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I.
Laurent had no interest in meeting the Akielons, especially with how they had manipulated Auguste’s time and attention even before their arrival. The morning in question, Laurent made himself scarce well before sunrise because if he could not be found, no one could lace him into a stuffy court costume and force him to offer meaningless welcome to the guests Laurent very much felt unwelcome.
One benefit of Vere’s gaudy ornamentation was that Laurent could hide behind a statue of a youthful pet accompanied, inexplicably, by a faun; perfectly concealed and with a clear but distant view of the throne room. The potentially nefarious vantage point was one of the many things he already planned to tell Auguste when his brother was King but for now, Laurent would gladly take advantage.
The door swung open. A familiar head of burnished gold exited and Laurent took a deep breath, excitement surging through his small frame just at the sight of his brother. Before Laurent could race over, though, an unfamiliar and hulking form appeared alongside Auguste.
The two paused a few feet from the entrance, hands gesturing as they conversed. Auguste’s head turned in his direction, as if he felt that same indelible, instinctive draw toward Laurent as Laurent did him. With a small gasp, Laurent ducked out of sight. Then, unable to help himself, his head drifted back around the statute. Auguste had turned back around, perhaps having not noticed Laurent after all, but the Akielon was facing Laurent’s direction.
It must be the Crown Prince — there was no doubt about it. Tall and proud and imposing, and enormous, undoubtedly the largest person Laurent had ever seen. But he was unlike a beast out of a tale; rather, he seemed like a courageous hero capable of glorious feats straight from some epic. Almost unreal, a sculpture of burnt copper come to life. His short black hair was tight with curls that coiled around an underwhelmingly unadorned diadem. The Prince’s gaze was focused on Auguste, as was only right, and he did not devote any time to admiring the sights around him. Laurent could not discern their colour from here, but his eyes may have been black. Auguste must have said something pleasing for the Prince’s lips stretched upward in a beam that, even separated by yards and marble, dazzled Laurent. A mere flash, then the Prince turned and followed Auguste down the hall.
Laurent hopped off the statute and trotted after them.
They settled in an isolated field; a wide tree trunk provided an excellent place to settle, and Laurent gracefully lowered himself to the ground, legs stretched out before him.
It became clear that Auguste had apparently challenged their guest to spar. Laurent questioned the suitability of such an idea, not for worry of Auguste’s safety but rather because some were unable to accept defeat with grace. Especially other royals.
Laurent watched as the Akielon unravelled himself from a heavy red cloak, revealing indecently bare arms, shoulders, and legs. In fact, the white cloth he wore underneath — Laurent might call it a handkerchief, were he in a generous mood — barely covered the man’s bulky thighs.
Laurent did not care for the near-naked look. The scandalised uproar it would cause in court, however, was a pleasing thought.
The Crown Prince then removed his crown, not indelicately, and placed it upon his cloak which now pooled on the ground. It was a startling act, for a prince to remove his decorations even semi-publically, especially one visiting a foreign nation. It was an act Laurent only expected from Auguste, who did not favour his crown either and took it off shortly thereafter, impeded as he was by the complicated unlacing required to shrug off his jacket.
Having anticipated though despaired that Auguste would be occupied all day, and thinking ahead as usual, Laurent had brought with him a book to enjoy. He placed it on his lap, but the duel was proving to be more distracting than expected.
Swift strikes and flourishing footwork, Auguste with a sword in hand was a pleasure to watch. Even Laurent, who was disinclined to such physical exertion himself, was always captivated. He devoted so much of himself to admiring Auguste, normally he could predict his brother’s every blow, parry, and dodge. Only this time, he could not — for the Akielon’s strikes were hard with deliberateness. Whereas his brother favoured nimble footwork and graceful maneuvers, the other Prince was exacting and without ostentation.
Pages of lore lay open on his lap, forgotten, save for where Laurent’s little fingers burrowed into the paper. Auguste was invincible, of course, and Laurent knew that, but… he couldn’t help it if he became a little nervous, sometimes, watching his big brother fight. Even when it was pretend.
Bright steel flashed with colour as it cut overhead through the air, right toward Auguste. Choking on a gasp, Laurent shot to his feet before his mind registered his own fear. A distant thud as his book fell from his hands, spilling onto the grass, forgotten. Everything forgotten save for his brother, broadsword lifted to deflect, and the downward slant of his elbow that would instead drive the Akielon’s curved blade right toward him.
It veered.
The flat of the Akielon blade hit the forte of Auguste’s blade. Auguste parried and with a half-circle thrust deflected the blow, redirecting the oncoming force on a forward lunge. Iron whistled through the air as the Akielon was divested of his weapon.
It had not touched Auguste.
Auguste was fine, and he was sheathing his sword, and Laurent’s lungs burned just a little as his breath was finally freed.
“Hello, there.”
Auguste’s head twisted around and, seeing his brother, the rest of him followed. “Laurent!” he called. “Come greet our esteemed guest.”
At his brother’s behest, Laurent shuffled over. He made sure to grab his book first, taking the time to wipe off invisible dirt and grass soiling it.
The Prince was impossibly imposing up close. Laurent’s head came to his waist, where excess linen gathered in a line and draped over an unseen belt. Up, up, up, and up Laurent’s neck craned over unadorned white material and dark skin, until meeting with a beaming face. Despite suffering not only a defeat, but one witnessed, the Akielon’s joyous smile exposed his pearly teeth, his dark eyes bright with excitement.
Laurent ducked his head. His book was hugged to his chest, and he stared at the tops of its yellow-white pages.
“Prince Laurent.” The deep timbre of the Akielon’s voice lent a coarseness to his pronunciation of Laurent’s name. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Hello,” he mumbled. His face heated under the focused gaze.
“Laurent…” Auguste’s drawling tone held a gentle, indulgent admonishment. “Come now, as we practised it.”
“Hail.” Laurent tried to swallow against the tremulous pitch of his voice as he fumbled his way through the little Akielon that Father had forced into his memory. “Exalted Da- Dami-”
Auguste, who had not evaded the formal introductions, bent down to whisper the Prince’s name in his ear. “Damianos,” he mimicked as best he could.
Somehow, Prince Damianos’ smile widened even further. He had an odd little dent, just above the left corner of his mouth, which Laurent found rather intriguing. “Your Akielon is very good, Your Highness,” the prince praised.
