallias said cooly in place of hello, sauntering gracefully to sit on a chair next to Laurent, who was longing for company so much just a second ago, but now wished he could be alone as the embarrassed flush went down from his cheeks.

“Don’t you know other greetings?” He asked, turning away, feigning a search for a more comfortable position, one that only accidentally didn’t involve looking his speaker in the eye.

Unfortunately, Kallias was much less oblivious than the man Laurent had in mind. “You look disappointed,” his voice sparkled with barely withheld laughter. “Were you expecting someone else to walk through that door?”

The way Laurent whipped around to glare at him was worthy of the moodiest of Nicaise’s swings, all furrowed brows and skin still flaming, and not at all because of his injuries. He had never seen Kallias so amused before, eyes crinkling at the corners with delight, and his posture loose, open. Looking his age, for once.

But Laurent wasn't feeling amused, but rather – exposed. Vulnerable with the knowledge he didn't yet comprehend about himself becoming a share of someone else. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, collecting himself.

The best lies are the ones coated in truth.

"I was hoping for Erasmus," he admitted the white lie, and instantly, like a wave of a magic wand, Kallias's face fell, as if he had just bit into a particularly sour lemon. He twitched, his shoulders squaring up, eyes narrowing for a split second.

"You know full well he's not in Ios anymore," the slave tried to keep his cool, but it was as if each word was causing him physical pain. A form of self-harm, seeing how he was the very reason for the darling boy's departure.

"I was unavailable at the time of his leaving, I'm afraid," Laurent stretched as if it could shake off the feeling of guilt washing over him – an afterthought of using an underhanded attack on Kallias to protect his own heart.

It wasn't right. And neither was Laurent's sudden rise in self-actualization, following this enlightenment.

"You weren't," Kallias seconded. "He was quite sad about it. Kept looking for you in the crowd and then into the physician's window, almost till the very moment the palace had disappeared from view."

His gaze was fixed in the distance as if he could still see Erasmus's figure, if only through the eyes of his soul. Restlessly, he was playing with his fingers, twitching and snapping them soundlessly. His lips were pressed together; bitterness, seeping through the otherwise thoughtful, if anxious, demeanor.

Laurent’s question seemed have caught him off guard, even though it was hardly unreasonable to ask.

"Were you jealous?"

"Of you? No. No, I wasn't."

No lies were marring his features – only pensiveness, and hesitance. His arms, rested on his lap before, were now half-wrapped around himself in a semblance of a hug. He stared at them, unseeing, blue eyes misted with fog, as he focused on the introspective rather than the moment he was in.

Laurent couldn’t blame him; he wasn’t nearly as close to Erasmus as Kallias was – couldn’t be, with how short his acquaintance with him was – but he still liked the boy, and noticed his absence. This, and there was just this pesky pang of worry in his soul – an almost motherly fret, that the darling would struggle to find his place in a foreign land.

Wasn’t it too familiar for Laurent, after all?

However, there was one clear difference between his circumstances, and Erasmus’s.

"Torveld is a kind, good man,” Laurent reassured, the picture of the rowdy prince appearing in his mind. “He'll treat him well. You don't have to worry about it."

"I know. I have selected him myself," and then, a doubt. "But what if it's all a mirage, and I was mistaken? What if I had put him on a different train track, and then pulled the wrong lever?"

"No. You hadn't."

"How do you know?"

Laurent didn't know, not really. But he remembered the patience the Patran prince displayed when he toddled after his brother and him, not straying an inch away. How he patiently listened to childish ideas of what politics should be, with the most serious expression. How even just now, he paid attention to him, a mere slave.

But appearances could be deceiving, this much was true. After all, his Uncle seemed to be the kindest man, while he was subjecting Laurent, his own nephew, to the greatest atrocities. One would need to look long and hard to notice the signs – how he was flinching away from him, how quiet he grew in a time so short, how void.

Torveld's retinue loved him. There was not a soul who was in any way, shape or form uncomfortable around him, not more than one would be around a distant relative who was perhaps a bit too boisterous.

There were no signs, and Laurent would see them from a mile away.

"I just know," he said, firmly, and Kallias hummed, pensive.

"Damianos is a kind man, too."

He should have protested, if not because of genuine conviction, then because he should be of a different opinion. A swift reply should come, a sharp retort with one of many atrocities the man has committed. This is what Prince Laurent of Vere, younger brother and successor of Crown Prince Auguste of Vere, should have done.

But he didn't. The pretense wouldn't pass, not with Kallias; and with no one else who had eyes, Laurent feared. Because for all of his apprehension, all of his stubbornness, he long since realized the same self-evident truth.

Damianos of Akielos was a truly kind man, maybe one of the few left in the world. Too gentle and understanding for his own good.

Kind men always die first.

"And busy," Laurent added, not caring much whether Kallias would read into it. It seemed the slave had him figured out as it was, so what difference did it make? Perhaps, he would like to share with the class; Laurent could use some help detangling the mess his thoughts become when it comes to the Akielon crown prince. Even if he would rather do anything but that.

Kallias didn't, but understood Laurent's allusions instantly.

“It’s Kastor,” he explained. “He’s not exactly keen on Damianos Exalted meeting with you. Never was.”

Laurent raised his brow. The fact the royal bastard wasn't a fan of his was hardly new – the feeling was mutual – but why would he go to such lengths to prevent him from seeing Damianos was unexplainable. Did he know what Jokaste told him? And even if – what did it change, realistically?

“I wonder why. I don’t hold love for him, or Akielos," Laurent shrugged, the words leaving his mouth like a mantra. "I won’t interfere with the plan.”

But I won't help it, either.

“Hmm, this is what you told Lady Jokaste, isn’t it?” Kallias made himself more comfortable in his chair, leaning slightly away from Laurent. He sighed, and moved his gaze, staring right into Laurent's eyes. "I think you do hold love for justice, though.”

Oh yes, he did. With every single breath he took, he sought revenge for his murdered brother up until very recently, when his breath started to get stolen for a different reason completely. An aspect of which stayed at the back of his mind like a pesky afterthought, asking – is revenge truly the same as justice?

“Is this what they bought you with? Justice?" Laurent protected himself with an attack against the one Kallias wasn't even aware he undertook. "You know it will be worse under Kastor than it would be under Damianos,” Laurent said, fervently, and the words leaving his mouth so easily didn't surprise him as much as they should.

