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Chapter Text

If the fate of single men in possession of large fortunes is a universal constant, then it must be equally certain that a young prince, in possession of a small kingdom, must be in want of an heir.  This was of course very much the case for Prince Roman of Rima, but as a young man of only twenty two, he was understandably reluctant to pledge himself to a complete stranger. But however understandable it may be, the fact remained that the kingdom of Rima was blighted by a policy of isolation the previous ruler had put in place.

"Rima can, should, and therefore shall stand on its own merits alone," the queen had said, hands fixed tight to the arms of her throne.  And so the kingdom had remained distant from even its closest neighbours, and now the economy was bearing the brunt of it.

The people were starving, Roman knew.  An allegiance could be their only hope of staving off the famine looming ever closer each winter.  He saw, as their faces grew thinner and their purses grew tighter, that time was drawing short. 

"There is nothing left to do," says the round faced Minister of Agriculture, wringing her hands beneath the table. "Rima is not well suited to farming."

"The mines are full," roars the Minister for Commerce.  He is an arrogant man, and brash too, but Roman's mother had trusted him – he doubts his judgement is much of a par with hers yet.  "Rima has no need of outside assistance."

Across the table, Lord Confictura smiles.  The diplomat hides it well, dipping his scaled jaw behind a handkerchief as if to muffle a cough, but Roman knows his tricks of old.

"Your royal highness," a servant says cautiously from behind Roman's chair, positioned around the round table like any others but nevertheless with unmistakable authority.  He accepts the missive they hand to him with a gracious nod, and they retreat from the room as debate continues.

"The people cannot survive on rocks alone," calmly states the Keeper of the King's Seal.  This man Roman had appointed himself, and he can trust Lord Thomas Sanders to hold his own while he himself attends to whatever matter was so urgent that it could not wait until the end of the Kings Session.

Thomas continues, and Roman reads the letter.

The seal breaks from the envelope, and settles upon his fate.  He accepts his sentence as if it were a victory, though every bone in his body is begging him in a single voice not to make this one great betrayal.

"Good news, gentlemen," Roman begins, not caring who he may interrupt.  Whatever dispute was being rehashed will be under a very different light by the time he finishes speaking.  "It seems I may have found an alliance that will solve our problem."

The council turns to him, and Roman stands illuminated in a single shaft of sunlight when he places the letter upon the table with firm and careful hands.

The Keeper of the Seal has the shared right and responsibility of being the first to read it.  He does so quickly, brow furrowing with every line, and speaks as he passes it on. "A marriage alliance with Draconia would solve recent economic issues, but… who do you suggest we match with their Lady Hecate?"

"Is it not yet obvious?" Roman says glibly.  "Myself."

A larger room would have descended into chaos, and Roman would have had no hope of salvaging the agenda.  It's a testament to the surprise created by his idea that the same thing nearly happens regardless, the tiny chamber filling and fizzing with questions as if the cork had been blown from  a bottle of champagne.

Roman knocks sharply on the table – no response.  The tumult continues. He sighs, and hoists himself up to stand on top of it, wobbling slightly but soon regaining his balance.

The room silences immediately at that, looking up at him as he bluntly states, "The people are starving.  We cannot in good conscience allow this to continue, not when such a simple solution is within our reach. As for myself, I owe you all my service; a ruler is no greater than the poorest of his citizens, and this in no way reflects well upon my honour.  Do me the honour of allowing me to repay the debt my mother brought upon this kingdom. Besides," and here he smirks, playing into his reputation as the cocky young prince. "I need an heir."

That final statement gains some laughter, and when Roman jumps down from the table he feels confident that given time he can persuade the rest of them it's a good idea.  He isn't so certain he can persuade himself the same.

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"Its a bad idea."

He doesn't bother to ask how the other man knows, instead walking straight past the carved stone bench this ambush had been plotted from.  He leaves the door to swing open behind him – others will soon follow, and besides – he can't quite find it in himself to care.

He stalks down the hall, past gaps where rich tapestries had once hung, past empty alcoves and sealed doorways.  The castle has changed so much over the past decade, with barely a trace of its past opulence.

"Sire, you'll be miserable," Virgil says, eyes wide and pleading.  As usual, he pays the briefest lip service to formalities before arguing with his lord and monarch like any common kitchen boy.  Usually Roman likes that, the sense of friendship and freedom in equal measure. Today? It just reminds him of what he stands to lose.