Laurent’s hand darted into the fabric of Auguste’s sleeve, keeping his brother from straying too far. Father said it was as unbefitting as when he used to clutch at his mother’s skirts.
The intensity of the foreign Prince’s focus shifted away as he went to retrieve his sword. He did not whirl the blade in the air or perform any other flashy tricks, for he did not need to. Princes like Damianos and Auguste — first sons, in station if not birth order — commanded love and respect by their nature, by the very air they breathed.
It was not that Laurent ever became inured to his brother’s grandeur, but he felt dazzled in a new sort of way, different, when Damianos smiled at him. All Laurent could do was clutch at Auguste’s jacket because it was the closest he could get, now, to ducking behind Maman’s skirts. Auguste’s attention may feel like too much sometimes, feel unwarranted and undeserved, but Laurent could never shy away from it.
“Will you try?”
Damianos was granting him the opportunity to join them, a second son among heirs. It was gracious. The confident tilt of Laurent’s chin lowered, and he dug the toe of one boot into the ground.
“Best two out of three, Prince Damianos?” Auguste offered. His hand ran up and down Laurent’s back, out of Damianos’ sight, in understanding.
Damianos eagerly agreed. Examining each side of his sword, he wiped the blade along the hem of his strange skirt, as if oblivious to the dirt now smeared against white fabric.
Forgotten, Laurent settled back down at the base of the tree.
The second round was Auguste’s. The third round was not quite a draw but neither was there a winner, because the match devolved into an exchange of techniques and advice. Then Auguste offered to give Damen a “proper tour” of the palace, and when they departed, Laurent followed.
The rest of the training grounds warranted a thorough examination, apparently, and Damianos touched or held every new weapon he came across. Laurent glanced down at his book and wondered why he had not chosen today to finally gain an interest in weaponry or fighting.
The stables received only a vague gesture as they passed by — much to Laurent’s disappointment, though he supposed Damianos may have already seen them when his horse was stabled. Next were the gardens, which were grand and really deserved more than the cursory viewing Auguste offered. They ventured deeper into the winding paths and when they arrived at one of the bowers that Laurent was not allowed to go near, he hung back. He peeked through an opening in the hedges, though, and watched as his brother said something to make the other prince laugh. Damianos’ laugh was full and throaty, with a deep timbre. It was a spectacle involving his whole body: one hand clutching at his heart, as if he were in some kind of pain rather than joy; head thrown back; body shaking with the threat of toppling over. It was utterly different from his brother’s laugh, which was just as deep and just as striking but held some measure of restraint.
Laurent could not discern what his brother had said to evoke such a reaction, but he wished Auguste would do it again. Not that he really had to wish, for Auguste was affable and could rouse a laugh from the dead.
They headed back inside after that. The eldest two princes at front, gabbing as if they were old friends; Laurent trailing behind; and even further back, a triplet of guards. Laurent wondered if this is what the guards felt like, following Laurent and Auguste all day.
As they went up one of the many winding staircases, Laurent found himself looking up at the back of Damianos’ naked knees and the start of his thighs. Eyes widening in horror, Laurent made sure to keep his gaze carefully trained at his feet the rest of the way. Damianos’ strange garb was indecent enough when their feet were on the same level, and he did not need to see any more.
Even before they reached the top, Laurent was forced into a pant as his inferior legs struggled to keep up. Begrudgingly, he thought there might be some truth to Auguste’s teasing about how weak-limbed Laurent would become if he continued to neglect his training routine.
Laurent could spend all day like this, as Auguste’s shadow, silent but loyally close. He could not tell if Damianos merely followed Auguste’s lead or was genuinely unaware, but neither acknowledged Laurent’s presence; Auguste, at least, knew well Laurent’s general aversion to socialising. Yet today, Laurent found himself staring at the back of his brother’s golden head, eyes squinted and mouth pursed as he tried with all his might to transpose his desires straight into Auguste’s mind. Usually, Auguste was quite good at knowing Laurent’s mood (sometimes even before Laurent himself), but now he seemed rather distracted. And of course it would be now, the one time Laurent actually wished to be forced into conversing. Father might have been glad, had such a change of heart come years sooner.
Indoors provided a helpful echo and although Laurent did not catch everything said, it was enough to pick up on some peculiarities. Despite his fluid introduction, Damianos was not as well versed in Veretian as Laurent originally suspected. He was not very good at hiding it either, if that was his aim. Whenever Damianos forgot a word or struggled to explain something, his frown deepened and posture straightened. It made his already gigantic shoulders appear even broader, and Laurent could not help but gawk a little, because it seemed a physical impossibility. In those moments, Damianos would interrupt himself to explain, “I do not know how to say —” and then he would mutter to himself in Akielon.
Sometimes when Auguste was in the middle of speaking, Damianos’ thick brows would pull inward and his gaze would flicker from Auguste’s eyes to his mouth and hands, as if they would provide some kind of vital clue. He did not ask Auguste to repeat himself, but rather demanded it: “again,” for a single word he did not catch and “explain to me again,” for something more involved.
It rankled Laurent at first, because no one spoke to Auguste like that, save for himself and Father. Even more confusingly, Damianos’ insistences were delivered in mild tones and matched with the appropriate honourific for Auguste’s status. He seemed polite despite this single incongruity, and Auguste spoke in the same manner — though Auguste was older, and this was his palace.
The longer Laurent watched, he realised Damianos treated Auguste as an equal rather than someone above his own station. It had seemed distasteful, at first, because Laurent himself was unused to such interactions. Damianos was more like Auguste’s peer; Laurent did not have any peers. The closest were the children of noblemen and whenever Maman had urged him to interact with them, it had always been tedious and loathsome.
II.
Auguste found him as the servants were finishing his preparations for that night’s feast of welcome. Laurent’s mood was rather dark, for having to suffer through all sorts of layers and trussing up. Even Auguste’s outfit was less extravagant than his, “and you’re the Crown Prince,” Laurent said and certainly without any sort of whine.
His brother just grinned and reached out to ruffle his hair, which was easily dodged.
“It’s because I have nothing else to offer,” Laurent decided glumly as he stared into the mirror. He tried to cross his arms over his chest but between the suffocating layers of stiff fabric and too-tight laces, he could not even manage a bend in his elbows. “At least that’s what father thinks.”