For a fraction of a second, Kallias smiled at the involuntary reaction, amused twinkles in his eyes, but there were none as he replied "Probably. But I don’t deal the cards. I’m not a king or a prince. It's not for me to decide."

Was it false modesty, or true conviction of the grey eminence? How ridiculous – one could argue that the true strength lay in his hands, rather than Jokaste's, Kastor's, or even Damianos's. "You’re the voice of the people," Laurent noted. 

"And the people just want to survive."

Kallias's bitter scoff was like a spoon of cinnamon forced down Laurent's throat. He stared at the slave, one so essential to everything taking place behind the stage, and tried to get his measure, pinpoint the strategy in a game he had taken. A cleverly made move to get ahead, and win.

Laurent couldn't see pawns knocked over. He only saw proudly standing chess pieces and Kallias as the one moving them when no one paid attention.

Just survive? It was the bare minimum, not something anyone wanted. Laurent knew a thing or two about being stuck in survival mode, so beaten down there was hardly a flicker of hope left for better times to come. He could see why a peasant stuck plowing the land relentlessly in full sun might think this was all there was, but not Kallias. Not someone so close to the heart of all events, capable of doing so much. The gem of the court. Kastor’s personal slave. If he so wished, he could easily change the course of history – strangle Kastor in his sleep, slip something into Damianos’s wine.

He had agency, so much of it; and was selling himself so short.

“I still don’t understand,” Laurent admitted. “Damianos would be a much better king for you. He’s oblivious, but not cruel. He listens to his people. He would listen to you. Why would you side with Kastor?”

The offense on Kallias’s face wasn’t pretended. He straightened up, his curls falling on his face with the sharp jerk of his head. “Who says I did? For someone who says the slaves don’t know life, you are very oblivious yourself, Laurent,” the chair squeaked against the floor as Kallias pushed it back forcefully, standing up to pace. “I am his slave, or did you forget? Did you forget what that means? I am an item, easily replaced. I replaced Ianessa, and someone might very well replace me, the moment my Master gets a whiff of disloyalty. I apologize if not everyone is born a hero.”

The silence rang between them, words settling like dust after a battle. Washing over Laurent in their sobering reality.

No, not everyone was born a man of courage. It was a rarity – Auguste was one, infuriatingly so, and it didn’t end well for him. Neither it did for King Aleron, or for any character in the many books Laurent had read.

Damianos was often called a hero, too.

What they all had in common, too, was the status that came with their birth. All first-born sons of the royal families were meant for the throne. Not like Laurent, and definitely not like Kallias.

And yet, the slave was still walking the tightrope, relentlessly; just because there were still things he believed in. Just like Laurent, back when he was navigating the snake pit of Arles; for so long seemingly allying himself with his Regent, just because he had no power of his own. 

He could understand Kallias; but, there were other people, too, for whom Laurent held much less respect.

“And Jokaste?” He asked, despite already making up his mind about her.

Kallias’s answer, however, surprised him.

“She’s just a plaything, too. With ambition to be more than that.”

Laurent opened his eyes further, stinging, just to avoid blinking. Was it misplaced loyalty speaking through Kallias? And even if – how did a person like Jokaste, an oath-breaking, cheating whore, gain herself a staunch ally like this heroic, self-aware man? How did she convince him that she’s what, a victim in all of this?

Just like the Regent, who oh so often put on the mask of a tortured uncle, having to deal with such a difficult nephew, one not knowing what’s best for him. A rebellious youth, just for the sake of being contrary, and rude to his elders, while they had only his best interest in mind.

It was manipulation, and Laurent hated exploiters.

“Power-hungry,” Laurent scoffed. “With no idea how heavy a crown is.”

“And yet with more idea than you,” Kallias refuted, swift like an arrow. “Think a golden circle around one’s head is heavy? Imagine working in a field day and night, imagine being reduced to an item, imagine being so wicked smart and only ever being good to fuck and pop out children. Capable of so much, but stuck into a solid, metal mold,” he almost spat, appalled by the reality they were born into. “This is the crown. Those are the ones that carry its weight. And what do they have from it?”

Laurent met Kallias’s stone gaze head-on, not backing down. Oh, Laurent could imagine a lot of it. He was a slave now after all, and have been reduced to a thing only good to fuck since the moment he turned thirteen. Thus, he found it hard to pity Jokaste or to see her as a part of the downtrodden masses. She had no idea what the true hardships were.

But, wasn’t it the same thing many would say about him? Born a second prince, with no expectations on him, other than making it to adulthood alive. Never worrying about putting food on his plate. Always having the backup his birth gave him, up until very recently. Not having to climb the chessboard to have a chance to play, but being born a key piece.

He didn’t say a word, and Kallias monologued on.

“Damianos Exalted is a good man. He listens to his people, and he wants them to be content within their social standing. So much, and yet so little,” Kallias concluded, not without painful regret weighing on his voice. “He loves Akielos and everything that she is. Where Theomedes Exalted was plagued with dreams of greatness long gone and never seen before all the same, Damianos Exalted finds his country beautiful exactly as it is, just as expected of the golden boy who had only ever seen the marble halls of the palace.”

And the fields turned into a bog with the blood of the fallen, Laurent thought, but didn’t say. It wasn’t his place to; not when he understood what Kallias was getting at. Not when the very same description could be used to describe him, as well.

There was no question whether Damianos loved his country, but there was a caveat. A person in love tends to put on rose-tinted glasses, blind to anything that didn’t fit into the romanticized delusion, and Damianos was truly in love with Akielos and her people; but it didn’t mean he could ever truly understand them, or even that he wanted to, deep in his heart. Not with the vast difference in status, the chasm in perspectives, the experiences.

Would he still serve his country with every single breath he took? No doubt about it – everyone with eyes could see it, how he stepped up the moment it was needed, and how he never avoided the duty of holding court. He was a perfect prince, the kind people sing ballads about – but, in the end, still a prince.

He never had to work in a field, the sun scorching him to the bone. He never had to smile as his betters treated him like trash, simply because he had no betters to account for. The world was his oyster – and it was giving way so easily, no need to pry it open with all of his strength, to perhaps have a chance of sliding in. 

It would never be enough, and shamefully, Laurent wasn’t all too different, he realized.

