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When they fought, the whole castle knew it.
They knew even if they didn't know; they knew in the tension that saturated every hall, the way that Nikandros and Jord actually spoke to each other for more than brief exchanges, with worried looks directed at closed doors.
Occasionally, they knew because they heard it.
There was a thump of something like a chair hitting the ground in the royal suites.
“I am not,” Laurent said, with barely constrained fury leashed in his voice, “saying this because it is some fancy I have taken to. This is the only way.”
“It’s not a way at all,” Damen snapped back. He was standing; Laurent’s chair was the one that had toppled over when he’d stood up in a snap. “Getting an heir through lying and subterfuge is not an option, let alone the only one.”
“We need,” Laurent said, “an heir. It is not coming from me, and while I’m sure you’d be more than happy to stick your dick in any Vaskian who walks by - “
“Laurent - “
“Vere is not going to accept a bastard as an heir. We are in a delicate enough political situation as it is. We need a legitimate heir, in one of our lines. We don’t have one. I do not see,” Laurent hissed, “what exactly you propose we do, if not this.”
“If not lie to a child ?” Damen countered. He saw Laurent flinch at that, but he knew the value in this; in laying out Laurent’s plans as they were, after he had tied himself in so many knots with his schemes that even he had lost track of the key threads. “And if their mother speaks? If somebody performs a close genealogy and finds that it is not possible?”
“A mother whose son is lined up to be the heir to two thrones will not say a word to jeopardize that, not for all the gold in both those kingdoms,” Laurent said. He was still breathing hard. “And with how frequently and indiscriminately Akelians sow your seed, it’s a mystery to me how you track inheritance in the first place. It will be impossible to disprove, and easy to appear as though it is proved.”
“Are you done harping on Akelian promiscuity, or do you want to imply that I have a disease, next?”
The air between them froze for a moment, and then cracked, Laurent dropping his head to break from Damen's gaze and choking out a mirthless laugh. “How do you - “ He stopped. Paused. Drew a shaky breath in, and out, his eyes far away.
“I do not know what to do,” he admitted finally. The tone of his voice had softened. Damen dared to come around the table. They didn't touch, but stood just apart, Laurent looking at the ground, Damen looking at the top of his blond head. “This, possibly the greatest issue facing our union, and I have no idea of how to solve it.”
“You will,” Damen said. “We will. The right way.”
Laurent drew in a long breath, and released it, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
He eventually said, sounding as though he was feeling his way around the words, “I’m sorry.”
“Well,” Damen said, feeling generous and also bruised, “it’s not as though you were entirely wrong.”
Laurent did laugh then, a weak thing, and allowed his forehead to rest on Damen’s shoulder. He stayed there, quiet, thinking; and Damen braced him, supported him, railed against him, like the tension of two ropes allowing a sail to fly.
“A surrogate,” Laurent said, flat. He was leaning in the council chair the same way he had that of a backwater inn. The rest of the room had emptied, Laurent and Damen held back by Herode.
Damen could read nothing in the tight-laced tone of Laurent’s voice, but he wondered if it was masking the same flare of hope which was lit in Damen.
“A surrogate,” Herode agreed. “Not such a common practice now, but there is precedent, among those who couldn’t - or wouldn’t - produce an heir through marriage.” There was the faintest twinkle of teasing behind Herode’s voice as he said it. Laurent’s face was completely expressionless, giving no acknowledgement. “There is one a couple generations back in my own family.”
“And I suppose,” Laurent said, “that the royal surrogate would also be coming from your own family.”
Herode bowed his head. “I have a niece,” he said. “Lady Marselle. Widowed young, a year ago now.” A year - Damen wondered which battle it was. Not Chalis, he hoped. “She is fertile, has already secured an heir for their line through her husband, and has no intention of remarrying.”
“You’ve already asked her,” Laurent concluded.
“Begging your majesty’s pardon, I did not want to offer for a girl who would later turn out to be unwilling.”
Laurent breathed in, and out, clearly thinking. Damen said, “You have brought us a great offer, Counselor Herode.”
“You have,” Laurent said, and the faintest hint of the hope that Damen was feeling showed itself in Laurent’s voice. “We will consider it.” It’s said as a dismissal, and Herode took it and bowed, closing the door behind him.
“Akelion has no matching practice,” Damen said. “At least, not one that I have ever heard of.”
