Chapter Text
When he heard that they were crossing into Akielon waters, Laurent gritted his teeth against his seasickness and asked his friends to help him up onto the deck so that he could greet his home properly.
The weather had warmed considerably since they had left Vere, winter’s bite softening the further south they ventured, but it was still winter, still cold. The salty sea spray against Laurent’s face was bracing. Laurent’s breath shuddered, cold air burning each inhale. He told himself that was what it was. He told himself the cold was responsible for the way his eyes were stinging. He told himself he could not feel a thing.
Laurent did not know what he would do if he let his resolve break – if he made the mistake of allowing himself to feel. Dive overboard and swim back to Vere? Stupid and useless. For nearly a year, Laurent had wanted nothing half so much as he’d wanted, simply, to go home. Now, he was on his way. Now, he had finally left Vere behind.
It felt like defeat.
Once again, his brother, Laurent’s choices had been taken away from him, his feet forced down a path he never would have chosen to walk down, himself. While finding himself sold into a political marriage to the Prince of his people’s ancestral enemies had turned itself into an unexpected source of belonging and, sometimes, even joy, there was nothing to be salvaged from this, more recent, turn of events.
In Vere, Laurent was leaving behind an unstable political landscape that he himself had helped destabilize, arrogantly thinking he would have time to correct course once his point had been made. According to his contacts, an attempted coup had led to the disbanding of several noble houses and an undisclosed number of private executions. At least one unfailingly good man had been among those executed, caught up in the spiderweb of lies of his uncle’s making, and Laurent was also to blame, but Laurent might have been able to help – his testimony might have made a difference – yet once again his brother had taken measures to leave Laurent powerless before he could act. Auguste could not see past the end of his nose, no matter what Laurent did. He could not see Laurent as anything more than a child – couldn’t bring himself to hear a word spoken against their uncle – and he couldn’t summon the courage to question the world around him.
And now Laurent could no longer help him, and Sebastian was dead, and Auguste was alone, surrounded by enemies, and missing. Any triumph or joy that might have followed Laurent’s return to his home was now burnt to nothing but ash.
“Damn you, Auguste.”
Laurent’s voice caught on the whisper, his throat closing on words shared only with the wind. Laurent swallowed around the lump of emotions in his throat, and ruthlessly forced them all down. They were as useless as he was; they wouldn’t be able to accomplish anything, either.
Laurent had neither expected, nor intended to be heard – after all, he was so very used to being ignored - but Aimeric had been standing at his side, half-leaned over the railing to watch the water below, his hair whipping wildly in the wind. He glanced at Laurent when Laurent spoke.
Aimeric was still surly over the fact Laurent had left his Pet, Ancel, behind in Arles to serve as his spy. The two had rather openly been indulging in a bit of an affair, and Aimeric resented the sudden end to his fun. Even still, he had chosen to be here, out in the chilly wind at Laurent’s side. Even still, he chose to ask, “Did you say something?”
Laurent could no longer trust his voice, and so he shook his head and kept silent. Aimeric stared at him for a moment longer before he turned his attention once more to the water. Laurent didn’t know how he could look at it for so long without getting sick.
“In that case,” Aimeric said, “Can we go back below? It’s cold out here.”
Their ship hit a swell. Laurent kept his eyes on the distant shoreline and did his best to will a rising surge of nausea back down into submission.
“Not yet,” Laurent managed.
Aimeric made a big show out of rolling his eyes.
“You’re free to go whenever you like,” Laurent told him. “I happen to,” he had to pause, and tried to swallow down another rebellious wave of sick. Aimeric watched him coolly.
“You happen to…? Happen to what? Enjoy the sea air?”
Laurent lost the battle while Aimeric mocked him. After he vomited, he let his head hang over the side, waiting for lightheadedness to subside. Aimeric hummed as if in deep thought.
“You know, on second thought, I can stay out here all day,” Aimeric mused. “I can’t claim to enjoy it, particularly, but I can do it. Can you say the same? That shade of green you’re turning isn’t flattering on you at all.”