No matter how hard he tried to connect with his people, no matter the pain he went through, he was just the same. He had no right to judge Kallias or Jokaste.

He had to do better, for the short time he had left.

“But you don’t indulge in the utopia,” Laurent concluded, not attacking the slave any longer, but rather – trying to keep an open mind. “And neither does Jokaste.”

“Not anymore,” Kallias corrected, seeing his efforts. He sighed. “But we were all young and stupid once. With hopes, and dreams.”

They were, weren’t they? However, some of them believed in unicorns and dragons and knights in shining armor, and others believed they could fix a pile of shit of a man, no really, they could. “I don’t know what else but the stupidity it is to have a delusion that a man like Kastor would ever allow for realizing any noble dream.”

The corners of Kallias’s mouth lifted slightly. He agreed, for the most part; but there was an important distinction to be made, too. “Not all of them are lofty,” he turned to the window again. “Some are as easy as wanting to keep someone you love safe.”

“I don’t… I don’t follow,” Laurent admitted, his eyes following Kallias’s gaze as if the clouds moving in the sky held the answers. He remembered doing that with his brother, lying on the grass in the palace’s patio, arguing what shape they were. A heart, Laurent would say. A pair of boobs, Auguste would answer.

“Kastor’s only desire in life is to have a golden laurel rest on his temple, the sole thing giving him the determination to keep going ever since Damianos Exalted was born,” Kallias stated the obvious, the very thing Laurent has been repeating – if only in his mind – since the moment he laid eyes on the royal bastard. “What makes you think Lady Jokaste was the instigator behind Damianos’s demise if Kastor’s loathing has been burning for longer than any of us here are alive?”

That… was a good point. One Laurent hadn’t thought of before.

“If you love someone,” Kallias said, staring at the paved road leading all the way to Bazal, “you let them go, even if they would never understand. If no one would.”

I have already made my choice, and by gods, let history hate me for it, a faint voice repeated in his head, far sadder than he remembered it to be.

She’s a formidable woman. Hungry for power and able to recognize that craving in others from a mile away. She saw that in Kastor and tried to talk some sense into you too, it was one of the things both of us ever agreed on, another voice said, firm, reasonable, but not meeting fertile ground, only senseless stubbornness.

Jokaste wasn’t the one who pushed Kastor to seize the throne; he did that all by himself. He was a danger even before she walked over to his side, and tried to warn Damianos of it – even Nikandros, a man who had no reason to like or respect her, especially after she betrayed his sworn brother, realized it.

But Damianos didn’t listen, never would, and so, desperate times called for desperate measures.

Feelings do, indeed, render a person stupid.

“She should have just killed Kastor, then.”

Perhaps Jokaste’s brain, just like Laurent’s, in all of its wondrousness had a system fault – prone to look into everything with a magnifying glass, tangled into a web of lies and conspiracies, it jumped to elaborate conclusions rather than opt for the simplest way out. If it truly was affection that pushed her to make such a bizarre, idiotic choice – an explanation Laurent wasn’t completely on board with, but which he had to agree seemed to be, surprisingly enough, quite sound – she could have chosen a different route completely. One that wouldn’t paint her a villain in this story, but rather: a hero.

And if she was anything like him, she wouldn’t have any moral qualms against staining her hands red, even if the damned spots would never wash off, no matter how many times she scrubbed them clean. An end justifying the means.

Because they were the same. If Laurent knew what would happen at Marlas, he would never let Auguste go. He would sneak out of the Veretian camp and into the enemy territory, and murder Damianos in his sleep, if that would be what it took. Theomedes too, for good measure.

Or perhaps, it was his rotten, adult self speaking; perhaps the kind child he used to be, even knowing what would come later, would not be able to bring himself to do the unthinkable.

Perhaps Jokaste, for all the coldness and calculating she displayed, wouldn’t be able to, either.

That, and there were also other things to consider.

“What do you think would happen then?” Kallias played the advocate of the devil. “Damianos Exalted loves his brother. Do you think he would just let it slide?”

It hit a bit too close to home.

Because no, Damianos wouldn’t. Damianos would spend his days turning every leaf and every rock to find every last person to be involved in the murder of his brother and then lay at night, scheming. Restless, until he would get his revenge. It’s the worst to anger a gentle person, after all; they are never the same again. Laurent would know.

Because Kallias’s theory was Laurent’s practice, even if Kastor was nothing like Auguste. But Damianos… Damianos was like Laurent used to be, toddling behind his big brother no matter his afflictions, always staring at him in utter admiration, like a younger sibling was bound to do.

Kastor didn’t deserve a shred of it. Laurent didn’t understand, and yet he did, so well and so intimately.

“No. No, he wouldn’t.”

“Exactly. He wouldn’t— you alright? You’re looking a bit pale.”

Laurent would love to roll his eyes and point out he had just discovered fire, however he wasn’t able to when a burn set his back alight with newfound force, out of nowhere. Involuntarily, he had curled up, dignity forgotten when a wave of pain washed through him, reminding him of the circumstances he could not simply wish away.

“Laurent? What’s happening?”

For Kallias to look this concerned, the surge of pain must have looked quite scary. Indeed, the slave sprang up from the chair, reaching out to Laurent helplessly, only to withdraw his hands instantly when he had twitched away. For a moment more, he looked around, but the variety of compounds surrounding him, for all of his education, didn't ring a single bell. Thus, he made a decision anyone in his situation would.

“I’m getting the physician. Wait right here.”

As if Laurent was capable of doing anything else at the moment.

But seconds passed, then minutes, and it was only him, his pathetic little moans, the still air, and pain. Perhaps the shrink wasn’t coming; perhaps he was much too occupied with the King to give a single thought to a suffering slave locked up in his chambers. Or, perhaps, Kallias hadn’t reached him at all; maybe he was just looking for an excuse to leave, and found just that when Laurent cowered away.

Whatever it was, if there was one lesson he learned in life, was that if you wanted something done, you should just do it yourself.

Laboriously, Laurent lifted himself, grabbing onto the bed’s railing for dear life, walking over to the apothecary's bench, each step taken out of pure spite for letting himself succumb to ache this badly. Heavily, he dropped into the chair, and after a minute of gathering his wits again, he opened his eyes and began scanning the shelves.

The multitude of ingredients blurred before him, the labels all written in Artesian, with the same looping script, which looked pleasing at first glance, but was utterly illegible. Still, like in the apothecary back in town, he recognized plenty of dried herbs and compounds; and exactly like back then, one in particular caught his attention.