“Yes, well, many of your nobles nearly match rodents for rates of reproduction, and only about half in a marriage bed, so that’s hardly surprising.” The slight is said in an absent sort of way, without any venom, and Damen let it pass. “It’s largely an antiquated practice, in Vere - and never in the royal family. There was an adoption, once, of an honest-born noble child - or honest-born as the historians tell it.” Laurent blew out a breath. “I did try to think of any noble children who had been orphaned in the conflict between our interlopers, but the transfer was surprisingly bloodless.”
Damen hummed; he hadn’t known that, but he’d known that Laurent had been smashing his intellect against this problem for weeks. It probably stung that somebody else had thought of this before him. “But this way, the child would be ours,” Damen pointed out.
“Yours,” Laurent said. “I told you, my line ends with me.”
“My seed, then, but our child,” Damen said. He got up, and, when Laurent continued reclining in his chair and watching him with lidded eyes, walked over to him. Like this, he towered over Laurent, who looked utterly unconcerned.
“It does neatly resolve the issue of an heir,” Laurent mused, “and Vere can hardly complain about bastards if we use their practices, their nobles for it. The surrogate being Veretian is a nice touch, as I doubt there will be any question of the sire when the child comes out with your skin and hair - “
Damen dropped to a knee, and Laurent abruptly stopped speaking. In his silence, the gentle tremor under his skin became clear.
“Laurent,” Damen said, low, sweet.
“Damen.” When Damen placed his hand over Laurent’s on the arm of the chair, Laurent interlaced their fingers.
“Have a child with me,” Damen said, and finally, the joy that has been bubbling up since Herode floated his suggestion blossomed. It filled his entire chest, brightened the entire room.
Laurent was looking into his face, and, finally, a shaky laugh left him. And then he was using their interlaced hands to pull Damen up, over him, until Damen was forced to put a knee between Laurent’s legs or topple them both. He suspects that’s exactly where Laurent wanted him. “Yes,” Laurent said, and the joy in his voice was so intense that Damen lost his breath. “Yes, alright.”
The first few weeks of Marselle’s pregnancy, Laurent was, at best, a little cool to her. Strictly speaking, they didn’t need to interact at all; tradition wasn’t too clear on the role of the surrogate, but general opinion put her in only slightly higher standing than a pet. Still, Damen tried to involve her where he could; inviting her to meals, involving her in discussions planning for the child’s upbringing, asking her preferences for things like nursemaids and nurseries. Topics on which Laurent was largely, surprisingly silent.
When Damen finally managed to catch him relaxed, in their rooms, alone, he broached the topic.
“You could be nicer to her,” he said, simply.
“You could be less nice to her,” Laurent countered. “Everybody’s expecting her to make a grab for power while she’s here, and you’re only encouraging the whole thing. If everyone is supposed to remember that she’s not a princess, you could at least stand not to treat her like one.” Through the entire tirade, Laurent was laying on the bench in their rooms, ostensibly reading a book. Although it was late in the evening, he hadn’t taken his hair out of a tight braid.
“Including her in discussions about her pregnancy isn’t going to give anybody ideas about her status,” Damen countered. He settled down at the end of the couch. Despite their disagreement, Laurent obligingly lifted his feet and resettled them on Damen’s lap.
“People have gotten more outlandish ideas from less,” Laurent said. He finally set the book down entirely, focussing his gaze on Damen.
Slowly, Damen stroked his ankle. “Nobody who matters is going to get any ideas, then,” Damen said.
“Hmmm.” Laurent hummed. And then, too quickly, “Not going to get any ideas, when she is a Veretian of noble blood, offering you something that I cannot?”
In the same moment, Laurent tried to pull his foot away, and Damen grasped his ankle harder, eyes narrowed. Laurent was staring back in the confrontational way he had when he’d shown too much of his hand, too soon.
“Offering us something,” Damen countered, low. “For our kingdom.”
“Both can be true,” Laurent said.
“No,” Damen said again. “They cannot. If we are having a child to cement our reign - to unify out kingdoms - she is offering me nothing that she is not offering you.” He drew in a breath, and then leaned up the couch, insinuating himself in between Laurent’s legs, covering him entirely. Beneath him, Laurent’s breathing ticked up. “She’s no more a threat than the craftsman that made the ring on your finger,” he said, soft, “or the architect that built the Summer Palace. Laurent. All she gives to me she gives to us.”
Laurent shut his eyes, as though there was something overwhelming about looking at Damen this close. Breathlessly, he laughed.
“I should get used,” he said, finally, “to you saying things like that. Perhaps someday I will.”
“I hope not,” Damen returned. “I can use every advantage I can get, matching words with you.”
