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The edict came at dawn:
Patras was freeing her slaves.
Laurent dismissed the unfortunate servant who’d been tasked to be their messenger, turned around in their bed, and kissed Damen soundly on the mouth. He knew it wasn't his people who had been freed, but he felt triumphant anyway, the victory of it lighting up his very core.
Damen was smiling too much for the kiss to deepen, but his arms encircled Laurent, filling him with the morning’s warmth. “I told you to stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Telling the household to enter when we’re—” Damen shook his head and laughed, cheeks dimpling, and he dipped his head to kiss Laurent again.
“Could’ve been worse for him. We weren’t even fucking,” Laurent said into the kiss.
“Weren’t clothed, either.”
“Baby steps, sweetheart.” Laurent wound his arms around Damen’s neck. “Shouldn’t you already be changing the fact that we aren’t fucking?”
Damen threw his head back and laughed.
Later, Laurent said with some satisfaction, “It was always going to happen.”
“What?”
They were still lying abed, legs tangling beneath the bedcovers, watching the sun steadily rise. Damen had one hand buried in Laurent’s hair. Laurent gazed at the sunlight glinting off Damen’s cuffed arm.
“Patras,” Laurent said. “After Akielos abolished slavery Patras was the only slave culture on the continent. The slave trade died. And of all the countries, Akielon and Patran culture have bled through each another the most in the past.”
“The alliance with Patras helped too,” Damen said.
A few years ago, Prince Torveld had come to settle a new treaty with them, after hearing of the Vere-Akielos alliance. Where Laurent had once tried to convince Torveld to take Akielon slaves as a gift, this time Damen tried to convince Torveld to free them— and to abolish Patran slavery as well.
Torveld had brought Erasmus with him on that trip; the younger man had been wide-eyed and almost terrified to know that Akielon slavery was in the process of abolishment at the time. Seeing that reaction, Torveld himself hadn’t been entirely convinced, but Laurent knew the idea had taken root.
Now, it was likely Torveld would come for another trade summit, and he would ask for ways to ease the transition for Patran slaves as well.
“It helped,” Laurent agreed. “Either way, abolishing slavery now was the most reasonable choice for Torgeir.”
“More than reasonable,” Damen murmured to himself. “It’s just— right.”
Laurent smiled, and stretched. “That, too.”
The news that Patras had freed her slaves had spread quickly through the kingdom, but it meant different things to different people. That, Laurent thought privately, was a testament to how far they still had to go.
The councilors, courtiers, and noblemen, for the most part, were congratulatory but otherwise dispassionate. The citizens, particularly the Akielons, were appropriately pleased by the news.
The citizens who were once slaves themselves were exultant.
Their servant Callista, who had once come from the slave gardens, looked near tears as she prepared a bath for them. The stablehand Leon, who had been freed on the day of abolishment, was especially cheerful when he saddled Laurent’s horse.
Damen himself was continuously beaming.
“So you’ve heard,” he said to Isander, who was practically skipping as he laid out a meal for them.
Isander flushed. “Yes, Your Highness,” Isander said, eyes shining. “I’m glad. There’s even to be a celebration tonight, in our village,” he added, then bit his lip and looked down, as though he had said too much.
“Really?” Damen said with some interest. Because he worked in the palace, Isander lived in the village nearest to it, built shortly after slavery in Akielos was abolished. It was where most of the former slaves who still worked at the palace lived.
When Isander gave a shy nod, Damen smiled ruefully. “I wish I could be there.”
Isander’s eyes widened. His gaze dropped, for a moment, to Damen’s golden cuff. Without a doubt he was remembering his King’s history with slavery, and how hard Damen had fought for the abolishment of it, and how Akielos had come to be a free country at all.
Then, his face red with a mixture of embarrassment and gratitude, he bowed low. “I— you would be most welcome, Exalted One,” he said quickly, then scurried away.
Laurent snorted. “You scared him off.”
“I wasn’t meaning to.”
Damen was staring after Isander’s retreating back. “If you’d really like to go, but you’re afraid you’ll shock them too much to enjoy themselves,” Laurent teased, “you could always go as Lamen.”
“Some of them would still recognize me,” Damen said.
Laurent waved that off. “Only some,” he said. “There’s nothing stopping a King from visiting his people.”
“Well, of course.” Damen had the sort of thoughtful expression that softened all the lines in his face, making him look peacefully sweet. “Would you like to go with me?”
It was very lucky that there were no events planned for this evening, and now Laurent could attend to his work and face the council knowing he had something more to look forward to before the end of the day.
“It’s a date,” he said.