The supply the royal physician had of wolfsbane would be impressive if only it wasn't concerning.

Laurent furrowed his brows, recalling what the old medic in the shabby, but surprisingly well-stocked pharmacy told him – the idea he had of wolfsbane wasn't exactly right, because it did have positive properties when used in certain, sparse doses. Thus, it could have been nothing. Just... a lot of potions to be prepared, perhaps. After all, Laurent didn't have a precise idea of what made up a "small dose".

But one writing an apothecary's manual certainly would have.

Laurent didn't have to look for the right one long – it was lying right on the tabletop, within easy reach. The condition the poor book was in made him cringe; stained with substances of varying provenance and doubtful aromas, it was sticky to the touch. With just his fingertips, Laurent nudged it open, the heavy covers thudding against the wood. Pages upon pages of script were revealed then, and the most often referenced ones – oh, the horror – dog-eared. He reached for those first, and sure enough, the recipe for his salve was revealed, along with a tincture used supposedly as a cough and pain relief. Laurent narrowed his eyes, focusing on the illustration, comparing what was on it with the half-done flasks surrounding him. To no one's surprise, the second preparation guide was for whatever concoction the King was being administered with, each time his condition was taking a course for the worse.

Both of them contained wolfsbane, and the amount the manual was calling for was nowhere near what was currently resting in a mortar, ready to be boiled into the so-called cures.

Except that they weren't meant to heal. They were lethal poisons.

It all came back to him, that time in the throne room where the concerned physician ran to the King with a vial of medicine, handing it to Damianos, who had given it to Theomedes so gently. The off-put stares both Jokaste and Hypermenestra gave to Kastor. Laurent's struggles, with the ongoing bursts of sudden pain, which should have long ended, and the irritation his skin burned with each time the salve was applied.

The King was being poisoned. He was being poisoned.

He swayed on his legs, and in a futile attempt to grab the edge of the table to keep himself upright, he knocked up a bunch of vials and bottles, shattering against the floor into a million little pieces. The liquids contained in them spilled, creating huge puddles of stinking gunk on the marbles, worsening Laurent’s nausea and dizziness; but there was no time for it. There was no time.

The noise alarmed the guards, who had barged into the room without knocking. Confused, they took in the scene – the spillage, the wreckage, Laurent amidst it. A very unsettled, agitated Laurent.

“Damianos," he said the moment their eyes met, the connection between his mind and his mouth uninterrupted for once. "I need to see Prince Damianos, now.”

The surprise on their faces for such a blatant request, a slave calling on an heir to the throne as if he was his servant, was clear; and almost on par with the shock Laurent himself felt, realizing what the implication of it was. Of turning to someone else, to Damianos, as a first instinct in a moment of distress.

“Exalted is occupied right now,” Pallas walked up to him with his hands outstretched, careful and steady, as if he wasn’t approaching a hurt man, but rather a rabid animal. “I am sure he will come when he will have—”

“I need to see him now!”

The raised voice hurt his head, and judging by the guards’ cringed faces, so did theirs. Still, they didn’t move an inch, instead looking at each other, as if silently begging for the second one to come up with an idea of how to contain this suddenly hysteric slave. Laurent was acting ridiculous, he knew; the outburst was uncharacteristic, and the frenzy unjustified. After all, it was hardly the first attempt on his life. He shouldn’t have been thrown so off course by it; he was raised in Arles, after all. It should be daily bread for him.

But it wasn’t Arles.

It was Ios, where the simple-minded men were none the wiser. Perhaps as they spoke, Damianos was once again administering venom to his father. His blood, his closest family; one so important to him.

Years have passed, but Laurent still remembered Auguste and His Majesty as they sat by Mother's bedside, holding her hands – helpless as she wasted away, no cure strong enough to cheat death. How the duties were put on a back-burner, just so they could make sure she had every comfort she needed in those last moments. Physical, and emotional both.

Imagining someone wicked enough to plant poison in place of medicines, so that a brother or father would inadvertently kill a person so dear, boiled blood in his veins.

Laurent had no love for Theomedes of Akielos, but it wasn’t right to take advantage of a man’s kind heart, to make them complicit in patricide. It was low, it was disgusting, and the sort of depravity even he, faced with so much filth one would never think of, could not imagine happening right under his nose.

If there's something I can do, please tell me.

Why haven’t you told me anything, Laurent?

Perhaps he held justice in high regard, after all.

Short-term patience wasn’t Laurent’s forte, especially not when he knew his request would be disregarded. The pain was forgotten as he shoved Pallas out of the way, the young soldier so surprised he tumbled a step back, losing his balance. Dumbly, he stared as Laurent plodded forward, eyes open wide in shock.

It didn’t surprise Laurent in the slightest, though. Pallas’s amorousness, one that had irked Nikandros so much a whole eternity before, was gone the moment Laurent had dropped the carefully cultivated mask of poise for something more raw. It was only right. Any affinity anyone ever held for him didn't go further than the surface level.

Unfortunate that his looks weren’t at his best now, then – any bargaining chip he could muster right now would be handy, seeing how Damianos wasn’t exactly keen on listening to reason in the past. Here was to hoping neither Nikandros nor Jokaste were simply pretty enough.

He would flip his hair for good measure, but the monologue was taking place in his head only, and outside, there was still one other guard, not thrown aback or perplexed enough to just let him pass.

Naos stood in the doorway with his sword unsheathed, and it would probably be blood-chilling if only Laurent didn’t know better. The boy’s eyes were open wide and his stance was far from steady, the hold he had on his weapon so weak a single flick could make it clatter to the ground. That, and after what happened with Adrastus, Laurent had a faint idea what not only Damianos would do after learning the guard took out a sword in his company, but more importantly, what Lykaios would do.

He wouldn’t want to be in Naos’s shoes then.

Nonetheless, the boy wasn’t backing out from the path he had taken. “You can’t leave the chambers,” he commanded, but the waver in his voice made it seem more of a pleading. He lowered the blade, letting its tip rest against the marble, while with the other hand, he made a gesture towards Laurent. “You’re unwell—”

Really? He hasn’t noticed.

