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He had been dreaming of his uncle.
He realized that, later. As he sat in the freezing cold infirmary, his own blood on the table, he realized that must have been what happened—why he had done what he had done. Not that it was an excuse, but it was a reason.
It happened the night before his twenty-third name day. There had been name days he had dreaded like he had never feared anything before in his life. His fourteenth. His fifteenth. After that it was a countdown to twenty-one. Each had been a personal victory—he was one year closer to the throne, one year further from his uncle’s grasp.
Laurent enjoyed his name days now—the last two he had spent as a king, the next (it was hoped) he would spend as an emperor. There were massive celebrations throughout the kingdoms: parades and feasts and fireworks, all in celebration of their beautiful gold star. And at night, after a long day of smiling and a tireless performance of overwhelming gratitude, Damen would take him back to their rooms, and remind him of exactly what he was most grateful for as the years went on.
“Don’t stay there too long, you’ll fall asleep,” Damen said, smiling. Laurent was reclining with a book on the couch in their quarters. Other than their bed, it was his favorite spot in their new palace at Marlas. It faced the grandest, warmest fireplace he had ever seen, with a view to the side out the doors to the balcony, where he could see rolling hills and enjoy the soft south-facing light.
“Is it not time for bed?” Laurent let a slight groan creep into his voice. “Surely there cannot be another delegation to greet?”
“You know you may go to bed whenever you wish.” Damen was steadily removing the gold embellishments he wore around his arms and thighs, unpinning the red cloak from his shoulders, lifting the laurel crown from his head.
It would be wrong to say Laurent did not enjoy Damen in his finery. It was intoxicating to see him at his full power, to witness him step so completely into the role for which he had been born. But it was far more dizzying watching it all come off. Watching him ease from Damianos Exalted to Damen so fluidly. Laurent knew Damen at his gentlest, all gold removed except for his cuff, chiton throw aside, and head of curls rumpled; he knew that only then could you truly see the king in all his resplendent glory.
“Attend me,” Laurent said, lazily holding his wrist towards Damen, who hummed happily.
“Getting decrepit in your old age? Can’t manage your own dressing?”
“Careful where you swing that blade, old man, or you shall hit yourself.”
Damen laughed. “Never, Akielon men age like wine.”
“And what do Veretian men age like?” Laurent asked as Damen loosened the laces at his wrist with practiced eased.
“Like soft cheese.” Damen barked another laugh as Laurent swatted at him but grabbed his wrists before any real damage could be done. “No, no. I just remembered,” he said, eyes gleaming.
“And what’s that?”
Damen drew Laurent’s hands to his mouth, kissing the knuckles on his right hand softly. “That, luckily, you are not Veretian. And I am not Akielon.”
“Is that so?”
“Indeed,” he moved to kiss the left hand, “thankfully, we are both Artesian. And how we age is yet to be determined.”
Damen watched as a warm glow crept into Laurent’s cheeks. “Ridiculous…” he muttered under his breath, smiling as he pulled his hands away and began to untie the laces at his throat.
Later, as he lay curled against Damen’s chest under the blankets, Laurent asked the question without thinking.
“Do you think I shall age poorly?”
Damen looked down at him, startled. “What?”
“I have no examples from which to draw reference. The oldest man of my family I have ever known was my un—”
“Why are you asking?”
Laurent looked up at him. “Am I not allowed to be curious? I thought that was one of my more endearing qualities.”
Damen considered him for a moment. “Does it worry you? Growing old.”
“It was never something I honestly considered a possibility until quite recently,” he sighed. “Twenty-one felt like such an impossibility. I rarely allowed myself to think about what might come after.”
“And now?”
Laurent looked up at Damen and found his eyes filled with concern. “I find—” his words tightened in his throat, “I find I am quite delighted at the idea of the future.” Damen beamed. “Don’t look so smug. You are not the only reason.”
“Ah, but I am a reason.”
Before Laurent could respond, he found his mouth was quite otherwise occupied, and before he could remember to snipe back, Damen’s hands had already begun a successful distraction technique.
In the infirmary, Laurent felt burning hot water trickle down his back as Paschal meticulously cleaned his wounds. He remembered the warmth of Damen’s hands on his thighs, his stomach, his cock, his neck. He remembered crying out at the end, muffled in Damen’s shoulder as they came down together. Feeling full and dizzy with happiness and exhaustion, the bed warm and soft beneath him, Damen’s arms around him, safe.
He remembers being in the bed, and it was too warm. And the arms around him were unwelcome, squeezing, pinning him down. There was hot, heavy breath in his ear, the tickle of facial hair against his neck. He remembers his stomach rising to his throat as he shot up in bed, unseeing in the pitch-black room, but reaching down, grasping for the throat to stop that breath, squeezing when his hands met flesh.