That night, Damen forwent his red cloak for a simple chiton, and Laurent chose a simple shirt and blue cap, the least Veretian clothing he had. Nikandros and Vannes, both reliable second-in-commands, were left in charge. (Nikandros kept pestering Damen to tell him where they were going; Vannes knew better.) They left their signet rings and lion pins in their drawers.
“Your Highnesses,” Isander whispered, sounding almost distraught when he saw them. He bowed. “W-welcome—”
“Please, you needn’t treat us with exclusivity,” Damen said, holding up a hand. “Treat us like any other villager. This night is for your village, after all.”
And to prove it, he took one of the baskets of fruit Isander was carrying and began walking to a nearby table. Isander let out a squeak and scurried after him.
Laurent raised an eyebrow as he followed, not quite able to supress a smile.
The night was quite young, but Isander’s village was already deep in celebration. Some, mostly older people, were seated at makeshift tables, feasting happily, while children ran amok and laughed; young men and women danced in the center of the town, and at the front, a rabble of musicians played a fast, joyous tune.
It was a pleasant surprise that no one recognized them. At first. Many of these people worked at the palace kitchens, and had not seen them in person before. And, Laurent supposed, they weren’t quite as recognizable at night when his pale hair was tucked carefully beneath his cap and Damen wasn’t wearing the deep red color of Akielon royalty.
Poor Isander was floundering. “Exalted— let me at least get you a, a table—”
Laurent shooed off Isander, busying himself with pouring juice into wooden cups (there was no wine, either, of course; that was lovely, although the juice was quite concentrated) and handing them out for people to drink.
When one of the villagers accepted a cup from him, then looked into his face and promptly turned white, Laurent took two of the cups for himself and left to find Damen.
Damen was trying (failing) to be inconspicuous, sitting alone on a nearby log in the hopes that he wouldn’t disturb the joy of the crowd. Laurent passed him a cup.
“I think someone’s recognized me,” he said. “One of the palace servants.”
“I was wondering when Isander would give it away,” Damen replied. He was still smiling. He was going to draw the attention of the entire village to himself with that smile. “Looks like you’re about to beat him to it.”
Damen had chosen a good spot; they were in the shadow of the trees, less noticeable. They sat together, at once silent and comfortable, watching a group of children play a game of tag. A stray dog sidled up next to Damen and tried to drink from his cup; Laurent passed him a scrap of meat instead, and the dog licked his hand.
“Hello,” he said to it, scratching behind its ears.
A small boy— he couldn’t be older than five— came running up to him, gasping. “You shouldn’t do that!”
A corner of Laurent’s lips pulled up. “No? Why not?”
“Mama says if you feed a stray dog, it’ll come back for more and more and more, an’ so you shouldn’t do it if you’re not gonna keep feeding it.”
Damen laughed. “The kid’s right, you know.”
“Oh, but I’m certain there’s enough to go around for tonight,” Laurent said reasonably.
The boy considered that. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said. The dog came nosing at his hand. “You can have the leftovers,” he said to it.
“You see, he’s nice.”
“Ales!” A much older girl pulled the boy away. In a low whisper: “What did Mama tell you about talking to strangers?” Then, glancing at Laurent and Damen, she said, “Sorry,” and hurried away.
Laurent was growing steadily aware of the people watching them. In the distance, he noticed an older woman berating Isander, who was flailing his hands in a harried explanation.
A young woman was the first to approach them again, nearly tripping over her own feet. Laurent stood; the woman knelt.
“We— we thank you for gracing our village with, with your presence, Your Highnesses,” the woman said. “It’s an honor!”
Laurent almost laughed: They were kings, not gods. He bid her to rise, but soon the rest of the villagers were paying obeisance.
Damen had stood too, looking sheepish; they hadn’t meant to disturb the village by turning this night’s focus on themselves. But then, they were kings.
Still, Damen turned to his people, bid the girl to rise, and said, “The honor is mine.”
Eventually, Laurent and Damen convinced the villagers to return to their celebrations, but they still seemed too flustered to do so with them still watching. Laurent was still debating whether he could figure out a way to fix that or whether they should return to the palace, when Damen held out a hand to him.
“Do you dance?” Damen asked.
Laurent raised his eyebrows at him. “Do I dance?” he repeated flatly, before clasping Damen’s hand.
Damen’s laughter rang out as he pulled Laurent into the center of the square. “Play us a fast one!” he called.
The lady holding the kithara seemed anxious, but immediately started playing a fervent, rhythmic folk ballad that was nothing like the music Laurent grew up hearing in Arles, or even Marlas.
Damen spun him. Laurent was mildly affronted that he’d immediately taken the lead, so on the next verse he dipped Damen in a Veretian step— Damen was grinning. The villagers had begun to clap, a steady beat in tune with the song.