He wouldn’t hold blame against either of the guards – he did believe Damianos when he said they were his most trusted soldiers residing in Ios at the moment – but the truth was, he would rather they were with their lamb-to-a-slaughter of a prince, and stop hindering him for five minutes.

He wasn’t the one they should be worried about.

A heavy inhale, just to calm his nerves and gather his wits, Laurent continued forward, standing just inches away from Naos. With his back straight, he was taller than the soldier, intimidating like a sharp icicle was in the middle of winter. He reached out for the hand still holding the sword, closing on the wrist like a vice.

“Try me.”

Naos’s breath hitched, but to his credit, he didn’t recoil, either. For a moment, they both stood there, staring at each other, neither willing to back down and for reasons so similar – duty and premonition, guilt, worry, responsibility.

And perhaps this was why they understood each other, even with no words spoken.

The tension left Naos’s body in an exhale, like a soft wave washing over it. However, his eyes remained hard, like those of a merchant about to strike a deal. “Will you sit here and wait if I promise to bring him here?”

The level, calm voice was so at odds with a loud protest coming from right behind them. With a clink from his chest armor, Pallas gathered himself off the guard, heading to stand between them. He turned to Naos, disbelieving.

“You cannot be serious.”

Nikandros’s spirit hung in the air, transported all the way from Delfeur, the perpetual scowl on his face turned into a snicker, thoroughly amused by Pallas’s change in demeanor towards Laurent, the moment the guise of a pretty, graceful blond fell. I told you so, the wind seemed to say, and the redness burning Pallas’s cheeks made Laurent believe the boy felt the premonition, too.

Either that or perhaps he was quite mad at being utterly ignored, Naos not heeding his words and instead extending a hand to Laurent, ready for a handshake.

He took his measure – the brown puppy eyes so ill-fitting to the rest of his statue, so much like Damianos’s. The strong, reliable hand, patiently waiting to be taken. The reassuring smile, and a promise, hiding just behind the seemingly staunch expression.

Laurent wasn’t the one to trust people; wasn’t one to put his faith in them, disappointed so many times before in his life. Forced to rely on others, he was like a cat, drenched in rain. Vastly uncomfortable, suspicious, and overall peevish.

He took the offered hand, shaking it firmly.

“I will.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Maybe it was the swirling thoughts in his mind or perhaps the adrenaline pumping in his veins, but it wasn’t more than a few minutes before the doors opened, too fast to creak, the crown prince himself standing in the archway. 

As always, he was the very picture of a perfect, stately heir, but his agitation showed in the little things – his breath, hitched slightly from the scurry; his curls, messy; his eyes, looking around the room, calming only when they found Laurent, sitting patiently on the bed, holding his end of the agreement. Damianos ran his hand down his face then, wiping away the traces of distress from it, before turning to the two soldiers, awaiting further orders.

“I’ll take it from here.”

Naos and Pallas both nodded, straightening up and beating their chests sharply, two soldiers obeying their commander. In perfect synch, they turned around, marching towards the door, closing it firmly behind them. For a moment, Laurent wondered whether they would quit the act the second they weren’t supervised, pressing their ears closely to the wood to hear the reason for all the disturbance; but the thought disappeared from his mind as soon as it appeared when Damianos dropped pretenses the moment Laurent’s were the only eyes on him.

"Laurent."

His name was an exhale on Damianos’s lips – not quite an exclamation, but not a calm statement, either; it was tired, it was relieved, and it was worried all in one. An internal battle brewed in the man, and Laurent saw it clear as day – the urge to reach out, but his mind pushed his arms back, reminding him he shouldn’t make physical contact with him. It wouldn’t be appreciated, it must have said; it would only startle him, making things worse.

But truth be told, at that moment, Laurent couldn’t say if it was true. He wasn’t sure whether he would have minded. It had been so long since anyone had embraced him or held his hands.

It had been even longer since he had allowed anyone to.

"What happened here?" Damianos asked, attentive and soothing, glancing around the mess the room had become. "What happened to you?"

Words were always simple for Laurent. He could talk his way out of any situation, blessed with a tongue as wicked as his sharp mind. He could twist thoughts, mold them like clay, malleable under the sharp whip of his wit.

But now, he found himself opening his mouth and closing it again, no words in either Akielon or Veretian to explain to this doe-eyed, guileless man the horrors his brother was committing in cold blood and with no remorse. 

Or perhaps, it wasn't the discrepancies in expression – maybe the reason for Laurent's stupor was something else entirely. Perhaps, he didn't want to face what Jokaste and Nikandros already did. Perhaps, he was afraid of  Damianos's dismissal, of being a subject of his outrage, rather than concern. 

The crown prince couldn't know of his internal struggle. "Laurent, please. You can tell me anything," he assured, and he was so genuine doing so that Laurent almost forgot that listening didn't mean hearing.

Damianos's eyes followed him as he paced around the room, teeth biting into his knuckles. He didn't say a word more, didn't urge him, despite the hurry with which he was brought there, whatever grave business he was seeing to interrupted. He simply waited; patient, understanding.

“The flasks,” Laurent pointed to the floor, as suddenly as stupidly. "Do you see them?”

Or whatever was left, anyway. Damianos furrowed his brows, confused; it was hard not to notice, the shards littered across the marble like a million glass beads. “The shattered ones?” He asked to clarify, at best unsure of Laurent’s take, and at worst concerned about his sanity. “You’ll hurt yourself if you walk on them.”

With the way Damianos measured the offending splinters up, Laurent was convinced he would grab the nearest dustpan, get on his knees, and clean them away himself if only one was available, the task not at all beneath a crown prince where Damianos was concerned. The sentiment would be quite endearing and maybe make Laurent smile indulgently if only it didn’t make the knot in his mind tangle further.

That, and there was a storm raging in it as it was, the thoughts scattered, Laurent clutching to each and every single one of them with the sheer force of his will. His heart was still heavy with lead, pressing his chest, but he no longer felt the throat-closing suffocation. Not with Damianos’s presence, undisputed, but so unobtrusive. Calming.

Laurent’s body recoiled from having to shatter that, but his mind was always more stubborn. In a struggle between these two aspects of himself, he managed to utter, “The smell.”

“Does it make you dizzy? It’s hardly pleasant,” Damianos agreed, scrunching his nose at the putrid, acidic stench, none the wiser. Not grasping what Laurent was getting at, he made his way towards the window, hoping perhaps a little more air would settle him. “Is this any better?” He asked, and Laurent was suffocating on his unceasing kindness and cluelessness more than he ever would at the worst of reeks.