Shaking his head, Auguste grabbed Laurent’s arm and spun him back around. “It’s because of this morning. Perhaps…” his brother reached forward, undoing the knot at Laurent’s throat. As he spoke, he plucked at the criss-crossed silk, loosening each row, before tying it back up. “If you had greeted the first members of the Akielon royal family to set foot in our country in almost a century at the palace gates, as a proper prince should, you would be feeling a little more comfortable tonight.”
Laurent huffed. “That is hardly reason for this…” His fingers twitched, but he did not bat away his brother’s hands. “Insufferable display.”
“Laurent, you made a fool of Father.”
“Did I?” Laurent asked with wide eyes.
Auguste’s voice was stern as he explained, “Father informed the Akielons of a terrible cold that left you bedridden.” Finished redoing the ties at a breathable tension, his hands settled on Laurent’s shoulders, large and warm and familiar. “Unaware that I had also told them of a fall from your pony this morn.”
Laurent’s chin lifted, refusing to feel remorse over a political blunder others had made, unasked, on his behalf. He tried to purse his lips, but a twitch gave him away. For a moment Auguste stared at him, eyes narrowed, before he was forced to cover his mouth in a poor concealment of a laugh.
“Fortunate that Prince Damianos has a sense of humour,” Auguste said. “Though I doubt the same can be said of his father.”
At the mention of Damianos, Laurent’s cheeks warmed and he looked away.
“I know today is going to be dreadfully boring for you, mon petit soleil. But it’s all part of being a prince, hmm?” It was rare for Auguste to misinterpret Laurent’s moods, but he did so now. Chucking Laurent’s chin, he continued, “They’ll be gone soon and we’ll spend lots of time together.”
Laurent asked, already knowing the answer, “When’s that?”
“A whole fortnight,” Auguste dramatically declared. “Think you can make it, little brother?”
Laurent thought of Damianos’ dark eyes, toothy grin, and bronze skin. He was not sure he would make it, but not for the usual reasons.
Dinner's seating arrangement placed Auguste to Father's right after King Theomedes. Damianos was to Aleron's left, and across from Laurent. It seemed like a prime location, despite the indignity of having courtiers on either side of him, and he was eager to engage the prince in conversation. He asked after Damianos’ horse, in what would have unfolded into a conversation crafted to reinforce the spontaneous ruse his brother had concocted to cover Laurent’s absence this morning, but some snivelling courtier from Fortaine spoke over him.
Laurent did not find himself offended, but rather intrigued, when a plate of escargot in a buttery garlic sauce produced a grimace from the prince. Damianos was either incapable of or unwilling to conceal his true feelings, even at such a crucial dinner. With a pointed throat-clearing, Laurent demonstrated how to hold the shell down with the instrument provided, and carefully pull the snail from inside. “Like this,” he said. But Damianos was not looking.
The Akielon needed no instruction on how to devour the next entremet, swan; he alone probably ate two birds’ worth of meat. Laurent snorted at Damianos’ confused look as servants cleared away their plates, his half-full. “There are ten more courses,” Laurent pointed out.
Finally, Damianos glanced over at him. Laurent straightened against the urge to falter under the intensity of his stare. “What?” the prince said, in that unusual, direct way he had.
A new gaggle of servants arrived with the fourth course, and Laurent leaned between rearranging arms to catch Damianos’ face again. The room filled with the clank of dozens of dishes being placed at once and Laurent had to exclaim to be heard. “You eat too much!”
As the workers cleared, Damianos’ brows almost joined together with the might of his scowl, and his lips pulled into an unpleasantly thin line. “I see,” was all he said. “Your Highness.”
Then Father said something higher up on the table, and Damianos was all bright grin and attentiveness, and Laurent spent the rest of the evening pushing various foods around on his various plates.
And it was a long evening, because the kinds of pet performances Laurent was prohibited from seeing were not scheduled tonight. Instead there were some fire tricks and lots of singing, and dance performances. Laurent could not even retire early because Auguste was correct; Father was punishing him for this morning’s truancy, and it would only be worse if he did not conform.
At least no one tried to speak to him.
III.
To the great disappointment of the two older princes, neither were allowed to compete in the tourney; any injury or defeat, no matter how incidental, threatened international hostility. Despite their innumerable complaints about being reduced to mere observation, Auguste and Damianos seemed incredibly absorbed in each event. So much so that Laurent, sitting right at Auguste’s side, found it exceedingly difficult to interject.
The melee was, apparently, a particular source of vexation for Auguste. He conceded political considerations barred Damianos’ participation but insisted it was “unwise to deprive our swordsmen of the healthy competition” he himself could provide.
Considering their previous sparring session, Laurent knew Damianos could not hold any doubt in Auguste’s ability. To be safe, though, he all but propelled himself across his brother’s lap. “It would be unfair anyway,” he declared proudly. “Auguste would win everything.” With a touch of ruefulness, he added, “Well, almost.”
Throwing an arm around the younger prince’s back, Auguste pulled a squirming Laurent against his chest. “Yes, if only father would have unleashed you onto the field!” Auguste exclaimed.
“You have skill with a weapon.” Damianos’ eyes finally tore away from the fight below. “Tell me.”
Even with Auguste’s arm around him, Laurent could not help but preen a little under the attention. “Not a weapon. Horse racing.” Feeling oddly compelled toward the truth, he started to explain, “But —”
Auguste’s sharp and dramatic inhale cut off Laurent, who chewed his lip uncertainly. “Do you think…” He leaned in close to Laurent’s ear, conspiratorially whispering, “You can trust Prince Damianos with your secret,
mon petit soleil?”
Laurent gave the foreign prince a considering look. Damianos stared back, a friendly invitation upturning the corners of his lips. He was not some gossipy courtier, Laurent decided; he looked as trustworthy as a fairytale champion.
Struggling out of Auguste’s hold, Laurent abandoned his cushioned seat and skipped over to Damianos’ side to whisper in the older prince’s ear. It would not do to have anyone else overhear, after all. “I have the fastest pony in all of Vere,” he revealed. Even sitting, Damianos towered over him, and he had to reach up on his tiptoes.
“Or so he says,” Auguste objected. Though he usually welcomed brotherly affection, Auguste’s hand ruffling Laurent’s hair ran dangerously counter to the maturity Laurent tried to project. But the slight annoyance vanished, replaced with a pleased but shy smile, as his brother praised, “I tell him a mount is only as skilled as its rider.”
“You will show me one day,” Damianos decided.