He speeds up, wanting to get back to his chambers.  Virgil has to run to keep up with him at this angry pace, and a vindictive part of Roman is glad.  "Don't you think I don't know that?"

Virgil rolls his dark eyes.  They're coming up to the East Wing, now, and he hastens ahead to hold the door, talking all the while.  "I think you're well aware. What I think, is that you don't care what this is going to do to you."

"And if I don't care," says Roman, walking past him, "then why do you think it matters you bringing it up to me?"

"Because quite frankly, sire, you're an idiot," Virgil says pleasantly.  "I've known cabbages with a better sense of self preservation than you, my lord feckless, and knowing that, I can't rightly let you do this to yourself."

"You don't let me do anything," Roman snaps back, slamming open the door to his chambers.  "I'm the crown prince of Rima; I hardly need the advice of a servant."

 Virgil raises an eyebrow in silent judgement.  He's stopped walking, content to let Roman stew in the doorway. 

He hastily reconsiders. "Of course, I appreciate the efforts you go to! But in the situation they are, alas, unnecessary.  That's not to say-"

"I'm going to let you keep digging this hole because it amuses me to watch you flounder, but would suggest that you refrain from talking that way to your no doubt lovely fiancé." Virgil pulls a disgusted face.  He glances around to check they're alone and, satisfied, places a gentle hand on the prince's arm. "Roman.  Please."

He sighs, the use of his given name taking half the fight out of him. "If you have an alternative, then by all means…" he shrugs uselessly, letting the sentence trail off.

"I propose," starts Virgil, and then immediately winces at his own word choice.  He forges on despite himself. "I propose that you ask them reconsider the terms of their alliance."

"Oh?" Roman had meant to be cutting and blithe, but the word falls flat even as he says it.

"That woman is in no way your equal," Virgil says firmly.

There's a pause, and then.

"A compliment?" Roman teases, as Virgil flushes pink.  They're still stood close in the doorway, though Virgil has let his hand drop, and Roman can see every line in the other man's brow, the way his eyelashes darken towards the tip and the way he glances ever so slightly downwards towards Roman's lips as he speaks. "And here I was thinking myself an idiot."

"Th-that isn't," Virgil starts, and then stops.  He sighs, every inch the put upon friend of a fool, and his breath is warm against Roman's shoulder.  "Socially speaking, the crown prince, even of a kingdom like Rima, is of far higher status than the king's second cousin.  It's almost insulting."

"Beggars can't be choosers," he points out tiredly.   He echoes Virgil's glance around the hallway, then leans forward, keeping his voice low.  "Truth be told, I struggle to believe the kingdom will survive much longer without this alliance."

Virgil's eyes widen, and he steps back in shock.  Roman smiles sadly, and ducks into his rooms. "I knew you'd understand."

Unbeknownst to either of them, a caped figure at the end of the hallway darts away, plans already swirling behind reptilian eyes.  "Interesting…"

Chapter Text

As mornings went, Remus was by no means an expert, but he was fairly certain that waking up with a knife to your throat was usually not a good time.  He looks down, registers cold, sharp, and distractingly shiny, before letting his gaze travel back upwards to meet the desperate gaze of the would-be assassin.

"Is this a gift, or are you planning something fun?" He asks.  The assassin flushes pink, and he feels the blade begin to sink in.  It dimly registers that those might be the last words he ever speaks.  Certainly memorable, but not the end he was hoping for.

That distractible part of him wonders what will happen to the remains of his father's kingdom, with himself also… well, remains.  He has neither an heir to the throne nor a successor to his seat on the council. It seems a lot else will be mouldering along with his corpse. 

The thought of decomposing in the dark and damp somewhere spurs Remus into action.  He kicks out, kneeing the attacker in the groin. He recoils gagging, clearly not expecting the monarch to fight dirty, and that's all the reprieve Remus needs to grab the candlestick next to his bed.

He brings it down on the other man's head with a sickening crunch, and watches in satisfaction as he collapses.

"Well," he murmurs to himself. "That's certainly one way to start the day."

Remus pushes the man off of him – still breathing, fortunately, although that does bring up the question of what to do with him.  Considering the question, he slides out of bed like an eel off of buttered sheet metal.

He's relieved to notice that no significant change has been made to his room, implying that stealth was of the essence for this midnight murderer.