“It’s wolfsbane.”

Damianos pressed his lips together, thoughtful. “Perhaps? I won’t lie, the only thing I learned in the medical sciences was how to dress a wound. Quite handy in a battlefield, if you ask me,” he interjected, but seeing Laurent’s expression, promptly returned on topic. “I couldn’t tell, but even if, what of it?”

He was so unsuspicious. So genuine. Laurent couldn’t look him in the eye. “It’s a sedative,” he explained, letting his eyes roam on the shelves, the labels, anywhere but at Damianos, “can be used for pain relief or to reduce inflammation, but this is not how we know it in Vere.”

“How do you know it in Vere?” An honest question, a tint of confusion marring it.

“It’s a poison, Damianos.”

Something like disbelief broke the pleasantness of his features, the man staring at him as if he had suddenly spoken in a language he couldn’t quite understand. His eyes were covered with a thin veil, and yet still flickered around the room, accompanied by tiny furrows of his brows. As if the sentence was rattling somewhere in his mind, and he couldn’t grasp it. Or, more accurately, avoided letting it sink.

Laurent would need to bring in the cavalry.

His sudden jerk made Damianos twitch, but he didn’t stop him when he made his way to the preparation bench, grabbing the disgusting, worn-out tome, opening it at the right page to then shove it in the prince’s face. “Look at the recipes. Look at the amount they call for. It’s less than a fourth of a thimble,” he dropped the book, now pointing to the mortar. “Look at the amount prepared. It would be enough to put down an entire garrison. The concoctions, the salves, they are not meant to heal,” his voice wavered, and he finally turned to look Damianos in the eye, desperate to be listened to, to be heard. 

“They are meant to kill, slowly murder, day by day. Damianos, I’m being poisoned. The King is being poisoned.”

The silence could be cut with a knife, the room turning him with the clouds moving in the sky, covering the sun. Damianos sagged into the chair, hunching over. With his hands laced together and head dropped, he sat there, pensive, mulling Laurent’s words over in his head.

It made him feel hopeful, even though the worst hadn’t yet been spoken.

Hope was the mother of fools.

"By the royal physician? Laurent, it's a serious accusation,” he had finally said. “This man has been here since–"

The moment was nigh. 

"No. Yes," Laurent squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. He took a deep breath as if it was the last time he would take it in a long while. “By your brother."

Where Damianos was the very picture of delusion and pushing thoughts away, now, he couldn’t prevent the words from penetrating his mind. The confused, slacked posture of his grew harder, and so did his mouth, taunt in a thin line. The warmth of his eyes was frozen over, solid like soil in the middle of winter, and just as unwelcoming. The hands he kept laced tightened, the muscles in his arms becoming more pronounced, as if ready to strike.

He didn’t. He simply sat there like that, breathing deeply, a much too good of a man to act on emotions; but it didn’t mean they didn’t disrupt his composure.

“Do you realize that what you say is treason?”

The question was not a backhanded accusation, but rather a statement of fact. Laurent accepted it – he knew what he was playing against, with no status to fall back on in case he found himself drowning in the sands pulled from underneath his feet. His heart was beating hard, and he felt it everywhere in his body; in his weak legs, barely keeping him in place, and his throat, choking him. Yet still, he refused to back down. He couldn’t; not with Kallias’s defeated tone still ringing in his mind, and with his own staunch conviction.

“Worse than regicide?” Laurent pushed, watching Damianos like a hawk. The prince refused to meet his eyes. “It’s not a wild guess. There’s concrete proof of it. You can’t just dismiss it like that.”

“Proof? Laurent,” he only then looked at him, and the softness was back in his face, but in a quality so different it made Laurent want to vomit, condescending in its indulgence. “You are smart, and I admire it about you, but you aren’t a herbalist. Preparing a life-saving medicine isn’t like baking a cake. Physicians train years for it, and the one serving at the palace has been doing this for longer than both of us combined have been alive.”

So many times before Laurent had been on the receiving end of patronization. He was always too pretty, too young, too snobby to ever say anything truly of substance. What could he know of life, after all? Nothing.

His fingernails buried into the flesh of his palms, the soft pangs of pain grounding him. “Why do you refuse to see what’s right in front of you?” The words were like a hiss of a snake, on which someone had stepped. Disheartened, and let down.

“You’re sick, Laurent,” Damianos bit out. “You drink poppy extract like it’s milk with honey before bedtime, just so the pain wouldn’t jolt you awake every other hour. You aren’t lucid.”

You’re being unreasonable again, Laurent. It’s all in your head.

Who would ever believe you?

You're sick.

A deep voice snickered at the back of his mind, in the same dismissive way it did when he used to cry late at night in the cold, unwelcoming chambers hurt and with his tongue loosened enough by wine to make empty threats, of telling everyone what was being done to him. The officials, the council.

As if that would help, rather than end up with him being sent to a monastery, to be cleansed of his sins of a devious, troubled mind, while his uncle continued to walk free, embellished with all the riches and power he could imagine.

Just like Kastor.

“You’re not listening to me,” Laurent stated the obvious, biting his lips and closing his hands into fists.

Of course, he wasn’t. Damianos didn’t listen to people who mattered to him; no, who mattered, full stop. Why would he trust anything that left Laurent’s mouth? He was Veretian, after all. A snake. A venomous little mishap, who no one would ever treat seriously, no matter how much he could grow and what he could accomplish.

Laurent knew it would go this way. It didn’t make the experience any less bitter, and thoroughly disappointing.

“I am listening to you,” Damianos threw his hands up, the moment he noticed bitterness spoiling Laurent’s face; or perhaps, he didn’t, and it was all in his mind, too. “But Laurent, you’re unwell—”

“If you tell me I’m unwell one more time, I will push you right out of this window and we will see which one of us will be ‘unwell’,” he snapped back, sharp as steel, and just as relentless. “Perhaps that would beat some sense into your head.”

“Laurent.”

He didn’t say anything else. An admonishment, a call to order, would be more than justified; if accusing a bastard of regicide was treason, threatening a crown prince – even with no true substance behind the menaces – was more so. Whether Damianos didn’t want to waste his breath or perhaps didn’t care much for rudeness directed at him, personally – didn’t matter, because whatever would leave his mouth wouldn’t be more than just more empty words.