Laurent, who had returned to his seat by then, leapt up in excitement. Before he could tell Damianos all about his pony, or even attempt to make any plans for such a day, a thundering cry took over the crowd. The princes’ eyes returned to the field before them, where it appeared the day’s reigning champion had been bested by a sword through a slit in his now-bloodied armour.
Laurent was unable to capture the attention of his brother or the other prince for the rest of the event.
IV.
To hold Damianos’ attention, Laurent needed to showcase his maturity and wisdom. Every morning he grabbed a different book to carry around, each thicker than the last. He avoided anything childish, so Damianos would know he was learned and though he was not a worthy sparring partner, he could engage in meaningful, insightful conversation. While Auguste teased Laurent for always having his head in a book, he proclaimed how Laurent would be his most trusted and esteemed royal advisor. It was a role Laurent already approached with the utmost seriousness, even if he did not enjoy many aspects it required, like sitting in council meetings and feigning intrigue in the inane babble of dignitaries and nobles.
At a meal, Auguste mentioned expanding trade in the autumn harvest and Laurent brightened, because it was such a perfect opportunity. He held up the tome on the empty seat beside him (which a lord from Barbin had tried to usurp, only for Laurent to declare “a pile of old papers offers far more satisfying company”). It happened to be about the benefits of star cycles, as opposed to lunar, for farming. “Have you considered catasterising more stars to aid your agriculture?” he asked Damianos, words tripping over each other in his excitement.
The prince stared at him, then the book. Very slowly, as if dealing with a small child, he said, “That is a very big book.”
Auguste grinned winsomely. “Laurent loves to read. He is wise beyond his years, Damen —” That was a new development: the two elder princes had dropped any formalities, and Auguste even had some private, short name just for the Akielon prince. “He will be my royal advisor one day.”
His brother smiled and nodded at him encouragingly, but Damianos spoke first. “Fight after lunch?” he asked Auguste.
Auguste agreed to the request easily. He threw an arm around the back of Laurent’s chair, as if to include Laurent in the offer. “Have you been watching our matches, little brother?” he asked. "It is lucky we did not meet on the battlefield, hm? Otherwise I might have met my match."
His brother jested, for the most part, but at the mere suggestion of someone hurting Auguste, Laurent’s stomach dropped. "Never!" he protested. Even Auguste seemed taken aback by the ferocity of his glower.
Damianos cleared his throat. "Do not worry. Your brother has nothing to fear."
Laurent could not tell if it was him or Auguste to whom Damianos referred. Mood blackening, Laurent stood from the dining table and left the hall. His appetite was lost.
V.
At a court dinner one night, Damen had requested one of the Akielon slaves to recite a lengthy piece for their entertainment. Though Laurent abhorred the practice of slavery, and could not understand the language, the slave’s words had held the pleasing rhythm and cadence of an epic. Laurent decided to entice Damianos with Vere’s own impressive poetry; given his disregard of astrology, it was clear he did not care for sciences.
Laurent bounded down to the training arena — thankfully, the crowds that would gather to watch the princes spar were tolerated for the first few days, and now, only the two royals’ guards remained. More determined than ever, he charged right up to Damianos and asked, “Prince Damianos, do you like the Songs of Heroic Deeds ?”
Surely every prince of Vere and Akielos was tutored in the legendary ballads that preserved the conquest and eventual unification of Artesia, the bygone empire that had once joined their countries.
Damen looked at him blankly.
“Laurent!”
A twinge of irritation flared in Laurent’s chest at his big brother — fleeting though it left behind a burning guilt. Auguste had entered the arena from a side door and quickly paced toward them. “We’re wrestling today, little brother!” he continued to call. “Are you here to cheer for me?”
“Of course,” Laurent agreed. Even though he had not known of their plans, entertaining any other possibility was absurd.
There was a rustle followed by a small thump, and both brothers looked over. Laurent gasped and, in some strange reflex, flung his book at Damianos — Damianos, who was completely naked, chiton pooled at his feet. As his book bounced off a tree-trunk thigh, Laurent was forced to hide behind his brother’s back.
“Damen!” Auguste exclaimed. “What is the meaning of this?”
There was a prolonged silence. Then, “... Veretians do not wrestle like this?”
“No!” Auguste and Laurent yelled in unison.
VI.
Perhaps Damianos did not take any pleasure in astrology or poetry, or even reading in general; but literacy was not a prerequisite to complex thought. Certainly, Laurent had witnessed pets who could outwit their learned masters with ease — lords, Council members, noblewoman — yet were incapable of signing their names for their own contracts.
Besides, Laurent was willing to read aloud, if Damianos preferred. He always enjoyed it when Auguste read to him, even though that happened with less frequency now. He wished very much to find someone with whom to discuss scholarly pursuits, such as the problem of universal s he had recently unearthed and the schools of thought that opposed it.
For the first time since his arrival in Arles, Damianos was found without Auguste or either of their fathers or a gaggle of courtiers. Instead, only a single other person accompanied him, some Akielon that Laurent vaguely recalled seeing at a few dinners. He was of a lower rank, for he was not granted the prestigious seating at meals that would place him nearer the princes.
The two Akielons were engaged in what appeared to be a serious conversation, strolling through the palace gardens. Their speech was rapid, impossible to interpret given Laurent did not speak the language but now, he could not even gauge the tone.
“Prince Damianos?” he tried. His voice might have come out weaker than he intended, but he still struggled with pronouncing the Prince’s name. “Prince Damianos!”
As the two kept walking, Laurent doggedly followed.
They were approaching the part of the gardens Laurent was not allowed into, though, recalling the lack of pet performances from the first night, he wondered if these were halted entirely until the Akielons left. Either way, he did not relish going in, and pranced forward and tugged on the back of Damianos’ skirt.
“Damianos!” he insisted, accidentally forgoing an honourific.
The two halted and turned toward him. Laurent did not spare the other man a glance as he stared up into the Prince’s face.
“Prince Laurent,” Damianos greeted. His pronunciation of the name was always a little off; normally such a slight would aggravate Laurent, but instead, he found the inflection oddly pleasing. “Please, meet my friend Nikandros. Nikandros, Prince Laurent.”
With that, Laurent graced the man, Nikandros, with a glance. The man gave a polite if shallow bow. “Your Highness.”
“Hello,” Laurent acknowledged, not quite managing to feign interest.
