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Still flush from his victory in wrestling, Damen made a ceremonial promenade along the arena’s stands, waving in gratitude as the crowds applauded their prince. Sharp cries intermingled with whooping cheers, stomping feet and clapping hands. Pride swelled in his chest as he absorbed their joy and veneration, sounds that would echo in his mind in the late hours of the night, long after whatever slave or competitor warming his sheets tonight left.
No, not a slave, he reminded himself; after years of browbeating and heated diatribes, the young Veretian prince, Laurent, had dissuaded him from partaking in the exploitative practice any longer. Royalty though he may be, Damen was only one man of course, and he had no hope of persuading his father toward abolishment. This, Laurent understood; though, having finally succeeded in converting Damen, the little prince had set his sights on the long game: already, he spoke of his grand plans once Damen ascended, as if it were a simple matter to suggest ruling another’s country — especially decades before such an opportunity might present itself.
Damen turned back toward the royal dais, and the air seemed to no longer carry the roaring applause. Sounds faded to silence. His gaze had landed on a slim form practically dangling from the lowest row of onlookers. As though the exertion of wrestling was negligible, Damen’s pulse managed to quicken even more. And if eagerness for the upcoming okton happened to suddenly seize him and hasten his steps, that was understandable.
Redness tinged the fine slopes of Laurent’s cheeks. He recalled Laurent earlier waving off a palm leaf bearing slave who offered to fan him, but knew the Akielon heat alone was not to blame. Even after all these years, Laurent had yet to grow accustomed to the Akielon method of wrestling; his fussy Veretian upbringing made it difficult to dissociate nudity for sports from some innate sexualness. Though there was hope, with further time: Damen had recently succeeded in cajoling Laurent’s older brother into wrestling naked. (Auguste had, however, turned down the opportunity to showcase his growing talent at today’s tourney.)
The grin Damen bore widened at the thought of Laurent, who always tried so hard to maintain an air of unaffectedness, torn between remaining unflappably stone-faced or averting his gaze while watching the wrestling matches.
Currently, the younger prince leaned over the stands to wave a piece of blue-coloured fabric in the air. Each sweep of his arm would appear disinterested, the arc languid, if one did not know Laurent. Did not appreciate the sheer unexpectedness that Laurent should exert himself even this much, for no other purpose than to catch Damen’s eye. As if he could not achieve that by simply standing amongst the crowd.
Damen came to a stop directly in front of Laurent. The arm stilled to an insouciant dangle from the railing. A twitch of a finger made it clear the waving was not merely to gain Damen’s eye, but to present an offering. Damen reached up, gratified at the slight frown Laurent assumed when he was forced even further onto his toes, to bend forward a little more. Cool silk pooled into the palm of Damen’s hand. He stretched the last few centimetres, needlessly. Their fingers brushed.
Laurent’s hair had fallen loose from its usual confinement, spilling down to frame his face. The mid-day sun lit up his expression. It sparkled in his bright blue eyes and caught in his hair, as though his golden head threatened to hoard all its warmth.
Breathing was difficult, Damen noticed.
Shielded from onlookers by the fall of his hair, Laurent’s mouth adopted a smile. Small and unsure, almost unbearable in its shyness. Damen was thankful for the privacy. But with the okton calling him, Damen slipped from the gentle curl of Laurent’s fingertips against his own. He held the cloth toward his chest and Laurent gave a final, pleased look before straightening.
Off to the left in the stands, a rapid movement caught Damen’s attention. Forced to look away from the prince, only for a moment, Damen was displeased to see a slyly grinning face. It was Lazar, a mercenary the Veretian delegation had inexplicably acquired somewhere along the way between Arles and Ios —
Damen did not approve of him. Less so for his disreputable occupation, and more so because the first thing he had said to Damen was, “I’ll happily make my pledges between the golden prince’s legs,” and, shooting Laurent an appraising look, “Both of them, actually, once that one’s a little older.” Damen had challenged him to a duel for the princes’ honour but Auguste only laughed at Lazar’s concept of ‘pledges’ and said, “I’m afraid I only accept those from the fairer sex.” Though the humour fell from his expression when he added, “Laurent would castrate you with words alone before you could get anywhere near him.”