Trust, so painstakingly built, cracked, the whole fundament of it began falling apart under the weight of the betrayal.

“You don’t believe me,” he stated the obvious and hated how his voice shook, squeaky like a child’s, vibrating with disappointment, and shame. “You said you would try and believe me.”

Damianos downcast his eyes, and after, his whole posture followed – his head lolled down, his shoulders slouched. In a glimpse, Laurent caught the bitter scowl of shame twisting his face, just before he turned it away.

He felt guilty, and it was only right it did, but such didn’t change anything. Not the empty promises, nor the threats hanging over his head, over both of their countries – simply because one man loved with blind, misplaced loyalty. One which, one by one, was alienating him.

Kastor didn’t need to be shrewd or require Jokaste’s counsel. Damianos was doing the job of damning himself damn well without any interference, and it was maddening.

“I try. I do try. But, Laurent, you’re—” he swallowed before the word could pass through his mouth. Pity; Laurent already began to eye the window to determine whether it was big enough to fit Damianos’s impressive frame. Whether he could handle defenestrating that huge mass of muscles was only a secondary concern. “You’re hurt, and feverish—”

“I assure you, I am as much of a cold bitch as I usually am. You can check yourself if you want to.”

So freezing his tone was that Damianos stopped in his tracks, rethinking his earlier eagerness to touch him. Not a step closer was taken in his direction, not another attempt at easing him down, or comforting him. Only occasional glances to the doors, if rescue could come from them at any time, or the window, maybe considering a few broken limbs wouldn’t be too big of a price to pay to get out of this situation.

It hurt more than his back could; the utter disbelief, the dismissiveness, the blatant condescension. The cowardice when faced with solid proof, with which one couldn’t argue, but could only run away from.

But perhaps, it was only right. How much time did Damianos have left, anyway? Maybe it was better for him to go out believing in his family’s goodness, rather than see it for what it was. Even if it was the worst-case scenario for not one, but two countries, and thousands of people living in them. Were they truly worth less than the illusion of Kastor’s affection?

“What did he do to deserve such loyalty from you?” Laurent asked in a murmur but didn’t want to receive an answer. He still did.

“He doesn’t have to do anything,” Damianos said, as if it was the simplest thing. “Kastor is my brother. We have each other's backs.”

Laurent wanted to scoff at the irony. “The only thing in your back will be a knife sticking out of it.”

“Laurent, that’s quite enough.”

The sparks of fire burst in Damianos’s eyes again, but they were soon extinguished by the physician, who finally decided to show up after God knows how long since Kallias had gone to grab him. Kallias, who was, curiously enough, nowhere to be seen.

“Exalted,” he said in greeting, bowing his head and bending his knees, as low as their old age would allow. With a gesture of a hand, Damianos spared him further deferences.

“I’m glad you’re here, Doctor. I was about to call for you,” he stated, and the physician nodded his head again in reply.

“I did hear the patient is exhibiting signs of distress,” he took a look around the room and raised his eyebrow. “And violent tendencies on top of that?”

Laurent crossed his arms, raising his brow. Oh, how he loved being talked about as if he wasn’t in the room. Had his exasperation expelled his soul out of his body and onto the astral plane? Good, then they wouldn’t see his less-than-pleased expressions, either. That, and the waving of hands right in front of their eyes, that he was tempted to do. But, he had to be stronger than the urge; they were questioning his sanity enough as it was.

“He’s been… unsettled,” Damianos euphemized, and if Laurent’s brow raised any higher, it would go past his hairline. “Maybe the confinement is overwhelming him? I do not argue your expertise, Doctor,” he assured, and the shrink hummed, “but I can’t imagine spending entire days alone is good for anyone’s sanity. It lives… a lot of space for delirium to develop.”

Delirium. If any of them was guilty of it, it certainly wasn’t Laurent. Quick to anger, blood boiled in his veins again. “So now I am deranged,” he spat, and Damianos cringed. “Do you commit each person who disagrees with you? Akielos will soon run out of temples to keep the mentally unwell, then.”

“I see what you mean,” the physician nodded sagely, completely ignoring Laurent, and speaking to Damianos solely. “I shall give him some valerian root, it should calm his nerves in no ti—”

“No!”

His shout of protest had a primal quality to it, coming straight from his soul, which saw right through the medic’s pleasant, dubious smile; it was powered by the fear and anxiety of his thirteen-year-old self, drunk with wine he didn’t want to drink when hands ripped the laces of his outfits to shreds; the terror of awaking in Ios, laying on the cold marble half-naked, with eyes on the courtiers burning into his body; the anxiety of waking up in Damianos’s bed, chilis swirling his thoughts.

He knew what this concoction would be, and certainly not harmless valerian. He didn’t know what would happen to him after, and he would rather jump straight out of the window, with at the very least very certain conclusion.

And perhaps, the thought was made known, because soon enough his arms were closed in a firm hold of two guards keeping him in place. They had his best interest at hand, he knew; but he couldn’t forget how the last time he had been captured like this, he ended up tied to a post and whipped close to dying.

Damianos knew that, too; and no matter how mentally unwell he deemed Laurent to be, he seemed to understand the approach they employed wasn’t making things any easier. With a swift motion of his hand, he asked the guards to stand down, and the hold they held on Laurent lessened. Like with a magic wand, his thrashing around ceased, too.

“If I may, maybe something less… invasive, Doctor,” he suggested carefully. “He did express concerns about the medicine he has been getting.”

Concerns. If Damianos was any closer to him, he would have jumped him like an angry cat, scratching his face. It was one thing to be hiding into the safe comfort of delusions to deny solid proof of a plot brewing, and completely another to babble about it to the first person willing, more than that, one he was warned against. It was more than a betrayal of any sort of crumbs of trust and belief Laurent had in him. It was an absolute lack of self-preservation.

Laurent couldn’t help but wonder: did he run to Kastor each time after Nikandros or Jokaste voiced their reservations, too, or did he keep at least those to himself?

“Expressed concerns,” the doctor parroted, raising his brow. For a split second, he glanced at the battlefield his workstation became, and then stroked his beard, as if deep in thought. “In that case, I would recommend a relaxing bath. They have been waiting for him long enough.”

