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The bandages are soaked in red again. Damianos’s skin is grey under the sheen of sweat. His lips are pale, and his forehead is furrowed. Even in sleep, he is in pain.
Paschal changes the bandages in silence, and rubs a green salve into the wound. His expression is grave.
It’s been two days since Laurent has last slept, and longer since he has bathed. His garments are stained brown with dried blood and his skin is sticky with sweat and grime of war.
“Your Highness,” Paschal calls, “his fever has not receded. I have done all in my power to cure the rot but I don't know if he will make it through the night—”
“No.” Laurent’s word is a command. “He will live.”
Paschal is silent for a moment. Then, gently, “As you say, my prince.” He reaches into his wooden chest and procures a small jar of dried, crushed herbs. “You must rest. A pinch of this in your drink should help you—”
“I will not sleep until he wakes.”
“But Your Highness—”
“Thank you, Paschal,” Laurent says with a tone that brooks no argument. “You may leave now.”
With a sigh, the physician bows and takes his leave. Laurent sits in a chair by the bed, barely able to feel his feet anymore. He reaches for Damianos’s burning hand, and holds it between his own cold ones. The night is free from the daytime clamour of the palace. Even the breeze is asleep tonight, leaving Laurent alone with a flurry of thoughts darker than the night, and a lifetime of regret.
He brings Damianos’s hand to his lips. Please , he begs the silence, the moon, nobody, give him back to me. He prays to the gods, old and new, northern and southron, gods he doesn’t hold. Don’t take him from me.
But gods are as cruel as men.
Damianos draws his last breath just as the sky begins to pale. Paschal’s voice trembles as he announces the death of the Akielon king. On Nikandros’s demand, an Akielon physician confirms the word. Nikandros falls to his knees at the young king’s bedside then, and weeps. Ios weeps with him.
Laurent stands by the window facing the white shore and watches it all. He does not respond when Paschal urges him to sleep. He does not take offense when Nikandros shouts angry remarks at him. He only stands there and watches the fading light of the westering sun, as lords and ladies come and go, and says not a word.
Nikandros returns at evenfall with men to remove Damianos’s body from the bedchamber, and prepare him for the burial. It is only then that Laurent speaks.
“You may take him on the morrow,” Laurent says, voice hoarse but steady. He looks up at Nikandros’s red-rimmed eyes. “Let him stay with me tonight.”
Sorrow has smothered Nikandros’s rage enough that he does not quarrel. And for that, Laurent is grateful. He waits until the bedchamber is empty, and calls for a servant to bring him a flagon of wine. He orders the guards to keep everyone at the palace from disturbing him until daybreak.
Then, he pours himself a chalice of summerwine and removes the dagger from his swordbelt. At the bottom of the silver hilt, he flips a small golden buckle. The hilt pops open with a click. As Laurent overturns it, a vial of indigo glass, barely larger than a thumbnail, drops into his palm. With a steady hand, he sprinkles the dust coloured powder of the vial into his chalice and swirls the wine.
The summerwine is sweet, with undertones of peach and apricot. Laurent wonders if this is the taste of Akielon summers, if this sweetness is what Damen had in mind when he promised to take Laurent to his Summer Palace. He drains the cup as quickly as he can, allowing its warmth to spread in his veins.
Then, he lies down on the ivory silk covering of the bed beside his lover, his friend, the only man privy to his past and present, thoughts and desires. The man who will never again utter his name, will never again calm his heart with a single smile, will never see the fruit of their victory.
Laurent presses a cheek to Damianos’s shoulder and slides a hand into his. Damianos’s body is cold, colder than the nights Laurent has spent planning his revenge, colder even than the winter after the Battle at Marlas. Damianos’s fingers are stiff against his, motionless like the rest of him. There is no longer a frown between his dark brows, no pain tearing its way into his nightmares. With the moon as the only source of light, Damianos’s face looks peaceful and as beautiful as ever.
