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The events of the of the Kingsmeet passed in a blur, and yet somehow every moment of the encounter was now jaggedly imprinted into Laurent’s mind. He would likely be able to play each excruciating detail through in his head until the moment he took his last breath, though that wouldn’t be a particularly astonishing accomplishment, considering that moment would be very soon.
It was a far more impressive feat that he kept his head straight as he was roughly escorted outside, denying himself of the impulse to turn his head to say goodbye or apologize or any number of dramatic and impossible things. He had already committed Damen to memory the best that he could. Truth be told, seeing him groveling and confined was not a sight that he wanted to carry into his trial, though the image that his mind was able to conjure up regardless was still sharp in his mind.
A small fraction of the Regent’s men awaited him outside. His uncle had not come in full regalia simply because he did not need to; he was only picking up what had already been guaranteed to him. He brought only a few men closest to him, men who would know what a victory it was to see the Prince put up on trial. Their eyes became wolfish as they spotted Laurent, likely looking just as disheveled as he felt, a ruffled Akielon chiton hanging on his frame. He endured the ravenous looks of the guard in the same queasy way that he endured the smug satisfaction of his uncle, hidden carefully beneath faux concern for a wayward nephew. As they approached the wagons, the guardsmen that held Laurent’s hands at his back were silently excused by their Regent so that he could give his nephew one final heartfelt lecture before executing him.
“It breaks my heart that things have come to this, Laurent,” his uncle said, placing a ringed hand on Laurent’s bare shoulder. He weathered the touch with only a slight inclination to vomit, which he considered a small success.
“It is quite unfortunate. We should let it be a small comfort to us, that this is so,” he weighed his words in his mouth before he said cynically, “mutually unideal.”
He felt his uncle slow at the snide remark. If his own death were less certain, perhaps he would have watched his tongue, but as it was, it seemed rather futile. Besides, it should be a pleasure for his uncle to hear that Laurent was unhappy, that he had torn his heart in half and handed the pieces over. It is what he wanted, after all. Laurent felt cold fingers dig further into his shoulder as his uncle stepped closer to inspect him with disapproval. He seemed about to respond when his eyes caught at Laurent’s arm.
“What’s this?” his asked, reaching out to caress the band of gold on Laurent’s wrist, Akielon made and shining in the sunlight. The repressed twist of his lip suggested that he knew exactly what it was.
Sentiment. Laurent yanked his hand back.
His uncle shook his head as if words failed him, performative disgust plastered across his face. “You plead for his life and wear his restraints with pride? I can’t begin to imagine what your brother would think if he could see you like this.”
Laurent bit down the bile that burned at his throat. “Yes, it’s unfortunate that he is not here to enlighten us on the matter.”
“Because of the man you take to your bed.”
Laurent said nothing. He had no intention of incriminating himself beyond necessity; he had agreed to a trial, but he would not allow his uncle to pull every mote of satisfaction from him that he desired. Anyway, he had heard this all before from his own head, in the silken sheets of the chambers of Ravenel, watching as Damen slept naked beside him, feeling echos of hands and lips against his skin.
“Do you not even deny it?”
Laurent was silent.
His uncle sighed, a dejected and disappointed sound.
“This was the right decision, Laurent. Vere will be better for this. Whatever potential Auguste instilled in you has long been snuffed out. It’s best that we rid Vere of treachery wherever it may lie, even when it’s our own kin,” his uncle said with exaggerated sadness. Laurent bit his tongue. “Have you truly nothing to say in defense of yourself? Do you feel no guilt at all?”
Laurent had half a mind to laugh at the question, just for a moment. He was more than acquainted with guilt. It had wracked him for months, tormented him in the brief moments that he was left alone with his thoughts. Though, it was a different kind of shame than what his uncle wanted to goad him into; it was a guilt of love, born first from loving Auguste and then from loving his killer.
But, by now, the shame had slowly faded into a strange but manageable truth: Damianos killed his brother and Laurent loved him all the same. He had already lived within the guilt that his uncle threw at him now, and beyond all of it, he still chose to fall to his knees and beg for Damen’s life.
There was no logical explanation for it. It didn’t make sense, but maybe it didn’t have to.
There was nothing to say.