“Exalted.” Rather unnecessarily, Nikandros felt the need to speak further and once again subject Laurent to his halting, unpleasant Veretian. “We are talking about an important issue.”
Laurent curled his lip back to inform him that Laurent was a prince and this was his palace when Damianos cut in. “Prince Laurent,” he said, tone slow and overly reasonable. “Give us time. I will speak to you.”
As a general principle, Laurent did not respond well to orders. But he could acquiesce, on this singular occasion.
The problem was, the two did not stop talking, and they wandered deeper and deeper into the winding garden path, and Laurent grew more and more uneasy. “Damianos?” he called. Damianos and Nikandros were a few paces ahead and, like before, he surged forward to tug on Damianos’ skirt.
“Prince Damianos.” Holding Damianos in place, he explained, “I can’t go any farther,” and pointed at the path before them. “Will you not come with me?”
There was a short exchange in Akielon, then Damianos turned back to him with a smile that was small and tight, and unlike the smiles Auguste earned. “We are meeting others there,” Damianos explained.
Instantly dropping the white material clutched in his hand, Laurent stumbled back. “Oh.”
“No, no, Laurent —” Damianos rubbed the back of his neck. It was an awkward gesture, and it made him look smaller than his gigantic frame had any right to be. “Prince Laurent. It is not like this.” He looked to his companion, as if for assistance, and received none. “You can join us.”
It might have been possible, had Auguste been here or if Laurent had ever thought to ascertain if the gardens were okay for now. But he remembered the ease with which Damianos had disrobed in front of him and Auguste and rapidly shook his head, eyes wide with horror, before hurrying back toward the palace.
VII.
Even when he did not have as much time for Laurent as Laurent would prefer, Auguste never failed to follow through on a promise. It took over a week, but at last, Auguste invited Damianos to go riding with them. Laurent could rightfully expect some attention from Damianos, though his burning anticipation was cooled by the need to prove himself. At the tourney, his own confident declarations had only been heightened by Auguste’s good-natured boasting.
Damianos allowed a stableboy to tack his horse and thus was left waiting for the brothers, who preferred to groom and ready their own mounts. Auguste’s mare could be finicky and today he spent extra time with her, coaxing out her best behaviour in front of their visitor. Finishing before him, Laurent joined Damianos outside. It was only the two of them, and barring some kind of catastrophe, Damianos could not overlook Laurent now.
Sitting up extra straight in his saddle, Laurent gestured at Damianos’ steed with a cool, unaffected nudge of his chin. “What is his name?”
Damianos frowned and followed Laurent’s gaze to the horse he was currently seated on. Inexplicably, he laughed and shook his head, as if finding great amusement at Laurent’s expense.
It felt unnatural for Laurent, who had an excellent seat, to slump forward in his saddle. Picking at a fraying stitch along the pommel, he felt glum and flushed with a feeling of inadequacy.
Eventually Auguste joined them, and spread an arm out in front of them in invitation. “Little brother, will you do us the honour of leading the way?”
Laurent spurred his pony forward without a word. Auguste did not ride alongside his brother at any point, rather spending his time beside Damianos’ horse. It only served to darken the foulness clouding Laurent’s mood. And since he could barely overhear what was said between them, he lacked opportunities to draw Auguste to him.
When the trees parted to reveal a familiar grassy plain, Auguste cheered and announced it was time for their much anticipated race. The joyful tone of Auguste’s voice, his triumphant grin as if already basking in his little brother’s victory, did not quite rouse a similar enthusiasm in Laurent.
He halted, allowing Auguste and Damianos to line up to either side of him, their horses dwarfing his little pony.
One of their accompanying guards gave the starting whistle. The elation Laurent normally felt as he spurred his pony forward held a mere shadow of its usual invigoration. Though he kept his upper body aligned with his heel and allowed himself to shift and rise in synchronicity with his pony’s rapidly gaining gait, his arms were stiff with tension and he failed to properly loosen the reins.
Even the fastest pony in the land was only as good as its rider, as Auguste himself had pointed out at the tourney, and Laurent was hindering the full expression of her talent. Even the familiar beating of the hooves of his brother’s mare’s, the unfamiliar huffing of Damianos’ giant steed, did not ignite in him a desire to ride faster.
He was not going to win the race. He was not going to impress Damianos, who seemed only capable of frowning or laughing at Laurent. And when he returned to Akielos, Laurent would — at most — warrant an offhanded footnote in the tales of excitement and novelty in Vere with which Damianos would regale his court.
It was enough, though, for Laurent to hold the esteem of his brother. His brother who, with every passing breath, failed to surpass Laurent. As did Damianos.
Laurent remained in the lead. In fact, Auguste and Damianos were falling behind — neither the black or grey noses of their horses appeared in his periphery, as if they had already fatigued.
Imperceptible to any eyes, Laurent pulled the reins closer to his hips. Receptive to even the subtlest of alerts, his pony slowed ever so slightly. Auguste did not gain on him. Faint huffs over his left shoulder indicated Damianos did, briefly — before falling back with a suddenness that came only from a sharply given command.
Auguste was letting him win. And, though somewhat lacking in tact, Damianos was following suit.
He would apologise to her later, when he snuck out to the stables in the cover of night, spending hours brushing her down, feeding her treats, and confiding in her all his childhood woes. But for now Laurent, overcome by an anger that scorched him from head to toe, yanked on his reins and forced his pony to an abrupt and difficult stop.
Both Auguste and Damianos flew past him before catching on and halting their own steeds.
“How long?” he demanded before Auguste had fully turned around.
“Brother —”
He did not continue, did not insult Laurent by lying any further, but Laurent felt a hot sting in his eyes nevertheless. The threat of tears only fuelled his burning rage, and he snapped, “Have I ever won fairly against you?”
Auguste’s shoulders slumped. His mouth turned down, and his wide eyes held a clearer blue than the bright sky above them.
“You’re right, big brother,” Laurent said. “A mount is only ever as good as her rider.”
With a jerk of his right hand, he turned his pony around and started the long trek back to the palace. He did not give Damianos the barest glance, for he could not bear the disappointment he would find there.
IIX.
It was emphatically clear, now more than ever, that Laurent’s deficits in age and physical ability were insurmountable. Nothing could be done for his age, and there was simply not enough time to devote himself to swordfighting excellence before Damianos’ departure. But he had his mind and though it had also failed to garner Damianos’ attention thus far, perhaps that, too, was a consequence of Laurent’s poor strategizing.