The next thing he knew he was thrown from the bed with such force that he hit a looking glass leaning against a nearby wall and shattered it. He remembered screaming—his own—and shouting from a much deeper voice, familiar, calling his name. The sound of it yanked him back to reality. This was his room, his blood on the ground. Damen was feet from him, bent at the waist, gasping, coughing.
The door to their chambers burst open and four guards rushed in, weapons drawn.
Laurent was too stunned to speak. All he could see was Damen, clutching his throat, bringing in air like he was choking on it, holding himself upright by clutching the bed post. He had done that. Those red marks around Damen’s throat were from his hands.
“Exalted!” cried a guard, running towards Damen.
“Your Majesty!” cried another, going to the floor next to where Laurent sat in a pool of shattered glass. The other guards were yelling to one another about checking the perimeter, locking down the palace, waking the Kyros. It blurred into white noise with the sound of his own blood pulsing in his head. “Your Majesty, you are bleeding. Please allow me to take you to the physician.” Suddenly, Laurent could feel the stabbing pain in his back, the sticky, hot, oozing of trickles of his own blood trailing down it.
“Yes,” he murmured, eyes never leaving Damen. The guard lifted him delicately, careful to avoid the worst of his back, and Laurent felt himself float through the palace, jostling only slightly in the soldier’s arms. Maybe, he thought, he hoped, he was still dreaming.
“Apologies, Your Majesty,” Paschal murmured as Laurent flinched. He had dug out another particularly jagged piece of mirror from Laurent’s back.
“You do not have to apologize every time, Paschal.”
“That seems to be the last of it. But I am sorry it was so painful, sire.”
“Do not be sorry, this was not your doing,” Laurent snapped. Paschal said nothing but drew a rag of hot water and cleansing fluid, delicately washing the wounds.
Laurent gathered himself, controlling his breathing with momentous effort, gripping the edge of the table he sat upon with white knuckles. “Where is Damianos?” he whispered. The king had not followed Laurent into Paschal’s infirmary for treatment.
“He is being seen to by Myrine, sire. In your rooms.”
Laurent sighed. Myrine was a good physician. She had lived and worked in Delpha since before it was taken by Akielos. She was a true borderman, a die-hard supporter of the alliance—born of Veretian and Akielon parents. She would take good care of Damen.
“And he is—he is…”
“He is fine, Your Majesty. Some bruising, but nothing irreparable, from what I am told.”
Laurent let out a slow, measured breath and released an imperceptible amount of tension from his muscles.
“Sire, there will be questions.” Laurent could hear pounding footsteps in the hall and felt his pulse spike.
“I recognize that as an inevitability.”
“It would be best if you had your answers prepared.”
“Yes, thank you, Pas—”
The door to the infirmary slammed open and Nikandros blew in like a wave crashing to the shore, dagger in hand. He beelined for Laurent, who forced himself not to move, not to blink, as Nikandros bore down on him, bringing the dagger to his throat.
“Kyros!” Paschal exclaimed, still clutching a bowl of broken, bloody glass. “What is the meaning—”
“Leave us,” growled Nikandos, eyes never leaving Laurent’s. Paschal did not budge. Laurent blinked.
“Go, Paschal. I shall call if I am maimed beyond my current state.”
Looking again at the dagger and back to Laurent, Paschal nodded curtly and made his way into the connecting rooms, closing the door behind him.
“I want to speak with Damianos.”
“You’re not in a place to be making demands.”
“Take me to Damianos Exalted, Kyros.”
“You’re insane if you think I’m letting you anywhere near him.”
“Last I was aware, I was the king here, not you.”
“Not a king—a murderer.” And Nikandros spat full on in Laurent’s face. Without flinching, Laurent launched his knee up into Nikandros’ stomach and grabbed his wrist, twisting to force release of the dagger as Nik doubled over in pain and surprise. Laurent caught the dagger and spun off the other side of the table so that it stood between them.
“I would say you’re stronger than you look,” Nikandros hissed, “but I’ve seen the bruises around his neck.”
Laurent paled. “I need to see him, Nikandros.”
“Over my dead body.”
Laurent raised the dagger, hand trembling. Nikandros’ eyes widened. But before he could move any further, Laurent heard quick footsteps from the hall. Myrine rushed into the infirmary, coming up short at the sight before her. Laurent clutched the dagger, squeezing it until he couldn’t feel his own fingers.
“Your Majesty, Kyros—”
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong with him?” rushed Laurent, trying with all his might to suppress the dizzy buzzing filling in his head. Why was Myrine here? She was supposed to be with Damianos.