“You’re right, uncle. Treachery within the royal family is the most dangerous kind. It is vital that we have the truth laid out on trial. That is why I came here; transparency is a mark of sound leadership.” Laurent clenched his jaw, steeling himself against the growing ache in his chest. He cooly met the steady gaze of his uncle. “Auguste did always tell me that I would make a good king.”
The smug glint of the regent’s eye quickly extinguished.
“How winsome of him,” he said, cold and hard. Then, to his guard, “Chain him up.”
Disposing of niceties, the soldiers grasped the skin of his forearms, pulling them back and encircling his wrists in heavy chains of iron, audibly clashing against the gold on his left wrist. He maintained the stubborn set of his chin, even as he endured the awareness his uncle watching as his greatest pleasure came true before his eyes; the Prince of Vere, captured and bound. Kingship handed to him on a silver platter.
The ride into Ios was a quiet one from then on. He was shoved into the back of a wagon, alone, listening only to the sound of wheels grinding against dirt. Laurent’s thoughts lingered, as they often did, on Damen, likely in similar chains at the Kingsmeet, thinking of him in turn. He had known for some time that he was on a slow march to execution, and yet the reality still weighed heavy on him all the same.
You are not alone, Damen had whispered in an inn in Mellos. The assurance had meant something to him then and still did even now, as a dead man chained and on his knees. It was enough to know that the words had been sincere, even if naive. Damen hadn’t been able to prevent Laurent’s seat on death row, but he wanted to, and he tried. He had broken sacred laws of his country over something that could not be changed, for Laurent. That was enough, even though the guilt nagged at him for thinking such. Perhaps being loved by Damen was a selfish comfort, but he couldn’t deny that it was one -- he had already tried.
He would be a good king. Laurent didn’t need to witness his reign firsthand to know that. The sting of never being able to witness it was another matter entirely, but that was a burden that he bit down and swallowed in the private confines of his heart.
It felt nonsensical to cry over a choice that he had made in full consciousness. Crying at all was not something he often allowed himself; it was not something that he could frequently afford, and very rarely did he find it productive. He had long since perfected the ability to bite the urge back, but he felt the effort of repression now, burning at his throat in a way that it hadn’t since much earlier in his youth. It was new, in a way, just how difficult it was to restrain. Damen’s entrance into his life had brought that quality along with him -- the ability to open up parts of himself that he had long-since secured shut, to pull things out of Laurent that he didn’t recognize in himself. He supposed this, the cold dread filling his chest, was only one of the many. And one of the last.
The thought hit with force, a drastic realization of all that he had lost, all that he had willingly given up. His kingship and all of its freedom; a king and all of his love. Chained in the back of a wagon that rode towards his execution, he deserved this indulgence. He deserved to feel anew what it was like to allow himself to grieve.
Silently, he resigned himself to the stinging behind his eyes, savoring the simple freedom of the wet warmth that slipped down his face. With his hands chained behind him, he could not wipe them away, and so they slid slowly past his jaw, splattering onto the floor of the wagon, darkening the wood.
The guilt that ate at him now was so different than that which had accompanied him for months. It was not the ugly, complicated shame of loving someone that he shouldn’t love. Now, it was the simple pain of breaking the heart of a good man who could do nothing about it. A man that believed his heart would be treated with tenderness. He useless hoped that Damen understood, that Laurent could not sit by and watch his uncle batter with someone he cared for, but still felt an inexplicable need to apologize, though there was no one around to hear it, and no one to forgive him.
The tears slid down his face more rapidly now, and he let them. He had had quite enough of denying himself. He had already denied the recluse that Damen offered to him. He thought of Damen’s proposal to travel to his mother’s palace, to allow themselves time to simply be together, and the sweet yearning that came at the idea. In his youth, he rarely let his mind wander toward what it would be like to have a lover at all, nonetheless having the liberty to escape together like moony-eyed fools.
He wanted it, though. More desperately than he ever anticipated wanting such a thing. Damen wanted to be with him, as a man and nothing more. Laurent felt it as well. The same aching tenderness which made his heart yearn for the opportunity was the same feeling that pushed him to sacrifice himself on his knees. It was ironic and bittersweet, but he would do it again. That, he supposed, chained and in tears, was ironic as well.
I'd like that, he had told Damen at the offer, because it was all that he could truthfully guarantee.
He would have.