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‘Are you sure you want to go?’ Damen asks as he picks up his sword and sheaths it.
‘Yes! Didn’t I already tell you that?’ Laurent snaps.
Damen flinches even though the anger isn’t aimed at him. The sharpness in Laurent’s voice doesn’t stop him from pressing, however. ‘Shouldn’t you rest? You’ve been working for the past two days without stopping to eat. When was the last time you slept well? If I recall, you slept poorly last night as well.’
‘And whose fault is that?’ Laurent’s head snaps up from where he’s just begun to fasten the laces of his riding leathers. His hands still in the action, his gaze hardens on Damen.
‘Right.’ There is little purpose in fighting with Laurent when he’s like this, so Damen concedes. ‘Alright,’ he sighs, walking over to his lover. When he takes over the laces from Laurent’s hands, the latter gives up easily. Under Damen’s hands, Laurent’s muscles ease just a little. ‘I’ll tell Pallas to ready the horses.’
*
If he’s to be a little honest with himself, Damen is relieved to be out of the court and in the open. It’s a welcome change to inhale fresh air rather than the dusty gust that hangs around stacks of parchments. He will always choose the outdoors over arguing with indolent diplomats. It’s truly a pity that they have to return to the palace by nightfall.
The hills beyond the palace of Ios are a vast green expanse, the rolling landscape filled with thickets that make for excellent hunting grounds. This close to the city, Damen has no hopes of a good hunt; they’d be lucky if they even caught a wild boar.
They move further into the thickets, with Damen leading one group of men and Laurent leading another a little further to his left. The high sun drives the game into hiding and slows his men, only Pallas’s insistent commands keeping them alert.
Hours later, deep in the thickets, there isn’t a sign of life.
Then — a rustle to their right, along the edge of high shrubs.
The soldiers are quick to draw their poisoned arrows and aim their spears. Damen draws his own sword, then stops as a sharp pain sears his left bicep, travelling up through his arm to his shoulder. Instinctively, he jerks his arm back, pulling the reins with it.
It’s a little too late when Damen realises what’s happening. His horse neighs loudly and, drawing its forelegs into the air, throws him to the ground. Damen’s bulk saves him from serious bruising.
The cruel sun strikes Damen’s face and forces his eyes shut. There’s commotion around him, the sound of hoofbeats, Pallas’s commands, and the thud of boots reverberating through the ground beneath him.
‘Damen,’ he hears Laurent’s pained voice from the south. Damen tries to train his sight, but the sun stings again. A trembling hand touches his face, and a shadow falls over his eyes. When Damen opens them, Laurent’s harried face comes into view. The contours of his expression are etched with pain as his gaze shifts to Damen’s arm. It’s only then that Damen sees the blood running down his arm, reddening the white of his chiton.
It’s nothing, Damen tries to say, but Laurent’s voice beats him to it.
‘Was the arrow poisoned?’ Laurent yells the question at the trembling soldiers gathered around them. His voice is raw, his face pale, naked fear flickering in his eyes.
‘No, Your Highness.’ It’s Pallas, forcing his way through the soldiers. ‘I found the arrow that grazed the Exalted’s arm. It’s without poison.’ Turning to Damen, he adds, ‘Your steed is wounded, Exalted. I’ve calmed him for now.’
‘Who did this?’ Laurent asks, his voice firm and promising menace. A new fear courses through the soldiers. Pallas opens his mouth to speak, but Damen stops him. ‘It was an accident — nothing but deplorable archery. Pallas, find the man and put him in the rings to train.’
Damen steadies Laurent’s hand on his face with his own. To Pallas, he orders, ‘Make arrangements to return to the palace.’
The clutter of the soldiers’ motion dissolves. Once it’s just the two of them, Laurent exhales audibly. When Damen moves to sit up, Laurent’s free hand presses against his chest, keeping him in place. Damen waits while Laurent bows his head as if in prayer, his hitching breaths slowly steadying. When he looks up again, his eyes are glassy and his face frayed, as though the exhaustion of the previous days has caught up with him.
‘Let’s just go home,’ Laurent whispers.
Damen’s heart skips a beat. The dull throb in his bicep fades at the sound of the word. Home.
*
It’s almost nightfall before they’re alone in their bedchamber again. With servants running in and out, carrying balms and herbs at Paschal’s command, it had been a nightmare for Damen. Laurent had sat by his side and ordered him to drink bitter — utterly bitter — juices.
It was a flesh wound, nothing worse than those he’d earned during childhood attempts to climb rocks.
Damen’s breath leaves him in a whoosh when the last servant departs.
‘This is becoming a habit,’ Damen chuckles, walking to Laurent, who is drawing the curtains closed.
‘Hush!’ says Laurent, turning. ‘This is not a matter for humour.’ His voice is weak and heavy at once.
Damen’s chest tightens at the concern in Laurent’s eyes. He lifts Laurent’s hand and kisses the knuckles reverently.
‘It’s going to leave a scar,’ Laurent says quietly, tracing his free hand over the gash that slits across Damen’s bicep. His gaze is far away, likely visiting ghosts of the past.
Damen doesn’t want the past to haunt them — not anymore, not when a beautiful future beckons.
Without pause, he pulls Laurent into his arms, the intimacy pressing their brows together.
‘You know,’ Damen says with levity, ‘they say scars increase one’s allure in bed.’ He nuzzles Laurent’s ear, the action leaching the stiffness from Laurent’s frame.
‘You don’t need scars to increase your allure in bed,’ says Laurent, a faint twitch curving his lips. The admission is rare, honest, and shy.
Damen laughs aloud. He draws Laurent closer and kisses him, cradling his head with one hand and holding his waist steady with the other.
Laurent yields, his arms coming up to encircle Damen’s neck.
A cool breeze slips through the gap in the curtains as the heat between them rises.
It’s Laurent who pulls away first, placing a placating hand on Damen’s chest. ‘You need to rest,’ he says. ‘This can wait.’
Damen wants to protest, but the certainty in Laurent’s eyes dissuades him. ‘Alright,’ he concedes. Then, with a grin: ‘But only if you rest with me. The matters of state can wait.’
Laurent bites his lip in contemplation, the conflict in his mind showing in the twist of his expression.
‘Alright,’ he whispers at last, shoulders sagging as his body folds into Damen’s arms.
*
The matters of state wait two days for their king’s attention.
_