Chapter Text
Laurent had seen it from the King’s tent, far from the front line of battle, far from where Auguste now stood in the field glittering in the sun. His brother was easy to spot. He was tall, his armor well polished that even the blood that decorated it didn’t reduce the shine. Laurent had his eye to a telescope, a gift from his uncle. He could see for miles without leaving the safety of the camp. He wanted to see his brother’s victory over the Akielons, all of them cut down before him.
Despite the long, hard war, this would be their victory, his uncle had said so. Laurent’s father had agreed, he had heard the two men boasting about Veretian might in the face of Akielos’s brutal and savage ways of war. Laurent watched, kneeling on plush cushions, at the battle.
“Councelor, will Auguste kill the older or younger prince?” He asked, scope still on Auguste.
Herode hummed. “The older one is on the field, the bastard. Damianos is still a boy, and destined for the crown. He’s close to his king. If luck was on our side, Damianos will be lured into battle and both will die.”
Herode was an advisor, with a tactical mind and the King’s trust. Laurent also knew Herode was playing to the fantasies of a child. At fourteen, Laurent knew enough about war that Auguste would likely not kill either. In the chaos of battle, it was hard to find a single person.
“Do you see him? He’s unstoppable, they don’t know they are facing,” Laurent said with a cheeky grin. He had a strong sense of pride, his brother was striking down Akielons one after another. He cut them down like they were the thick underbrush in the path to his destination.
“I see,” Herode said calmly, peeking through his own telescope. Then the man straightened, his gaze shifted further into the battle. “Look to the South. Damianos has been lured.”
Laurent could see as well. The unmistakable royal armor of an Akielon prince. The red horsehair of his helm brightened around the deeper red of the battlefield and his mount quickly moved through the masses of war, toward Auguste. Damianos must have been watching from his own perch, witnessing Auguste take his army one by one, and had to act. He must have Auguste in his sole focus, riding straight for him.
“The Akielon king sends his son to die,” Laurent said. It was a truth, he said it without any hesitation.
Herode hummed. He was silent as he watched. The older man was too aged for war, but understood the intricities of it better than most.
“If Auguste kills him. The war will turn in our favor,” The older man said.
Laurent watched as the distant horse came only a few paces from his brother. Damianos flew from the mount, sword drawn, and stopped Auguste from striking on a downed Akielon. Laurent could imagine the sharp sound of their swords striking clearly in his mind, as if he were there. Laurent held his breath in eager excitement. Auguste always won, even the Crown Prince of Akielos was no match. If Laurent remembered, Damianos was just nineteen, if that. Auguste had already finished growing into manhood at twenty one. At first, the two men simply stared at each other, the injured Akielon crawled towards comrades and Auguste held back the Veretian forces with a hand. Single combat, honorable for Princes.
Laurent watched as if it were the games, as if they were exciting sports. Damianos moved first, quick feet and an even quicker strike. Auguste could read the movements, his sword met Akielon steel and Diamianos stepped back. It was a breath before the Akielon rushed forward again with a new flurry of strikes. Auguste met each one, or stepped out of the way of the swing. He matched Damianos in speed and power, but exceeded in experience by a few crucial years.
Those who would witness this fight would retell the tale for many years, by campfire, to their children, and may one day be one of the songs telling the story. The two princes met their swords again and again, each turning and stepping around the other’s deadly strikes. A cheer caught in Laurent’s throat as he saw Auguste strike aside Damianos’ sword, his own quickly dug into the Akielon’s shoulder.
“It’s over. He’s dead,” Laurent said, almost disappointed at the quickness of it.
Laurent was wrong. The Akielon prince had grabbed the blade before it could sink deeper and had thrown himself back. Damianos was bloodied, it poured down his shoulder over dark armor, and his arm hung weakly, limply.
“His Highness wouldn’t strike an unarmed man,” Herode said and Laurent instantly believed it. Auguste held high morals for himself, he intended to be a good king.
Laurent watched from his vantage above the battle. Auguste kept the Veretian soldiers back, not allowing them to intervene. They had formed a circle around the princes, the Veretians holding the Akielon force back, pushing their forces further. Auguste waited as Damianos walked a few steps around the perimeter with his hand pressed to his wound. He couldn’t defeat Auguste one handed. Damianos swept down to retrieve his sword, a weapon meant for two hands.