“A formidable strategy,” Laurent breathed, “to mount an attack that I would not even wish to defend against - “ and then Damen had to kiss him, and they didn’t speak at all again, for some time.
Before they drifted off to sleep, Damen commented, once again. “Marselle is a kind woman, in an uncomfortable position. I am trying to make her feel welcome. I’d appreciate it if you would help me.”
Laurent, lax and spread on the sheets, smiled at Damen. “I will see what I can do.”
Publicly, Laurent’s demeanor towards Marselle didn’t change, and Damen was almost willing to bring the argument up again, until he walked into their rooms a week later.
There were pillows strewn out all around the couch, with Marselle, instead of Laurent, lounging in his usual spot on the couch. She was slowly combing out her hair, working in a bit of the hair oil that he’d seen Laurent use once or twice, while Laurent read aloud from a book.
“- around this time, 8 weeks in, their heart is beating three times the speed of yours?”
“Is that why the little one has so much energy?” Marselle asked, combing through a tangle. “You’d certainly believe it, with all the backflips they’re doing at all hours of the morning. And constantly wanting more food. Fruit, this time.”
Laurent looked up from the book in his lap. “This time?”
“With my son, it was all cured meats, always. Anything salty. Sometimes I’d just get a rock of salt, straight from the kitchens, lick at it like a cow. My husband almost certainly thought I was going strange in the head.” She looked up to check the expression on Laurent’s face. His nose was wrinkled at the thought, and she laughed at him.
“Is that - normal?” Laurent asked.
“More or less,” Marselle said. “Whatever that book tells you, I don’t think any two babies are ever quite the same.” She went back to her hair, looking away while Laurent’s gaze was still fixed on her. “The trick of making is to accept that it’ll never be made the same way twice.”
Instead of responding, Laurent looked up and raised and eyebrow at Damen, lingering in the entryway. “Come on, then,” he said. “Come hear about how our child is craving fruit.”
“I think we can accommodate that,” Damen said, amused, and went to sit with the beginnings of their little family.
“A prince would be ideal,” Laurent said. They’d snuck out to the gardens during a break in a council meeting; since they’d begged privacy and then climbed out a window, it would be a few minutes yet before any guard even dared come in and thus notice that they were gone. “They’re almost certainly going to encounter strife, when we pass on our rules; and both of our countries have been under kings for generations. Familiarity might pave the way. Besides which, he could take a Vaskian or Patran bride, cement that alliance without seeming to favor either half of the nation...”
Damen hummed vaguely, ducking under a willow tree. He didn’t miss that Laurent was leading them along a path that had no direct lines of sight back to the castle. He didn’t agree with everything Laurent was saying, but he could recognize when Laurent was thinking out loud, spinning out every possibility - probably dozens more for every one that made it out of his mouth. “I doubt,” he said, “that they will do what we expect. Nor do we have much say in how they come out.”
“No,” Laurent said, mouth twisting, “I don’t suppose we do. And we are only doing this once, so we will just have to make do.”
“Only once?” Damen asked. He tried hard to sound merely curious, and not, on some level, disappointed; from the look that Laurent gave him, he didn’t think he entirely succeeded.
The breath that Laurent drew in to answer suddenly froze, and he ducked back behind a tree that they were about to emerge from. On pure instinct, Damen followed him, sinking further back into the trees to conceal his larger form as well as could be within the trees.
In a clearing just a few feet away was Marselle, laying in the sunshine with a belly that was rapidly growing, and tossing a ball back and forth with her toddling son.
They looked idyllic together there, too sweet to disturb. The boy bounced a ball off of his mother’s stomach, and said in lisping Veretian, “What’s her name going to be?”
“I don’t know,” Marselle said. “Whatever the kings want, I suppose. I’m sure they’ll choose something lovely. And it could be a boy, you know.”
The boy frowned as he ran after the ball, picking it up, and pitching it against at his mother. This time, she caught it. “No,” the boy said, almost considering. “I want a little sister.”
Marselle laughed. “I’ll be sure they take that into consideration before coming out.” She tossed the ball back, and the boy fumbled it and it rolled off into the bushes.
Damen didn’t realize that the boy was going to spot them until he was already into the trees, looking up at Laurent with wide eyes. He’d been introduced, of course, but Damen wasn’t entirely certain that the boy was going to remember who Laurent was.
At the last moment, though, Laurent abruptly squatted down to eye level, put a finger to his lips, and slowly, slowly shook his head.