The threat had had an unintended effect. He could still remember Lazar’s widening leer. “That’s part of the thrill.”
— Having caught Damen’s attention, Lazar gestured at his left shoulder. Damen’s scowl was immediate. The deviant made his appreciation of Akielon wrestling well known, having nearly deafened half the stand with shrill whistles aimed at one young competitor, Pallas, in particular. Lazar continued to point down at Damen, then his own left shoulder. The crude meaning of the gesture was plain: he wished for Damen to unpin the chiton he had only just redonned.
The prickle of a bead of sweat, clinging to the curve of his brow and threatening to fall into his eye, distracted him. In an automatic reaction, his hand dragged the cloth he held across his forehead, then the rest of his face, eyes falling half-closed at the small relief.
When he looked back up, Laurent appeared — stunned. The heavy fan of his lashes had vanished in the widening of his eyes. His petite mouth fell into a subtle parting. Whereas before his cheeks held a trace of red, his sun-starved complexion now flooded with colour. A sight Damen was quickly robbed of, for Laurent turned on his heel and flounced back toward the royal dais. As his gaze helplessly followed Laurent’s path with more than a little bemusement, Damen inevitably caught sight of Auguste.
Vere’s Crown Prince was, ironically, as far from Veretian as one could be; he lacked talent with deception, and exercised little control over emotional displays. The look he had now was not one he wore often, yet was plainly obvious: he was livid.
Likely, Lazar had made some comment about Laurent’s backside when the younger prince was bent over, careless with both words and volume and inciting Auguste’s wrath. There was little time to ponder this as Damen’s friend Nikandros appeared, ushering him toward the other competitors who all waited to draw lots. He handed the soiled cloth to Nikandros for disposal.
Damen won the okton. When he returned to the royal dais to receive his crown of laurel leaves, Laurent was conspicuously absent; Auguste, present, was conspicuous in his sour mood and did not muster so much as a smile or a congratulatory slap for Damen’s shoulder.
He had every intention of addressing Auguste’s strange mood directly but when Nikandros dragged him away, he allowed it. To improve his training, it was customary for Nikandros to give a detailed analysis of Damen’s strengths and weaknesses in the okton, and dealing with the Veretian prince could come later.
Auguste, as it turned out, felt a greater urgency about it.
“Damianos, I challenge you to a duel.”
Damen and Nikandros turned, Damen with raised brows and Nikandros with a hand on the hilt of his sword. At Damen’s signal, the hand fell away.
“Auguste, if you wished to fight,” said Damen. “Why deprive the people of such a display?”
“I do not challenge you for the sake of clout or renown,” Auguste spat. “But for my brother’s dignity and heart.”
Damen laughed. Perhaps unwise, but he did not know what was more preposterous: the thought that Laurent’s dignity was in question, or that his tightly-guarded heart could even suffer some imagined harm.
“Brother of Vere.” This time, Damen assumed a seriousness and formality that had never coloured their interactions but was now due in the face of Auguste’s brandished sword. “If I have caused Laurent an offence, I would have you tell me. But —” He motioned to the blade at his own hip. “I cannot allow your challenge to go unheeded, if you do not desist.”
“Wait.”
It was Nikandros, who had first threatened to draw his blade on the Veretian prince, that now interjected. “Your guard — Jord — tried to explain to me during the okton.” From within the folds of his chiton, he withdrew something. “The noise was too great to hear.”
As Nikandros presented the fine material in his outstretched hand, Damen realised the cloth Laurent had given him earlier was not blue after all. At least, it was not a true blue. In certain strikes of the light it might appear so, but now its green hue was unmistakable.
He thought of Laurent’s hair, cascading down the stands earlier when normally, it was constrained by the careful bow that Auguste always tied. Tied with a teal-coloured strip of cloth, one which was perhaps not immediately recognisable against the dark tone of Damen’s skin, so used as he was to its pleasant contrast against bright blonde locks. The very one, Damen was growing alarmingly sure, he had used to wipe sweat and grit and remnants of oil from his face.
“I thought it a cloth,” said Damen slowly. “To clean myself.”
In silence, Auguste examined Damen for a moment with unusual intensity. Then his posture slackened, suddenly, and he sheathed his blade. “There has been a misunderstanding.”