The first drop of tear falls from the corner of Laurent’s eye onto Damianos’s shoulder. “Forgive me, my love,” he mutters, smiling. “It appears that all I can do in this life is lose.” He presses a soft kiss against Damianos’s cold lips and nuzzles close to his neck.
He means to await the pain, but exhaustion takes him first. When the pain comes, it comes in a single wave, rattling Laurent awake. It starts from his abdomen, and slithers up his chest, throat, ears and scalp, burning everything until no thought remains in his head except, “ It hurts. ” His ears screech. His lungs are ablaze. He feels a warmth flowing up his throat, filling his mouth with liquid iron, spilling thick and red from his lips. His grip around Damianos’s hand tightens as his own body begins to shake, gasping futilely for air.
Pain and pain and pain transforms into darkness at last. It is darkness itself that wraps around Laurent, and he welcomes it whole. It’s blacker than any black he has ever seen, and Laurent drowns in it, deeper and deeper until black thins, forgets its shape, loses its name. And then—
“ Sweetheart? ”
Laurent jerks awake gasping like a man nearly drowned. His living heart hammers in his ribs, shaking his whole body with every beat. It’s dark, as black as he remembers, but the pain is gone and the cold shoulder under his head is replaced by the rough pad of a warm thumb, featherlight against his cheek. The darkness begins to take the shape of shadows until he can see again. A high ceiling here, a snuffed candle there, a swimming silk curtain. Tears well up in Laurent’s eyes at the sight of his husband’s face hovering above his own.
“It’s all right,” Damianos whispers gently. “It was only a dream.”
Laurent pulls away at once, pushing himself up only to grasp his lover’s arms. His wild eyes fly over the span of Damianos’s broad shoulders, down to his chest and stomach, and yanks the sheet away from his hips. Laurent’s hand finds the scar before his eyes do. It’s at Damianos’s right side, right above his hipbone; a wound long healed, leaving its memory in a rough patch of skin. Laurent presses his palm over the scar and lets his body slump forward into his husband’s chest.
He is all right. He is here. The gods heard my prayers.
Damianos’s arms engulf him in warmth. He smells like home, like safety, like promises fulfilled, and Laurent breathes him in. His eyes are damp again. Four summers have come and gone since Laurent kneeled at Kingsmeet, since Damianos bled beside his brother’s corpse, since they won the war. The fifth summer has arrived and yet, not all wounds have healed as well as the one on Damianos's side. Nights like this do not let Laurent forget.
If Damianos feels the tears, he knows better than to mention them. He only holds Laurent’s bare figure flush against his own, and sways them both gently.
Laurent’s hand caresses Damianos’s side. “I love you,” he mutters into the crook of Damianos’s neck, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. He feels calmer now; uttering those three words alone soothes him without fail. Five summers ago, he couldn’t imagine it would be so easy to love so freely. It reminds Laurent that for every open wound, many have healed. It reminds Laurent that despite nights like this, he isn’t broken. Neither of them are.
Damianos pulls back enough to hold his face and kiss him — his lips, his nose, his eyes, his tears, everything. “I love you,” Damianos whispers next to Laurent’s mouth and kisses him again. “I love you more than I knew was possible.”
Later, they lie in each other’s arms and from under heavy lids, watch the first rays of sunlight brighten the clear sky. Damianos’s chest pillows Laurent’s head, his calm heartbeat a lullaby. Laurent’s fingers absently trace shapes on the other man's abdomen.
“Take me to the Summer Palace, after the harvest festival,” he says.
Damianos gives him a surprised look. “I would like nothing more, but how come you’re the one asking? I oft must drag you away from your duties.” He raises a teasing brow as his fingers card through Laurent’s hair. “What has come over you?”
Laurent shrugs easily. “I have changed.”
And he has. They both have, for better. Damianos presses a kiss to the top of his head and doesn’t question him. Laurent watches dawn spread beyond their chambers' windows. There's still time. He closes his eyes and lets the heartbeat under his ear lull him to a dreamless sleep.