“Ames?” Marselle called from the field. “Did you lose it?”
Laurent picked up the ball, and passed it back to Ames. The boy grinned, in exactly the way of a child with a secret, and snatched it.
“No, mama,” he called, “it’s right here,” and rushed out of the bushes again clutching his ball.
Once they’d made their escape and began winding their way back to the palace, Damen said, “Do you have a name? That you were thinking of?”
“Something new,” Laurent said instantly. “Not too closely aligned with either nation. Artesian, if we can.” He took a few more steps, and then added, “I like ‘Artemis.’”
“Constantly plotting,” Damen said, amused, and then drew in his breath and his courage and seized Laurent’s arm. Laurent stopped at once, eyes darting around, but Damen just said, “I had an idea, for a girl’s name.”
Eyes went between the hand on his wrist, the grove that they’d stopped in, the tension on Damen’s face. “Yes?” He said.
Damen took a second to brace himself. This could go very poorly, could even spark a fight, but he’d been thinking of it for weeks. It was something he wanted, something he wanted to give to Laurent; and so at some point or another he had to actually work up the courage to offer it.
“If it is not too painful,” Damen said, soft. “I think it would be an honor to name her Augustine.”
For a second, the look on Laurent’s face was stricken. His eyes went wide, and then far off; Damen released the grasp on his wrist, so that he didn’t feel like he had to stay.
An apology hovered on his tongue, but he held it back until Laurent said something. He braced himself for it to be caustic.
Finally, Laurent leaned forward, and pressed his forehead to Damen’s shoulder. Still silent.
“Laurent,” Damen said, but brought an arm around him at the implicit invitation. “If it’s too much - “
“No,” Laurent said, and the tight control in his voice was its own kind of admission. “No - Augustine.” He said the name with reverence. For a single, vivid moment, he remembered the way that Laurent had said his vows.
“Yes,” Laurent said finally. “If it is a girl - Augustine.”
When they entered the room, they entered together.
After the rush of the birth, the room was strangely still, now. All of the extra staff had been dismissed, leaving the room full of sunlight and an exhausted mother and nursemaid, and two kings.
Two fathers.
“A girl,” the nurse said, “A beautiful girl.”
At Damen’s side, Laurent let out a long breath. For a second, he swore he could hear Laurent’s head ticking through possibilities - what a first girl heir meant for the kingdom, how Vere would react to the first female heir in generations, what would she mean - and he said, softly, “Our daughter,” and equally felt Laurent’s mind stop short.
“Our… daughter,” he echoed, and as one they stepped forward.
The bed had been covered with fresh blankets, the unpleasantness of birth mostly cleaned away, although it lingered in the sweat on Marselle’s brow, the soft tremble to her fingers as she touched a tiny face, barely peeking out of sheets. Hair, too fine to be any color but translucent gold, framed her face. Eyes that were closed and relaxed, in her first sleep.
It was Laurent who reached out first.
His hand hovered, just over her cheek. Slowly, with a reverence that Damen had seen Laurent refuse to give even holy ground, he allowed his fingertips to brush her skin.
Her breath fluttered, a sleepy noise that settled back into rest within a moment. Laurent’s breath fluttered in sympathy, and his hand began to shake so badly that he pulled it away. He seemed beyond words.
“Can I hold her?” Damen asked, looking up at the face of Marselle, who smiled at him. Without answer - words felt entirely inadequate, to all of them he suspected - she held her out, a bundle of sheets and sleeping child.
He took her, and found he didn’t know how to hold her - she weighed more and less than he’d expected, solid in a way that was reassuring and yet so small, frighteningly small and fragile. He cupped her head, held her back, stared at her and struggled to breathe.
Next to him, Laurent breathed out a laugh. “You look like you’re afraid you’re going to break her,” He said. “Give her here.” He took her, gently, from Damen’s arms, settling her in his own more naturally, softly, cradled to his chest. Any doubt that Laurent would struggle to see her as his own dissolved forever from Damen - from them both - at that moment, as she settled into her father's arms.
“Welcome,” Laurent whispered. He traced a single hand along her perfect face. “Augustine.”
Damen stepped forward, and placed his hands on either side of Laurent’s waist. In a few hours, there would be announcements, crowning, declarations of the new princess and endless politicking needed from them both to balance the emergence of the first joint heir in hundreds of years. There was the whole future of two kingdoms in this room, and yet he leaned forward and shut out the rest of the world. Damen breathed out and existed, just for this moment, with his husband and his daughter.
Just like this, with his future within his reach.