“He is asking for you, sire,” she said, bowing her head in deference.
Laurent felt his stomach roll over and clapped his mouth down tight so as not to release the cry of relief he felt.
“No, I will not allow it.” Laurent’s eyes flashed at Nikandros.
“You would deny your king?”
“To protect his life? Would you like to see how far I will go?”
Laurent began to move around the table towards the door.
“He is asking for me.”
“He can find you in the dungeons.”
“I will not keep him waiting—”
“And I shall not let you pass—”
“Then kill me!” cried Laurent, dagger brandished. “Kill me where I stand, Nikandros!”
There was a deafening silence as Laurent held the dagger aloft, his eyes burning into Nikandros’ as Myrine stood near the doorway, paralyzed.
“I am going to see the king,” Laurent said, calmly. “You may follow as closely behind as you see fit, but you will not delay me.” After a few moments, Nikandros nodded with one stiff jerk of his head, and Laurent made for door. He did not run, did not allow himself to bolt as his blood was calling him to do. His pace was quick and purposeful, making his way through the halls as if pulled by some magnetic force.
Four guards stood on duty outside the kings’ chambers and Laurent felt his stomach tighten as he drew near. But they let him pass without question, all bowing their heads as he rushed through the opening doors.
Laurent felt all the air in his body leave him at the sight of Damen on the couch. He was holding what appeared to be some sort of cooling rag to his throat, but he was upright. He was alive. Laurent wrapped his arms around himself, gripping his elbows trying to hold himself together. The guards had closed the doors, but Nikandros was still only feet away. Damen looked up at their entrance.
“There you are,” he croaked, and Laurent thought he would collapse at the rasp in his voice. “Are you alright? Come here, you must be freezing.” He ushered Laurent closer, towards the fire that had been rekindled.
Laurent looked down and realized that had not put on a shirt before leaving the infirmary and he was shivering, though he was sure that wasn’t purely from the cold. He jumped, unthinking, as Damen touched one of the cuts on his back. Damen tore his hand away as if it had been hot.
“Gods, I’m sorry, I—” When he caught sight of Laurent’s back his words caught in his throat, and Laurent turned abruptly to block his view. For a moment there were only the sounds of a few raspy gasps. “Laurent, please forgive me.”
“Forgive you?” Nikandros cried. “Forgive you? Damen, this man tried to kill you in your own bed.”
Laurent attempted to pull away from Damen and from Nikandros, backing himself towards a corner, but Damen reached out and placed a solid hand on his bicep, a pleading look in his eyes before he turned to Nikandros.
“Nik, that is not what happened.”
“Then why are his handprints around your throat? Why did you throw him across the room?”
“Please listen to me, adelphos, this is not what you think it is.”
“Much like the cuffs and collar were not as I thought? The desertion at Charcy? The scars on your back? How many times must you nearly die at his hand before you open your eyes, Damianos?”
“Trust that I know more about my own circumstances than you do, my friend.” Damen’s calm tone was wavering.
“How long until your willful blindness costs you your life? Costs Akielos?”
“You don’t understand—”
“Damen, how can you not see it?! He is playing a game with you—toying with his prey! He will get your kingdom out from under you and call it his own without even leaving your bed. He is just like his uncle—”
Laurent felt Damen move before he saw anything happen, and it gave him the split second he needed. He felt Damen’s hand leave his bicep and pull back, holding a fist.
“Stop!” Laurent yelled, holding Damen’s forearm with all his strength. Even so, Damen was so strong, so furious, that the punch almost reached Nikandros, who had leaned back at the last moment, eyes wide.
Damen looked down at Laurent, who recognized a shadow of the look on his face from the day at the Kingsmeet. He had killed half a dozen men without hesitation, then. Laurent held firm on to his arm, willing him not to look away. Come back, he said with his eyes. Come back to yourself.
Slowly, Damen released the tension in his arm and Laurent’s grip relaxed as it lowered between them. Breathing out steadily, Damen lowered his forehead to rest against Laurent’s, closing his eyes for a moment.
Pulling away, he turned to Nikandros.
“I need to speak with Laurent, alone.” Nik opened his mouth as if to speak, but Damen held up his hand to silence him. “You may leave and stand right outside, or you may be escorted back to your room and kept there. It is your choice, Nikandros.”
Grinding his jaw angrily, Nikandros nodded, once, and left the room. The two watched him yank the wooden door practically off his hinges, letting it slam behind him as he left. Laurent didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
“Damen—” no more words followed. Damen’s hands were reaching for his face, pulling their eyes together.