“He’s still dead. He never had a chance against Auguste,” Laurent said.
Laurent watched, waiting for the Akielon heir to die with a smile on his face. Yet he watched Damianos hold his sword with surprising strength, despite the blood still dripping from his shoulder. The Akielon would die on his feet at least, a soldier’s death if it meant anything to his people.
Auguste stepped forward in the offensive now, swinging his sword towards Damianos with force. Damianos was backing up, sword raising to defend, parry, or step out of the way. Laurent could see the line of his brother’s shoulders dip and a shuffle of his feet, Auguste had stumbled. Exhausted from hours of fighting.
Damianos had seen the stumble as well. Laurent saw from the lens of the telescope as an Akielon blade sank into Auguste’s chest. Cold white terror gripped his chest, holding his breathing still. His eyes were playing tricks. It wasn’t real, but he saw Damianos step back with his blade in hand. He saw Auguste fall to the ground. The telescope fell from his hands.
Tears came fast. Laurent didn’t think it possible. His eyes were false. He looked at the battlefield, now just rolling waves of opposing armies in the distance. In the area Damianos and Auguste had made their match, it was a back and forth. Akielons and Veretians crashed against one another, each one rushing forward and then being pushed back. The Veretians would fight for the body. The Akielons would try to gain ground and protect their prince. From his distant view, Laurent saw the Veretians push further, faster, and then a group made a quick retreat. They had the body then.
Laurent sat down, turning his back to the war. Tears started to drip from his cheeks. He didn’t believe it. He shook the visions from his head. He didn’t see it, he didn’t.
“Your Highness,” Herode said in a low tone. He was a Councilor. Laurent knew that he was here to advise, but also to babysit, to keep the young prince under watch when Auguste, his uncle, and his father were busy with war. Laurent flinched off the old man’s hand as it landed on his shoulder.
“Don’t touch me!” Laurent hissed, jumping to his feet. He had pulled himself from the cushioned seats and threw the telescope to the ground. His uncle’s gift now left shattered in pieces.
It was a lie. It was all a lie. Laurent fled from the tent and marched through the camp. His father wasn’t on the battlefield, but he was at the edge of their camp facing the battle with Laurent’s uncle. Riders were coming fast from the front lines. They bore news. Laurent could still see the masses of the armies pushing against one another, and the cluster of Veretians retreating through it. Laurent ran faster. The dirt was stamped down by hundreds of marching feet in the summer heat, as sturdy under Laurent as a road.
“Your Highness!” One of the riders called out. They flew off their horse and onto the ground to bow. Laurent arrived, chest heaving from his sprint. He worked to catch his breath, straining to hear as the rider said. “Urgent news from the front.”
“Speak,” The king said. Laurent could hear the frown in his father’s voice.
Noticing Laurent, his uncle’s gaze turned to him. “Dear boy, you should be back at the tent.”
“Prince Auguste is dead, slain by Damianos of Akielos. The enemy prince has been wounded and captured,” the rider said.
Laurent shook his head. His uncle had already stepped forward, hand on his arm. His expression appeared soft as he tried to usher Laurent away. “Come, nephew.”
The rider waited, knelt before his king. Laurent watched his father give out his orders. “Damianos is to be kept under heavy guard. His wounds tended. He will be treated well as deserving of his station, as our prisoner. He’s the bargaining chip we need to win the war.”
The surrounding officers and advisors nodded at the decision. Laurent screamed in anguish. The Akielon should be executed. Laurent would happily swing the sword. His uncle held him, hand patting his back, which only made Laurent scream harder. It tore through his throat until it ached
His father’s shoulders slumped, curling forward. Weary hands reached up to lift his helmut. Laurent wanted to run to his father, share in his grief. The helmut was lowered, the white-yellow hair of his father glittered in the sun. Laurent shook off his uncle’s hands, nearly shoving away from the man. Laurent managed a single step towards his father.
It would be attributed to the wind, a chance gust to the North, that carried the Akielon arrow from the battlefield. Right into the King’s neck. Laurent saw it, the quickness it appeared straight through. His father stood still, his body stiff, and then collapsed.