Whereas Damianos did not find interest in any of the intellectual pursuits Laurent favoured, he enjoyed fighting: sparring with a sword, wrestling with his bare hands, throwing spears. Perhaps a unification was required, if Laurent could join intellectual capacity with physical pursuits. And so he carefully selected a binding of scrolls that archived known military tactics from the old Artesian empire. Given the sparsity of records, it was a thin volume that lent itself to being devoured in a night, with a flickering candle carefully held over its brittle pages.
The next afternoon, Laurent found Auguste guiding Damianos through their family portraits. The gallery was really just a long narrow hall, without pillars or carefully placed sculptures to conceal oneself, so Laurent was forced to stay behind the entrance, peeking his head out at strategic intervals.
Unexpectedly, Damianos assumed a sedate pace as he listened, seemingly intently, to each person’s name and brief story. Laurent eagerly awaited an opportune moment to jump in with his knowledge about Queen Yseult, who so loved pearls she banned non-royals from wearing them; or how the old motto of Vere, secret and bold, had fallen out of use.
“My brother could explain this to you much better,” Auguste said at one point. It was simply not true, for Auguste captivated audiences without a single word. If it was somewhat true that Laurent memorised more details, it was only because Auguste had much grander tasks and facts to apply himself to. He had no need to know the minutiae of their lineage, such as every ruler’s date of birth, ascension, and death, their siblings and offspring, and the alliances their marriages solidified, because he had Laurent to do that for him.
Laurent bit his lip, clutching his book to his chest until his fingers turned white, and he almost bounded down the hall, so certain that finally, he had an opening —
Damianos simply said, “Ah.”
It was all Laurent warranted: polite disinterest.
No one was witness to the dejected slump of his small frame. To be surprised was senseless; Laurent had already proved a disappointment after their fraudulent horse race. Damianos had no need for lies or aggrandizations, for he was grand as any royal heir should be. And were it not for Laurent’s lacking, it would not have fallen upon Auguste to exaggerate his talents to begin with.
The book grew heavy in his hands and he faltered against the wall, awash with a feeling of utter foolishness.
IX.
When he was halted at the entrance to Auguste’s chambers, Laurented glared up at the offending guard.
“Prince Auguste has a guest, Your Highness” the guard said.
“Yes,” Laurent agreed easily. “And he’s expecting me, of course.”
Raucous laughter carried from within, and the guard did not move away from the doorway. Laurent gave the guard a swift examination. He was young and unfamiliar; his jacket was laced too stiffly, which would impede a swift sword draw; and he briefly glanced behind him at every raucous noise from the inner rooms.
He was new, and likely less familiar with Auguste’s level-headed temperament.
“Surely,” Laurent drawled as he pulled himself to his full height. “You do not intend to keep my brother waiting?” When the man still dithered, Laurent shrugged a single shoulder and said, overly casual, “You may waste the Crown Prince’s time asking permission to allow his own brother inside, if you wish.”
Taking a step back, Laurent leaned against the wall and coolly inspected his nails, as if anticipating a prolonged reprimand in the guard’s near future. There was barely time to pretend at a single speck of dust before the door was opened. Laurent marched inside, head held high.
“Laurent!” Auguste greeted merrily. “Are you joining us tonight?” And loudly.
Laurent withheld a sigh; the door had not yet been closed behind him. If not for Auguste’s lack of subterfuge, he could have crafted more ruses for the new guard.
He still would.
Damianos was here already, of course, and of course the two had been drinking. Drunk was not one of his favourite states of Auguste’s, even though his brother was quite jovial when intoxicated, and very free with his affection. Only, it was rather difficult to maintain meaningful conversation, and even he tired of hearing Auguste croon that he was “such a perfect brother to me,” especially when it was the most intelligible statement Auguste could form.
As Laurent settled on a sofa with Auguste, he became suspicious: Damianos did not appear nearly as drunk as Auguste.
The heavy warmth of Auguste’s arm immediately fell around Laurent’s shoulders, followed by Auguste’s chin on the sharp bone of his shoulder. Allowing the two heirs to fall easily back into conversation gave Laurent the opportunity to carefully watch Damianos.
Eventually he determined, after thorough inspection, that Damianos was in fact also drunk. It was not only that his dark features better concealed the symptoms — his flush faint along dusky cheeks, dilated pupils nearly indistinguishable from dark brown irises — but he held himself differently. Unexpectedly. Even as he relaxed back into his armchair, he lacked the ease of Auguste’s casual sprawl. His laugh was not absent, but softer than usual. It might appear his reticence was a purposeful tactic to trick Auguste into spilling some treasonous secret, but the warmth of his eyes and the soft crook of his smile (constant but small, failing to reveal the dimple in his cheek) opposed this conclusion.
Having comfortably ascertained his brother’s safety, Laurent rapidly bored of the two princes’ inane talk. Snatching up Auguste’s goblet, Laurent took a large gulp of the liquid inside. And sputtered all over the table in front of him as his eyes watered and the lining of his throat seemed determined to burn away.
“Laurent!” Auguste snatched the drink back. Laurent had been dangerously close to upending its contents. “That is not wine, little brother!” He tried to sound reproachful, but a hint of laughter coloured his voice. When Laurent could finally take a full breath without feeling his chest would burst, he looked up. And Auguste did not contain his laughter any longer, his already flushed cheeks growing darker. Laurent blinked and rubbed at his eyes, because all the coughing had forced him near to tears, and when his vision cleared, he was horrified to find Damianos also laughing.
“This is griva,” Damianos managed. “ Not for children.”
Laurent tried to glare, but it only blurred his still-watery vision. He snarled, “At least I’m not wearing a bedsheet dress!”
Damianos stopped laughing even as his smile grew. The conundrum he posed for Laurent was infuriating. “How long does this take to — How is it? ‘Make water’?” He waved vaguely at Laurent’s intricately laced attire.
Face burning, Laurent bit back, “I see how that would be confusing to you, given I do not make a habit of undressing in front of strangers!”
Auguste had fallen into quiet amusement watching their exchange and here, he burst into laughter once more. He might have doubled right over, if not for his hold on Laurent. “He has you there, Damen,” the Crown Prince of Vere chortled. “But at least your Veretian is improving!”