Laurent retched again.
“I happen to be quite comfortable,” Laurent lied as soon as he was able. His voice was thick and harsh.
“If you tumble overboard, don’t think I’ll jump in after you.”
Laurent turned, and he slid down until he was sitting, his back pressed to the railing. “That’s fine,” he said. He was sweating, too hot now, despite the cool breeze. “I’m sure Kallias will do it, instead.”
“I’m sure Kallias will not,” Kallias answered, from somewhere behind them. Laurent grimaced and he let his head fall back. He had little left inside himself to throw up, but his mouth still tasted sour and foul.
The last word he had received from Arles had stated that King Auguste had been so broken-hearted over the coup that he’d chosen to take a leave of absence from society, claiming official Royal Retreat from his duties and leaving his dear uncle Richard in charge during his absence.
A blond man of your brother’s build was seen boarding a carriage bound for the summer house in Varenne, Berenger had written. The note Vannes had sent along a few days later had collaborated the news. I have no way to prove whether it truly was him, but neither have I cause to insist it wasn’t. His Majesty, it seems, is no longer in Arles. That is the extent of what is known.
Laurent forced his head back up – forced his eyes back on the Akielon shoreline. For a moment, he managed to retreat to a more pleasant memory: a less distressing boat ride, the kindness in Damen’s voice as he patiently pointed out words in the Akielon language. Doggedly, Laurent’s mind forced him back to matters at hand.
A Veretian King could take an official Retreat from his throne for anywhere from a day to a period of three years before the law would determine that he had abandoned his throne. Had Auguste been killed, Laurent, as his heir, would become King – and since Laurent was underage, that meant his husband, Damianos of Akielos, would rule Vere in his stead until he came of age. A throne that had been abandoned, though, would default not to the heir, but to the man left to rule in Regency. To Uncle Richard.
Uncle Richard would not risk killing Auguste and being unable to produce him should the need arise. Laurent reminded himself of that fact frequently. Uncle Richard would not want to risk backing himself into a corner where he gave the throne to Laurent and to Akielos. Not when he merely needed to hold it in trust for the next three years, and keep Auguste somewhere safe and secret and far away. Uncle was careful. Uncle was patient.
Laurent had time.
--
Laurent ventured onto the ship’s deck one more time before they made landfall – the day the white cliffs of Ios came into view. It would be another day, yet, before they were able to dock, but Laurent emerged anyway, pale and drawn and weak. He released a pair of birds, each bearing word of their imminent safe arrival – one bound for his father-in-law in Ios, the other for Arles.
Laurent watched the flash of grey wings against the lifeless winter sun, and he did not let himself wonder where his brother was. He told himself that he felt nothing.
--
In the morning, they made port in the docks of Ios, lit by blood-colored sunrise. Shortly after they dropped anchor, a terrible winter storm blacked out the sky. Howling winds tore at sails the crew struggled with lashing down. Waves crashed into their ship with sudden, merciless violence. Icy rain pelted anyone above deck with cold, sharp pinpricks.
There was debate among the crew – whether they should set back out to sea, or simply retreat below decks to wait it out. Laurent would hear of neither plan.
“We will send for the luggage later,” Nikandros said. He knew a losing battle when he saw one.
Those lucky enough to possess oiled cloaks donned them. What few horses were willing to be coaxed from below were saddled and mounted. Someone thought to send a runner ahead to the palace.
Kallias predicted that Laurent would take off the moment he had a horse under him. He warned them all to be ready to follow. Lazar was the only one stupid enough to take the wager; he lost a significant amount of coin on it.
Laurent had his horse at a gallop the moment he was able, hooves ringing down the Akielon streets.
--
Damen was in the throne room with his father, Kastor, and several of the Kyroi when they heard the commotion. He was already moving before the slave arrived to explain the source of the excitement: the Prince of Vere had finally returned to them.