Huffing, Damen crossed his arms. “One that could have left a kingdom without an heir.” If he ever dared to hope the cultural differences between them might become less confounding, he was sorely mistaken.
Ignoring his remark, Auguste said, “You mean to tell me that Akielos has no concept of favours? Surely there is a comparable custom, at the very least.”
“Favours.” Damen repeated the Veretian word, slowly; a familiar term in an unfamiliar context. “I agree he did me a great favour by offering me a piece of cloth in this heat, but it is one that is hard for me to return.” He gestured to his chiton, a single piece of fabric.
Auguste stared at him a moment, then cursed under his breath. It was an inventive string of words, even for a Veretian. “That is not the favour I speak of,” he said. Before Damen could demand further explanation, he sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “It is a token, usually a small piece of clothing, that you give to someone before a tournament or even war. To bring them luck, and remind them of you.”
In a princely effort to defuse the hostility between them, between their countries and cultures, Damen nodded wisely. “I see,” he said.
He did not.
Once again Auguste sighed and rubbed at his chin, looking around as if he feared being overheard. “It has meaning. Significance.”
“Yes,” agreed Damen. “I know how much it means to him. He wears it almost every day.”
A fledgling hopefulness that had started to grow in Auguste’s expression fell away. “The ribbon can be washed,” he dismissed. “The act is what matters.”
Damen considered, again, his chiton. Though bearing some ornate decorations for the tourney, it meant little to him. Gladly he would have torn a piece off to give to Laurent, if that was the Veretian expectation, but such an act was only likely to invite derisive comments about ‘barbarians’ eagerly ripping off their ‘handkerchief dresses’ when given the slightest opportunity.
“It was foolish of me to believe you would ever —” Auguste paused. “Damen, forgive my lack of faith. I thought you had purposefully spurned Laurent.”
“I will wear this charm of luck with great pride,” he promised. “And I will return this favour with a worthy gift.”
But instead of being relieved, Auguste’s pinched features betrayed an inner conflict. His eyes, like his hair, were a few shades darker than Laurent’s. “You know my loyalty is to my brother, beyond all else.”
A familiar flash of frustration burst in Damen’s chest. “A piece of ribbon mistaken for a handkerchief, and you question my loyalty? To Laurent?”
“Peace, Damen,” Auguste warned, holding up his hands in surrender. “I only mean — I cannot counsel you any further.”
Even the most plain-spoken Veretian could be infuriatingly cryptic. Damen typically looked toward Auguste’s ascension, in the distant future, with both brotherly pride and diplomatic anticipation. Currently, he felt little of either.
“You counsel me that I should have worn his ribbon during the okton,” argued Damen. “That I caused him offence by not doing so.”
“Yes,” Auguste agreed and, to his credit, he looked as frustrated as Damen felt. The draw of a blade was tempting. It would be a far more productive exercise.
Nikandros groaned.
A distinctly displeased expression overtook his features as both princes turned toward him. His back was straight and his hands clasped behind his back — a posture he tended to adopt when he was reminded, suddenly and unpleasantly, of the station between them.
“What is it, friend?” Damen gripped his shoulder in a calming, comradely gesture.
Nikandros met Damen’s gaze with some difficulty. “I think I understand,” he said, flatly and between clenched teeth, as if finding every word regrettable.
This was glad news, and Damen stepped closer, grabbing Nikandros’ other shoulder. “Tell me.”
“The Prince.” Nikandros spoke with agonising slowness. “Has offered you a gift of his heart.”
This time, Damen did not laugh. He was struck.
“Damen, my brother hides it well,” Auguste cut in. “But his heart is tender. If you give him hope where there is none —”
The ribbon was seized from Nikandros’ grip, and the rest of Auguste’s warning went unheard.
It was hard to say whether Laurent wanted to be found or not. The stables were predictable, for they were amongst Laurent’s favourite places (in addition to the library and his brother’s side). Yet sometimes he seemed perplexed, almost surprised, that Damen should notice such things.
Nothing changed, as he entered the pen holding Laurent’s mare: Laurent’s posture did not stiffen, nor the journey of his hand down her mane slow or quicken. In fact, he did not acknowledge Damen’s presence in any overt way, yet the shift in his mood was palpable to Damen. As if the heavens were tied to his mercurial temperament, as if the very air stilled for his cool displeasure.