There was something eerie in the way he said that, and the instinct Laurent often liked to dismiss but one that had kept him alive for so long, blared an alarm in his mind. It was all planned; his torture, the incapacitation, and now the sudden release. Through the physician’s mouth, Kastor spoke, and he wouldn’t just let Laurent leave now unless there was a very good reason for it.

But no one would listen, and a struggle would do nothing when the two kind-hearted guards dragged him to the slave baths, like a concerned owner would to a screaming cat, brought to a veterinarian. With irony, he realized to Damianos, he was exactly that. An item, easily replaced – was that what Kallias called them?

Everyone has agency, Laurent thought then. He insisted that and oh, how soon was he proven wrong.

He never felt more powerless.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

However the bath was, in fact, very nice.

Never would he admit that, of course; but while he didn’t trust the physician in the slightest, and did sense an ulterior motive in suddenly bringing him to the baths, he would lie if he said the warm, perfumed water didn’t feel comforting on his weary bones and itching skin. 

It hardly did anything for his deep distress and distrustfulness, though.

The fight between indulging in the scent of soft roses, beguiling him to sink deeper into the sheet of water, and staying alert was a great war truly, one slowly but surely he was losing. Laurent was guilty of forgetting he was only human, and the anxiety he was running on for god knows how long, either humming lowly or screaming in his mind, was bound to exhaust him eventually.

And the soft waves were like a blanket covering him, whispering it would all be alright in the end. He was too weak to not indulge in the illusion, just for a minute.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine being back at Arles, in the solitary comfort of his private basins, with not a soul there to bother him. The guards appointed to him by Damianos were gracious enough to stand outside, accepting his eccentric (by Akielon standards, anyway) preference of not having anyone gawk at him while he bathed. Even the slaves, usually huddling around these rooms, were nowhere to be found.

The moment was perfect, except that he wasn’t. Shouldn’t be.

There was no reason for not a single slave to be lounging around the area. While the Akielons were too barbaric for clocks other than sundials, Laurent was quite certain the hour wasn’t late enough for all of them to retire for the day, in their quarters, or attend to their nightly duties.

Something was wrong.

His heart began racing again, thudding like footsteps stomping against the floor in the next chamber. Water splashed as he reached out for his chiton, flailing in the air not so differently from the curtain separating that part of the baths from the rest, yanked by a soldier whom he hadn’t remembered seeing before, and certainly not in this part of the palace.

“What is the meaning of this,” Laurent asked as if he still could afford such a commanding tone. “Where is Pallas and Naos?”

“There has been an emergency,” the guard explained, bowing his head. “They have been urgently called back to their regular posts. Come. You have been called for, too.”

And indeed he was, although not at all in the same spot Damianos’s loyal guards were.

The heavy doors opened, and the mystery of where the slaves disappeared to was revealed. One of the greater halls of the baths was bursting at the seams with commotion, people gathered in it squished together like sardines, walking in one spot like ants. He saw their confusion – some of them seemed half asleep, others barely dressed, pulled away from responsibilities Laurent didn’t want to think much about. Like traffic wardens, guards walked in their midst, trying to keep the crowd controlled, with various results.

“Kallias?”

Hearing his name called, the slave whipped his head around, and his eyes opened wider the moment they met Laurent’s. Forsaking the grace he usually employed, he elbowed his way through, plodding through the mass laboriously, until he was inches away. Staring, as if determining whether Laurent was truly there.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, and it wasn’t much of an improvement from his usual greeting. “Why aren’t you at the physician’s chambers?”

“Got tired of waiting for him and went to look myself,” Laurent played at a stress joke, but it wasn’t received well. “The good doctor diagnosed me with being terribly on edge and prescribed a nice, hot rose bath, immediately.”

What Laurent expected, was a rise of a brow, maybe some non-verbal scolding. None came – Kallias was much too focused on their surroundings, scanning them relentlessly, with one of his hands hovering over Laurent’s shoulder, as if he intended to pull him away any second “Because just an edge of a blade was missing,” he threw a dry comment, and Laurent stopped.

“What?”

“Look around you."

With the amount of people surrounding them, more and more flooding the chambers by the second, it was hard to see anything, even though he had the advantage of height. With the loud ambient, he couldn’t understand the yelled commands of the guards, either; just that they tried their hardest to contain the room, dividing the slaves into categories. Helpfully enough, Damianos’s ones were easy to single out – all of them were blond, more or less.

Laurent froze, the implication of this hitting him full force, almost toppling him over. If not for Kallias’s strong hold, he might have fallen, and then been stomped over by the confused mass. Still, it might be a better fate than whatever was awaiting.

His breath turned short and eyes just as wild as Kallias’s when he whipped his head around, trying to spot Lykaios in the scarred group in the corner, all of them with chitons fixed in place by beautifully embellished lion pins. He couldn’t.

“Lykaios?”

“She’s not here,” Kallias reassured, and Laurent had to believe him. “And you shouldn’t be, either. You have to get out of here, before—”

A scream tore through the room, one that soon turned into a horrifying gurgling. By instinct, they turned around, and for the rest of their lives wished they didn’t. They didn’t have to see a poor girl, innocent like the white, silk chiton she had been wearing, choking on her blood, spurting from the hole left in her neck by a sharp point of a spear, painting everyone around her in clear, bright red. It was too fast for her to feel any pain, her body falling to the marbles like a sack of produce a moment later, an empty thud echoing in the suddenly dead-quiet chamber. Time stopped, and the only thing that flowed, was the blood still oozing and squirting from the wound, spilling over to the baths, staining the water soft pink, and then deep scarlet.

There would be no body to bury, crashed to pieces in a stampede, and chaos which ensued right after.

If there was time, Laurent would thank Kallias for the sharp slap he had landed against his cheek, pulling him out of the encompassing terror freezing him in one place. But there wasn’t; because of the coup, it wasn’t days away, or hours, or even minutes.

It was now, and there was no honor in the destruction, no chivalry in the hunger for power.

And yet, the thing that came to Laurent’s mind, wasn’t running away, following the petrified frenzy of the other slaves.

“Damianos,” he asked, almost screaming over the cries of the crowd, the sickening squelches and wet crunches of spears hitting them again, and again, and again. “Where?”

Kallias ducked, pushing Laurent out of the way, and through the doors. “Queen’s Quarters,” he yelled back, shielding him as well as he could. It was now, or never.

“The deserted ones? Why—”

“Go!”