Exiting the throne room, Damen had a little bit of a view of the courtyard, down at the end of the corridor, and through the darkness of the storm and the fitful flicker of torches, he could see horses being led off by slaves in oiled cloaks – the first of the Prince’s party to arrive. Considering the weather, it wasn’t any wonder they hadn’t all waited together to arrive en-masse. As he reached the end of the corridor and turned, the view of the courtyard opened further to him, confirming that only a potion of the new arrivals had made the winding uphill journey from the docks. The wind howled through the open spaces between columns, sending icy rain pelting sideways at him as he hurried toward the megaron – the great hall where guests were received when the weather failed to encourage lingering outside.
Indeed, when Damen entered, he found a group already gathered around the large central hearth within, in the midst of removing their sodden cloaks. The rainwater that dripped from them made the tiles beneath their feet slick and shiny. Ever-prepared, palace slaves hovered nearby, ready with dry towels and warm refreshments.
“While I can’t say I am displeased to see you, you must be mad to let my husband out in weather like this.”
“You’re mad, if you think anyone lets your husband do anything.” The retort, dry and impertinent, came from one of the guards. Damen was surprised to realize that he recognized him as one of the ex-slaves who Laurent had taken on – dark and beautiful, and carrying himself with the confidence of any man who was well-aware of his lethal capabilities. Even knowing that young Kallias was a free man, it felt strange to see him dressed in a Veretian guardsman’s uniform and carrying a sword. Even as the young man beside him visibly struggled against the urge to drop to his knees in supplication, Kallias met Damen’s eye without hesitation, his stare as direct as if they were equals. “You try to stop him when he’s set his mind to something, Exalted. Tell me how it goes.”
Something – like taking a group of slaves meant for the honor of the palace harems, trained from childhood in the art of perfect service, and creating something like him? Against all propriety, Damen found himself grinning.
“I don’t think I have the strength,” Damen confessed with a surprised laugh.
“Tease me all you like – I don’t care. I wanted off that fucking ship.”
As Damen’s attention turned toward the new speaker, pale hands lifted to lower the hood of an oiled cloak.
Damen missed a step. In fact, with the floor slick as it was, he nearly tripped over his own damned feet.
“The next time someone suggests travel by sea, I want them flogged,” Laurent announced.
“Laurent,” Damen answered. It wasn’t censure in his tone. Laurent met his eyes, and Damen didn’t even notice that the boy was pale, or tired, or still a little green from his habitual seasickness. Damen didn’t notice anything else at all.
Laurent’s smile was wry, almost a grimace. For some reason, he dropped his gaze first.
“Hello, Damianos,” he told Damen’s feet.
Remembering himself with a jolt, and feeling both clumsy and foolish, Damen forced himself to begin to move toward him again. He gave the appropriate hand motion to the slaves, who dutifully moved forward to take cloaks, to offer towels and refreshment. Damen took possession of one of the towels, himself, and as soon as Laurent had removed his dripping cloak, he stepped closer so that he could place it around his little husband’s shivering shoulders, himself. Despite the protection of those cloaks, a winter storm in Akielos was a vicious and unpredictable thing; they were all a little cold and damp. Damen could feel how fiercely Laurent was trembling beneath his hands.
“I’ll order the baths prepared,” Damen said, rubbing Laurent’s arms to warm him. “Everything else can wait until you’ve had a hot meal and some dry clothes. Do you know if Nikandros is on his way?”
“Can I…?” Laurent’s eyes were still lowered as he stepped further into Damen’s space. Damen didn’t understand his aim, at first, until, hesitating, Laurent began to reach for him.
Damen hugged him first. He felt the first full-body shudder as Laurent returned his embrace – the great heave of breath, and then the melting of tension from the boy’s smaller body as he pressed his forehead to Damen’s chest.
“You’ve grown,” Damen murmured, his cheek against his damp hair. He felt warm and fond and just, simply, relieved to have Laurent back where he belonged. Laurent’s trembling was growing worse, even as Damen tightened his arms around him – even as he rubbed his back, hoping to help him warm.
Laurent said something that sounded like the word, “Sorry.”
For all his trembling, he never shed a tear.