He yawns, lazily, and crunches his neck.  Any attempts to wipe the blood from the wound seem pointless as more beads up with every movement, so he gives it up as a lost cause.  Still bleary eyed, he moves towards the doorway, muttering to himself as he searches for the handle in the dark, the familiar room made strange in shadow, the recent trespass as if all secrets had been flayed bare with this room all the remainder of their once proud corpses.

His desperate fingers finally find their salvation, and the cool air of the corridor is a balm to his troubled mind.  He stumbles into the corridor, and breathes in the familiar scent of damp.

The logical thing to do would be to find one of the place guards to arrest the intruder (and take him somewhere far, far away from Remus or any other potential victim).   The sensible thing to do, then, would be to go to look for a guard.

Remus, of course, improves upon both the logical and the sensible routes by taking the most expedient route, maximising efficiency and minimising effort.

That is to say, he starts to scream.  Let the guards come find him.

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Roman wakes up to see Virgil standing in the doorway with a loaded breakfast tray, clearly doing his best to move past the previous day's argument.  He looks as tired as ever, yet it's hardly early if the 

sunlight stealing around the curtains is to be believed.

"Ah, Virgil." He yawns, still bleary eyed, and gestures for him to come in. "Just put that down there, would you?"

Virgil does as he's told, a little aggressively, and Roman would fear for the porcelain's life if he didn't know that Vigil would rather lose his head than damage the china.  He was particular like that.

"Changed your mind yet, your highness?" He asks, forcing casualness.

"Nope!" Roman responds with equally fake cheeriness, beginning a standoff that neither is willing to break.

Virgil rolls his eyes but makes no further comment.  Having set the tray down on the bedside table, he moves to yank open the curtains, and Roman turns his attention to his breakfast.

"I ran into the ambassador in the hallway," he mentions offhandedly.

Roman drops his fork.  Even with his back turned, the cause of Virgil's snickering is obvious.

"You act as if he plots your doom."

"That's because he does," Roman states, calmly and fairly without the slightest hint of hysteria, thank you very much .  "I, for one, don't trust him."

"You thought I was a trained assassin," Virgil points out.  He surveys the room with his hands on his hips, then drops down on the foot of Roman's bed with the sort of grin that makes it plain he knows exactly how close he just came to flattening the feet of his lord and monarch. " I , for one, don't trust your judgement ."

"I suppose I deserve that," he admits begrudgingly, "but in my defense I was eleven years old at the time."

"Old enough to know better, in my opinion," Virgil teases.  "Think of my lasting trauma from your feeble attempts at incarceration."

Roman winces.  "Can we save the mockery for later?  I'm barely awake as it is."

"And whose fault is that?" As he asks the question, his smirk already giving it away as a blatant trap before even the faintest attempt is made at answering it, Virgil mockingly reaches up to smooth Roman's blankets, tucking him in still further as he struggles to sit upright.

"Yours, for being such a nightmare to deal with and keeping me up," he quips back.  He flails around mock wildly, careful only to hit Virgil and avoid the breakfast tray, and is rewarded by the sight of his friend's shoulders curling over in helpless laughter, hands wrapping around his stomach as if attempting to trap it.

Meanwhile, Roman resumes eating his now disordered breakfast, as if he were entirely alone in the bed, and enjoys the rare sight.

"It was strange, though," Virgil says, once he's calmed down.  "He looked nervous."

"Who did?" Roman prompts.

"Lord Confictura," Virgil says as if it had been obvious, and Roman supposes in hindsight it was.  "He was hanging around outside your rooms this morning, and I just assumed he was waiting for a private audience, but then he pulled me into that empty alcove by the portrait of Saint Jeanne, and-" he breaks off to fish around in the brown leather pocket attached to his waist. "He gave me this."

He withdraws whatever it may be, and presses it into Roman's hand, slightly crumpled.

"He said it was urgent," Virgil says anxiously.  He bites his lip. "I'm sorry, did I- should I not have accepted it? I-"

"You did just fine, Virgil," Roman interrupts, predicting where the spiral is going and hastening to cut it off before it can reach its murky destination.  Unconsciously, he retreats into the far safer territory of formality. "It concerns me that his lordship chose to contact me in such a way, but the fault can hardly be placed with you."

He nods, still a little hesitant, and Roman considers another tactic.

"At least allow me to read the missive before you begin your apologies," he says.  He unfolds the parchment, one thumb absentmindedly smoothing it over as he reads, and while he doesn't read it aloud Virgil can tell from his face the contents are surprising. 