With careful steps forward, Damen approached the vicious animal that was a caged and cornered Laurent. The crunch of hay under Damen’s sandalled feet joined the rhythmic scratch of bristles that filled the stall as Laurent continued with brushing.
He momentarily considered testing Laurent’s composure; allowing them both to stand in silence until Laurent graced him with a snarl or perhaps a serene, uncaring glance. But he found himself lacking in patience; and, he supposed, Laurent had already played his move.
It was Damen’s turn.
His hand shot out, covering Laurent’s over the brush. There was some initial resistance, then Laurent’s muscles relaxed, as if assured of his own control over the situation. He did not turn around and, reluctant to turn him around forcibly, Damen found himself blocked by the mare. Being in such close proximity, she now began to react: her nostrils flared and she snorted, butting her head against Damen’s arm and side. Just before her giant teeth could close around his chiton, he withdrew from a fold in the material two objects. One he tossed to the mare’s right.
She sighed, evidently tired of their games, and sauntered toward the apple as it rolled across the floor.
“How clever.” Laurent’s tone was bland. “One beast understands another.”
With nothing between them, their hands had dropped. He stepped into Laurent’s view, carefully watching his expression.
Slanted blue eyes slid to Damen’s left shoulder, to a knot of teal ribbon. The ends spooled, untied, down his left breast.
Nothing shifted in Laurent’s gaze as he looked back up, but a flush now painted his cheeks. “Should I be impressed?” he asked limpidly. “Your skill with a knot is lacking.”
Damen smiled.
The flush darkened.
Smile growing, Damen bowed his head and gave into a gradual forward lean. A flicker of tension appeared between Laurent’s brows just before Damen's lips pressed against the crown of his head. Before retreating, Damen let his forehead rest against Laurent’s, barely a breath, to drink in a furled nose and pinched lips.
Laurent demanded, “What was that?” His narrow-eyed look was apprehensive, as if he suspected Damen’s lips of poisoning him somehow.
“Have you never been kissed before?”
“Is that what you would call it?”
With an easy grin, Damen said, “I can show you more, if you’d like.”
“I,” Laurent stumbled over his words. The flush threatened to overtake his entire complexion. “Would not.”
Damen reached for the absurd jacket Laurent wore despite the heat, and his hands were immediately slapped. “Unhand me, you brute!” Laurent snapped. But Damen, undeterred, worked warmed metal under his fingers until it fastened to thick cloth.
He pulled away.
Even in the dim light of the stable, the gold glimmered against the dark fabric. It offered an undeniable contrast that drew the eye, leaving none unaware of the lion now pinned over Laurent’s heart.
“You take liberties.” The claim and its sharp tone were belied by a gently approving curve that appeared at the corner of Laurent’s mouth.
Damen leaned down once more, relishing every flick of Laurent’s gaze as the younger prince tracked his movements, trying to anticipate his next move. “I take nothing that is not offered to me,” he said.
Laurent considered this. Then, he presented Damen with the slightest dip of his chin.
Once more, Damen smothered his smile against Laurent’s crown. Nimble fingers brushed against his bare skin, a tease, as Laurent plucked at the ribbon. “You cannot hope to ever court me one day, if you are conquered by a simple knot.”
The pleasant warmth spreading in Damen’s chest halted. “We are courting now,” he said firmly. Laurent was young, yes, but he knew his mind, and marriage would come later, at an appropriate age.
Laurent raised a brow. Then he laughed, a sweet, breathless sound. “I am Veretian,” he said. “You think to win my hand so easily?”
Visions of the future stretched out in front of him: weeks, months, perhaps even years. Of making grand shows of wealth for someone who had the wealth of a nation; finding gifts to please one with little material attachment. Meeting Laurent’s fussy and exacting standards. Proving himself as capable a protector as Auguste. Circumventing Vere’s no doubt convoluted rituals and tribulations while also gaining the approval of King Aleron.
An arduous journey lay before him, all to earn the honour of requesting the possibility of courting Laurent. But as he stared down into Laurent’s bright eyes and watched the mischievous tilt of his mouth, he knew there was no other for him.