Damianos’ gaze returned to Auguste. “Yes, I will excite many women,” he said. “With my talk of — making water!”
The two were overcome by their juvenile discussion. Trapped under the heavy weight of his brother’s arm, Laurent felt small and suffocated.
That had been the longest conversation he held with Damianos.
X.
The conclusion to which Laurent arrived was this: Damianos responded better to his jibes than his more earnest attempts at conversations. It made sense in that it made no sense at all, and stood in complete opposition to everything Laurent had previously experienced. Most were off-put by his sharp tongue. Save for Auguste, and that had always been enough for Laurent.
Another attempt at riding was arranged, though this time it was a boar hunt and it was arranged by Laurent’s uncle. Laurent was too young to partake in the actual hunting and, since he always joined if Auguste was present, he was relegated to the retinue of pets and slaves and female courtiers. That was not agreeable to Laurent, who customarily packed a large book and a small snack, and ventured into the trees for some solitude.
All too soon, it was interrupted by some nearby shouts in a language whose unfamiliarity Laurent recognized. Stalking through the woods brought him to Damianos, who appeared to have dismounted from his horse straight into a bog. The prince scowled accusingly at the ground (perhaps mistaken as nothing more than verdant grass to a foreigner), and lifted up a foot. It pulled from the earth with a wet sucking sound, covered nearly to the knee in sludge.
Laurent laughed, and laughed even harder when Damianos tried his other foot, only to narrowly avoid tipping over with the effort it took.
“Your Highness,” Damianos greeted, sounding miraculously courteous for a royal so thoroughly stuck in mud. “Watching again?”
“Watching,” Laurent repeated, bemused.
Damianos opened his mouth then broke off into Akielos under his breath.
Entirely unbothered, Laurent crossed his arms and carefully leant his shoulder against a nearby tree. “I wonder what the King will think,” he pondered aloud. “Seeing your naked feet covered in that filth.”
The Akielon wriggled his overlarge toes and noted, “Not naked now, Your Highness.”
“And what an improvement that is,” Laurent agreed. “Pity you Akielons have not discovered more than a few clumsily-tied leather straps to protect your skin.”
Damianos huffed, as if Laurent were the ridiculous one here. He shifted his weight back and forth, eyeing the steed that had wisely retreated to dry land. “Those delicate things?” he asked, pointing to Laurent’s heeled boots. “You can barely walk. They are too high.”
“I can walk anywhere in these,” Laurent declared loftily. “Whereas you are stopped by a speck of mud.”
As he strolled toward Damianos’ overlarge steed, Damianos called out, “Prince Laurent, if I die here, I promise Nikandros will blame your little yellow head.”
“My head is not yellow,” scoffed Laurent. “And I am not stealing your horse, you imbecile.”
Turning his back on the struggling Prince, he focused on the horse in front of him. A carrot pulled from a jacket pocket was eagerly accepted. “He does not take very good care of you, does he?” Laurent crooned, giving the poor thing much deserved strokes along its thick black neck. “Now, I know he is a fool, but there is another carrot if you walk over to him and let him back on, dirty feet and all.”
The horse was well trained and did not truly need any coaxing, but it caused Damianos to huff several times which was greatly entertaining. His boots sensibly reached up to his knees, allowing Laurent to walk straight into the mud. He guided the horse until its flank faced Damianos.
When the prince failed to clamber into the saddle, Laurent carefully explained, “You pull out your left foot. And place it in the left stirrup. Then pull out your right foot —”
“Yes, yes,” Damianos interrupted. He paused a moment longer, in favour of shooting Laurent strange looks, before finally mounting.
Together, they made their way back to the temporary basecamp. “Do you wish to ride?” Damianos offered him.
“Because of my delicate boots?” Laurent countered.
“No, I —”
“I’m fine,” he replied shortly.
Before Damianos could insult him further, a voice ahead shouted the Akielon honourific for royalty. “Exalted!” The voice coalesced into a figure. Disappointingly, it was that Nikandros person.
Laurent received nothing more than a cursory “Your Highness” as Nikandros rapidly spoke back and forth with Damianos. There was a lot of gesturing, with laughing on Damianos’ part and scowling on Nikandros’ part.
Finally, Nikandros turned to Laurent and gave a small bow. “My thanks, Your Highness.”
Laurent blinked.
Damianos bent at the waist toward Laurent, practically leaning out of his saddle, and Laurent considered whether that was how the prince found himself in the bog to begin with. “I made your rescue sound bigger,” Damianos whispered. With a toothy, dimple-revealing grin, he added, “My hero.”
Laurent’s stomach twisted, almost like a sudden nausea, and he stumbled over a root.
The two Akielons fell quiet. “You did not join the boar fight,” Laurent observed. “Do you barbarians not still practice animal sacrifice?”
An angry sound came from Nikandros, but Damianos waved him away. “Of course we do,” he agreed easily. “I think this is more exciting.”
“Getting trapped in a bog?”
“‘Bog’?” Damianos repeated very slowly. Then, “It is more exciting, is it not?”
The fall of his hair concealed Laurent’s small smile as he shook his head. Privately, he agreed.
XI.
The Akielons’ two weeks were almost up. Laurent accepted this. He understood now that a friendship between himself and Damianos was incompatible; Laurent was the waxy remnant of a fading candle held up against his brother’s sun. Damianos could hardly be blamed for preferring the sun.
Laurent resolved to leave the two uninterrupted for the remaining few days, contenting himself with the knowledge that soon Damianos would be an entire country away and he would recapture his brother’s singular regard.
He curled up on a cushioned windowsill in the library. With the current positioning of the sun, he unfortunately had to settle for a sill clearly visible from the room’s double-wide entrance. But it would be fine today, for Father was occupied by more important tasks than berating Laurent for having his nose in a book once again.
When someone entered the library, Laurent pointedly did not look up; he found the most tedious people tended to misinterpret fleeting glances as conversational invitations.
“Prince Laurent.”
It was Damianos. Of course.
“Are you lost?” Laurent asked, staring coolly at the book in front of him. “You will find long sticks to beat others with at the training grounds.”
Damianos failed to leave and Laurent flipped a page, though he had not finished reading it.
“That looks like —” Damianos paused, said something in his own tongue. “The wolf hides in a sheep.”
Laurent held a book of simple children’s fables. Auguste used to read it to him, and it was a childish source of comfort during moments of loneliness. As the back of his neck heated, he fought a temptation to slam the book shut.