Strictly speaking, Laurent was a fair dancer, but he was not well-instructed in the art of Akielon dances. But this was a folk dance, which was at once less formal and more passionate, and Laurent matched Damen’s steps mostly without trodding on his feet. Damen’s infallible grin told him that Damen was distinctly enjoying his struggle.
“Shut up,” Laurent said, when Damen randomly twined their arms together and spun them, feet thumping fast and loud against the pavement.
“I didn’t say anything!” Damen said, and laughed again.
The end of the song was almost drowned out by applause and cheers. As the last note sounded, Laurent realized that several of the villagers had come to join them, and that everyone looked much more relaxed around them than before. Damen certainly looked pleased with himself.
Laurent steadfastly denied being out of breath. “You’re quite good,” he said.
Damen, impossibly, looked even more pleased. “Really?”
Laurent rolled his eyes. They began walking to the side of the square again; once more the villagers parted around them, but they were smiling too, nowhere near as terrified as before.
“You were good too,” Damen teased once they were out of earshot, arms sliding around Laurent’s waist. “For a man learning an Akielon dance for the first time.”
“I thought I told you to shut up,” Laurent said, and this time he silenced Damen’s laughter with a kiss.
Afterwards, Damen struck up conversations with his people, breezing past their flustered states to ask them about their lives in the village. Laurent preferred to sit and observe.
There was a man sitting alone at one of the tables. Laurent took the seat next to him. “Hello,” he greeted.
The man had his eyes on the kithara player, who had started up another song, this one much slower. Still, his gaze seemed far-off, as though he was looking at something entirely different. He jumped when he saw Laurent, mouth opening slightly; then he stood and bowed low.
Laurent waved him off, prompting him to look up. He faintly recognized the man as one of the cooks in the palace kitchens; he thought the man’s name was Kallias, but he’d rather not be wrong. “What’s your name?”
“Kallias, Your Highness.”
“Kallias.” Laurent smiled. “You don’t seem very celebratory.”
Kallias sat down again, somewhat warily. “No, Your Highness, I—” He flushed. “I’m happy for Patras.”
Laurent tilted his head. Kallias looked somber despite the words. “But?”
“I have a— friend. From Patras.”
“A former slave?”
Kallias looked startled at the mention of former. “Yes, Your Highness.”
That was… interesting. As a former slave himself, Kallias must have spent his entire life in Akielos; there was no way he’d even come across a Patran slave, much less make friends with them, unless—
Oh. Oh, Laurent thought.
He looked at Kallias with renewed interest. “Shouldn’t you be happy for them, then?”
“I am,” Kallias said, but Laurent had never seen a person look unhappier in his life.
No, not unhappy— dissatisfied.
Kallias kept glancing off into the streets; Laurent followed his gaze and assumed he was looking at his own house, a small, plain-looking cottage at the end of the street.
Laurent thought he could tell what he was thinking. Safety, or love; his comfort zone, or a true home. Laurent knew what it felt, to weigh those choices in his hands; and also what it felt, to realize he could have both. A kingdom, and this.
“You’re a free man, Kallias,” Laurent said.
Surprised, Kallias swung around and looked him in the eye. “I… I know, Your Highness.”
Laurent shrugged. He looked up into the night sky, cloudless and bright with endless stars. He took a deep breath, relishing in the simplicity of the moment. “Sometimes it doesn’t hurt to be reminded.”
He could feel Kallias’ full, curious gaze on him, unhesitant now that Laurent wasn’t watching him back. Then, slowly, Kallias picked himself up off his chair.
“If you will excuse me, Your Highness,” he said.
“Of course.”
“No, I—” Kallias sounded dazed. “Your Highness, I… won’t be serving at the palace anymore.”
“No?”
“I’m sorry,” Kallias said, bowing his head again. “I will head for Patras at… at the soonest. I’m… I apologize, Your Highness.”
Laurent could tell that Kallias’ own decision made him anxious. There was freedom, and then there was making use of your freedom, choosing. He smiled, slow and pleased. “Why, Kallias, I only wish you the best of luck.”
When quiet had settled over the village again, the villagers beginning to clean up and put the little ones to bed, Damen and Laurent bid their farewells. On the way back to the castle, Damen tangled their fingers together. He looked determined. Having listened to the plights of nearly everyone in the village, Laurent was certain there would be some changes. He reminded himself to tell Damen to give Kallias extra monetary support before he left.
They reached the castle. Damen swung their joined hands. Pressed a kiss to Laurent's temple. “Think we went overboard tonight?”
“Oh," Laurent said, "I think today deserved to be celebrated plenty."