“Are you alright?” Not trusting his own voice, Laurent nodded. Damen looked at his back. “Do they hurt?” Laurent hesitated, but knew he would gain nothing from lying, and nodded again. “Sit, near the fire.” Laurent grabbed a cushion and sank to the floor, knees pulled up tight to his chest. He could hear Damen rifling through a cabinet before he returned, sitting slightly behind Laurent so he could reach his back.
Laurent could smell the salve as soon as Damen opened the bottle. It was Paschal’s special concoction, which Damen now used when his scars bothered him, but with which Laurent was familiar long before that. He felt the cool, numbing sensation as Damen gently applied salve to his wounds. When he finally felt he had regained enough control, Laurent spoke.
“Damen, I am so sorry.”
Damen’s hands hesitated. “I am not the one bleeding, Laurent.”
“Do not—I could have killed you!”
“No, you couldn’t have. If I hadn’t reacted that way—”
“Someone was choking you in your sleep, Damianos, of course you reacted that way.”
“But if I had thought, for one second longer—” he took in a jagged breath. “It could have been your head cracked on a wall, a dagger in your belly.”
“Which is what should happen to the man making an attempt on your life.”
“But I should have realized—”
“What? What could you have realized with a pair of hands around your throat?”
“This is not the first time you’ve dreamed of him, Laurent.”
That caught him off guard.
“What?” Laurent whispered. Damen hesitated.
“Sometimes I can hear them—you—just murmurings, distress. Sometimes I can feel it—a restlessness.” Damen sighed. “It has always passed quickly, or you wake up and I do not attempt to…interfere. I reasoned that if you wanted to tell me, or reach for me, you would do so when you were ready.”
Laurent felt his mind split open. Damen knew about the dreams. He knew and he hadn’t said anything, hadn’t tried to smother him or coax it out of him. He hadn’t been disgusted that Laurent had dreamt those things in their bed, with Damen only inches away.
“I did not realize you knew.”
Damen’s hands paused over the last of Laurent’s scratches. He lowered his mouth to Laurent’s shoulder, mouthing a soft, open-mouthed kiss.
Laurent lowered his forehead to his knees and attempted to collect himself. Damen moved forward so he sat flush alongside him, his hand rubbing slow, warm circles into Laurent’s lower back where there were, blessedly, no glass wounds.
“You have to tell Nikandros.”
“No, he will come around. He just needs time to cool off.”
“Damen, I want him to know.”
Their eyes met. “You’re sure?” Laurent nodded.
“He thinks I am hiding things from him. Because I am.”
“He is not owed any part of you, Laurent. Certainly not this.”
“But you see, he will never trust me otherwise.”
“But he will respect you as his king and emperor,” Damen growled.
“Damen,” Laurent pleaded, quietly, “he will never trust me with you otherwise.” His hand found its way to Damen’s thigh and squeezed. “I want to offer him this—freely. To prove my trust in him.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Damen pulled the hand that had been soothing Laurent’s back away, holding the hand on this thigh instead, watching their fingers slide together, cuff glistening in the firelight.
“I will tell him in the morning.”
Laurent nodded. “Thank you.”
After a few more moments of silence spent staring into the fire, Laurent felt Damen chuckle beside him. “What?”
“We’ll both have to make outfit adjustments for your name day celebrations tomorrow. Charls will be furious.”
“A corseted jacket?” Laurent groaned, thinking of his back. “As if the day wasn’t going to be painful enough.”
Damen snorted with laughter. “I shall have to find my highest collar. Perhaps a scarf.”
“Maybe Isander has some paint that will match,” Laurent mused, fingers tracing the aggravated skin on Damen’s neck. “I’m sure, if you ask very nicely, he might deign to oblige.”
They chuckled together. Isander, once a pleasure slave, was now a paid member of their household at Marlas. He particularly enjoyed assisting with grooming and had been trying to subtly work threads of real gold into Laurent’s hair for weeks but had been caught every time. While he was far less subservient than he had been years ago, his years of training could still be fairly obvious in his deference to the kings.
Laurent leaned against Damen’s side as they watched the fire burning down.
“They do, at least, come less frequently now,” Laurent murmured, almost to himself.
“Yes,” Damen breathed. “I have noticed.”
“Name days may prove to be—” he squired, “—more challenging. Than other days.”
“I will remember that.” Damen turned to press a kiss to the crown of Laurent’s head.
Laurent hummed, his eyelids heavy with sleep. “Take me to bed.”
Damen lifted him, taking great care with his back as he did so, carrying him over to the bed and sitting him gently upright. Leaning down, he pulled the string holding Laurent in a pair of loose, linen pants and slid them off. Laurent moved carefully to his side, curling inward as Damen climbed in beside him and drew the blankets up.