"Well, what is it?" He blurts impatiently, tacking on an embarrassed "sir" as his sentence tails off.  His left hand twitches as if one hungry moment from snatching the letter, but he restrains himself, of course. 

"A moment," Roman gestures, a tad imperiously, and the servant falls silent.  He finishes, and then reads it again, just to be certain. 

"And you're certain this was from his lordship himself?"

As always, Virgil hides his own confusion under sarcasm.  "And how would you suggest I ascertain the truth? A handwriting test, then and there in the corridor?"

He inclines his head, conceding the point.  Still, the letter concerns him more than the contents would suggest it should.

"Does this seem strange to you?" He thrusts it forward.  Nonplussed, Virgil takes it between a finger and thumb and quickly scans it.  "Ignore the content, that's irrelevant. Look at the handwriting, at the language – he's passionate about this, and I don't understand why."

The other man shakes his head. "I can't see anything out of the ordinary."

Roman stares at him.  Outside, a bird begins to sing, but neither notice, entirely locked in their conversation. ""Can't see anything out of the"- good gods, man, he's using metaphors!  He barely speaks in meetings, and here his eloquence is almost lyrical!"

He throws his hands up in the air in confusion, but Virgil merely shrugs.  "He's always seemed perfectly vocal to me."

"And when have you been talking to the diplomat?" Roman demands.  Virgil shrugs again, completely unbothered by the venom in his voice.

"Around.  I think he's lonely," Virgil muses, and Roman gapes.  It's quite unattractive; he looks rather like a stuffed and mounted haddock. "He often needs someone to share his plans with."

There's an awkward silence.

"Still, a lot of that seems related to the bigger picture," Virgil adds. "I've never known him care enough about anything happening in the castle before to intervene."

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"Remus!" 

There's the wet slap of desperate feet against the flagstones, and then suddenly there's a rough scaled face buried in his shoulder.  If he hadn't been leaning against the damp stone wall, Remus would have been bowled over by his friend's sudden arrival.

"Careful." Remus tries to pull away but the grip stays firm.  He gives up after a half hearted struggle, but it's no real hardship to remain in the embrace.

"Really, it's not my blood you want smeared around your face like that."

He wriggles his eyebrows, though the action is hidden in the dark. 

Ignoring this, the other man pulls away, his initial fearful relief giving way to concern.  "You're bleeding? No, of course you aren't, that's clearly why you said you were –" his voice had been increasing in pitch, but here he stops, shakes his head briskly, and pulls himself together.

"I can't see anything here, move into the light."

Remus obligingly shuffles forward into a different patch of shadow, this one as dark as the lonesome wilderness rather than the pitch terror of a portal into the abyss.

"It's no good, I still can't see a thing."  He sighs, which is rather disconcerting in the darkness, a ghost brushing between the pair. "What happened?"

"Well…" Fumbling forward, he finds his hand and grasps it tight, pressing it near to his heart as if to reassure its still beating.  For a moment he just stands there, proving to himself he's still alive through the warmth of this hand in his. "I'll show you."

Moment over, he tugs him towards his chambers, more careful of his route than he was when leaving.  Once inside, it's a quick matter to find the matches stashed in the bookcase and even quicker to find the candle by his bed.

Remus lets the body speak for itself.  Although silent, it's quite eloquent.

"What the-"

His friend pales when he catches sight of it. It's odd to see the other man so distressed; he's usually the sarcastic voice of reason in any given situation, despite (or maybe because of) a lifetime of conflict. Such obvious fear in his eyes is just as frightening as the assassination attempt. 

"I had the pleasure this morning of waking up with a knife to my throat," Remus says, pointing to the cut.  He ignores the look of concern; this isn't the time. "Something stopped him, but I doubt it was orders, not if it was who I think it was."

"The Draconians?" Always so quick on the uptake.

"The Draconians," he confirms.  The rebels haven't the resources, and the Lord Protector seems to think a false document of divine right is all the claim he needs for the throne.  That only leaves the Draconians – but they shouldn't have been able to come so far pass the borders.

"An act of war?" He's moving towards the prone assassin as he speaks, carefully picking the body over for evidence.

"Not that we have proof."

There's a frustrated silence, and Remus joins him in searching for some token or insignia to show the assassin was sent by the Draconians.  Even if they do find it, it probably won't help – they may just claim it a theft or a forgery – but on the off chance they've been careless…

Well.

The body groans, twitching ever so slightly.

"Oh, he's still alive, by the way," Remus adds unnecessarily.

"And you didn't think to mention this before?!"