“That looks nothing like a wolf,” scoffed Laurent.
Instead of being rebuffed, Damianos stepped closer until he towered over Laurent’s huddled form. “In Akielos, we have a story of a wolf who hides in a sheep,” he said, as if Laurent was incapable of such a simple deduction. “Is this lion wearing a small horse?”
“No, it’s not a small horse.” Laurent flipped through the pages until he found another fable bearing a clearer illustration of a mule. Laurent told him the word, and listened as Damianos tried it out a few times.
“Mule. It is a lion and mule, in Vere?”
“Yes,” Laurent agreed as he returned to the story.
“Is this your favoured story?” Damianos asked. “It fits you.”
Laurent flatly replied, “You think I am deceitful.”
Damianos frowned. “You like to watch,” he slowly explained. “You watch to protect your brother. You are like… May I?” He gestured at the book.
Laurent hesitated, for Maman had read this book to Auguste, who had read it to Laurent. “Be careful,” he finally said.
Damianos lifted the book from Laurent’s outstretched hands with extreme care. As if bearing the weight of a stone pillar, he shuffled over so he could settle on the sill by Laurent’s feet. Each turn of a page held tenderness that belied his large hands and thick fingers. Finally, he landed on The Fox and the Grapes .
“I do not know this story. But you are like this.” Damianos pointed to the fox.
Another comparison Laurent found less than flattering.
Then Damianos said, “Smart. But you are good.”
Curling his knees closer to his chest, Laurent squeezed both hands closed to keep from fidgeting. He did not know what to say as the initial flash of indignation faded to a warmth that spread from his neck to his throat, face, chest. “Fox,” he whispered. “That’s a fox.”
Damianos hummed, and did not glance up from the illustration. Shifting forward, Laurent made a familiar path through the stories with his fingers until he landed on his favourite. Its page was slightly more worn than the others. “The Lion and the Mouse,” he read out. “This is my favourite.”
It was him and Auguste: Auguste was the lion, so powerful and majestic that he could easily consume Laurent whole. It was only by his mighty benevolence that the mouse, Laurent, remained by his side. And like the mouse, Laurent would one day repay Auguste when he became king, protect him.
“I do not know this either,” Damianos said. His finger trailed over the illustration of the great lion trapped in a hunter’s net as the tiny little mouse hurriedly chewed through the rope. “And I read Veretian even less than I speak it, Your Highness.” His smile was rueful.
Gingerly, he eased the book closed and handed it back to Laurent. Instead of resuming his reading, he stared at the love-worn leather cover. “My brother is probably looking for you, Prince Damianos,” he murmured.
“Damen.”
Laurent looked up. His gaze rested on the corner of Damianos’ grin, displaying that strange little dimple, then up to his dark eyes. “Pardon?” he breathed.
“Please, call me Damen.”
Laurent might have said thank you. He might have tried out the privileged name, or given Damianos permission to use his own name sans title.
Instead, his eyes widened and his face was aflame. He leapt off the windowsill, muttered something about treaties, and raced out of the room.
XII.
“Attend me faster,” Laurent ordered the servants dressing him the morning of the Akielons’ departure. Then he skipped breakfast, waltzed down to the royal stables, and slipped into the stall housing the sleek black steed that had to bear the weight of Akielos’ giant prince.
He was yet to be tacked, and was treated to a gentle brushing as Laurent murmured into his ear. Well, into his neck; he was ridiculously sized as his owner.
“I will tuck some treats into the saddlebag,” Laurent promised. “So should Prince —” He pursed his lips, still shy to use the familiar name he had been granted. “Should Damen refuse to give you any, you must buck him off. Preferably into another bog. Understood?”
The steed was not as responsive as Laurent’s pony or Auguste’s mare; it made Laurent a little sad, but perhaps he could convince Auguste to sneak a clause to ‘be sweeter to your horses’ into negotiations with the Akielons.
He slipped out of the pen just as the stableboys ambled over to prepare the royals’ horses. Of course, it did not raise any suspicions for him to visit Veretian horses and on his way out, Laurent stopped to give his pony an apple and some pats, and then Auguste’s mare as well.
By the time he raced over to the front steps of the palace, he was the last person to arrive and unable to conceal his breathlessness. He watched Auguste and Damianos give each other respectful head bows, then simultaneously break into smiles and make odd motions of slapping each other’s shoulders. It elicited subtle but unmistakably disapproving looks from their respective father-kings.
Damianos looked over his shoulder to his and King Theomedes’ horses, currently being walked over, and spotted Laurent. Laurent remained rooted to the spot, posture rigid; it was improper because Damianos was older and higher in status and a guest, but he walked all the way over to Laurent. His nerves were simultaneously worsened and lessened by the smile Damianos sent him.
“It is glad you did not fall off your horse this time,” Damianos said in lieu of a greeting. “Or have a cough.”
“A cough,” Laurent repeated sceptically. “Surely I was on my deathbed.”
All he received was a laugh. Laurent scowled, shoving a parcel into the Prince’s midsection with enough force to compel a small huff from his lips. “I hope your abysmal Veretian can handle this.”
As in the library, those gigantic fingers devoted outlandish care to pulling open the ribbon that bound the parcel closed and then peeling back the cloth wrapping. Laurent felt a little weak. He had thought Damianos would not open it in front of him.
When the worn book was revealed, Damianos’ beaming smile settled into something almost unbearably tender, no teeth or dimple in sight. “Laurent,” he breathed. Then, eyes widening, he scrambled to correct himself. “ Prince Laurent —”
“No,” interrupted Laurent. “Just… Laurent.” Bashfully, he added, “Damen.”
A large hand came toward him and Laurent stiffened, expecting the jarring slap he had witnessed his brother weather. Instead, it was a gentle, brief clasp of his shoulder. “Laurent,” he repeated. “Thank you. I will protect this until I return.”
“If you have trouble with any of the words, you could write to me,” Laurent offered, illogically. Perhaps the barbarian was infecting him. Hurriedly, he added, “Of course, I will learn Akielon faster than you will learn Veretian.”
“I think so, too,” agreed Damianos, as if it cost him nothing to admit. “Little fox.”
As the Akielons departed, Auguste joined Laurent’s side and together they watched the road until the retinue was long out of sight. Laurent allowed himself to hold and tightly squeeze Auguste’s hand, but only because he had missed his brother so much.