Chapter Text
Once, a King came, and he was a great King.
His people flourished on their island, their shores white-gold sand and their seas the bright azure of a hot summer sky: underneath the relentless sun their crops grew tall and their sons grew strong, and all was well.
His island, his Kingdom, was called Crete, and its name was known throughout the world: they spoke of the place as far as the fertile flood plains of Egypt, as far as the rolling hills of the great Babylonian Kings; the traders of Crete swapped fine cloth and worked metal with the traders of Phoenicia, collecting spices and dyes from people whose names have long since been forgotten by the turning sands of time.
And the King sat in the white stone of his palace, surrounded by the silver of a thousand great craftsmen, his line secure in his children, and should have been content.
But he was not.
His name was Thror, and he was not a bad man: those that do the world the most harm rarely are. Criminals can be kindly to their kin, with hearts as broad and encompassing as the starlight for those that they love, as was Thror; he was a good father, and compassionate to his people. None went hungry in his Kingdom, nor was there any child without a roof over their heads. But though he had so much, he longed still for more.
He put swords in the hands of his traders, spears in the grip of his fishermen, and the women wept to see their husbands and sons trained as soldiers, crying to the Gods in despair as their hearts grew hard with the brutalities of war. Once they had been a peaceful people, but now sons were taken from their mother’s breasts and taught to kill, and daughters grew up knowing fear of these violent men, who would return home so different than the young boys they had once played with so carelessly in the turning sea foam of their fair shores.
Thror’s armies spread far and wide, yet still the King was not satisfied: spoils came from across the world, gold and gems and the dented swords of a hundred defeated Kings, but it was never enough to fill the strange and aching fear in his chest, the fear that his name was as transient as the lives of the flies that settled on the dead left in the wake of his armies. Who would remember him, long after he was dead, if he did not make sure that his name was carved into the stone of a thousand cities?
And so the armies continued on their bloody path, and one by one each Kingdom fell to the sound of the Cretan drumbeats at their gates: some fought back, and punishment was swift and brutal. Most simply surrendered, knowing well the value of their lives.
Thror read his reports, sent by the great naval ships that had once been simple merchant vessels, and grew angry. For with each conquered land his army grew smaller, men lost each time, and still he believed that it wasn't good enough. So he retreated into his private rooms, and turned his hand to strange and dark tasks, the windows covered and the flickering candlelight dim, the ringing sound of a forger’s hammer echoing throughout the palace.
Far from Crete, the armies of their strange King reached a small city, an infant in history, young and full of promise. One day this city would grow and spread its own military wings: it would take freedom and it would claim countless lives, but it would also create, and it would craft, marble and bronze bright enough to spark envy and awe in all but the hardest hearts. It would think, and it would change the way that the rest of the world thought too, and its name would long be remembered. But for now it was a small place, with simple and fair folk who cared more for the sunlight than for forged swords, cared more for a full plate of food than shifting the political balance of the world. A child, still, with a fair and wise ruler, and its name was Athens.
Belladonna had taken the throne from the father when he had passed away only the year previously, and ruled with a singular assurance and strength: but when she had seen the advancing armies of the Cretans, she had ordered the city guards to lay their weapons down. They had not been trained for war, and she remembered their families, and would not see their blood spill if she could help it. She surrendered, not knowing what would come next, and hoping that her people would forgive her for not fighting.
She was young, and she was beautiful, and as she stood on the road that lead into their city she held her head high, and the armies stopped.
Her crown was in the dust before her, but there had never been a woman so noble, from the line of her jaw to the straightness of her spine, and her eyes pierced each man that she looked at with such sorrow that they felt, for the first time in so many years, their own grief at what they had done.
And so Thror’s armies did not sack her city: Belladonna had done nothing more than look at them, but it had been enough to remind them of every feeling they had forced to keep hidden away, in order to carry on.
It was enough.
They did not come closer, and they sent word to their King, and Belladonna prepared for the worst: her head, she thought, would be the least that Thror might claim. But then something strange happened, something that no priest or prophet could understand, something that not even the great oracles at Delphi or Dodoma could decipher: the armies left. They returned to Crete, and stowed away their swords, and picked up their fishing rods again, not the same men that they had been, but desperate to try and be themselves again.
And soon after, a missive came to Athens.
The Cretans would not return, they promised, as long as the Athenians did one thing for them, one small thing: every seven years, a boat would come, and Athens would send the strange island Kingdom seven young men, and seven young maidens. For this small price, they swore in the name of the Gods, they would have peace.
There was no choice to be made: the decree was not a question but an order, however it had been phrased, and with a heavy heart Belladonna sent back her reply, her seal in wax signalling her agreement.
Many years had passed since that long-ago day, and the city of Athens continued to grow under the wise hand of their Queen, as strong and sensible as she had ever been. But today, Bilbo watched his mother, and wished that there was something that he could do.
He had been born long after Belladonna had made her agreement with Thror, but he had grown in the shadows of it, knowing the reason why her eyes grew tired every seven years, as the months began to count down to the arrival of that Cretan ship, the constant shade of her decision weighing heavier on her with each passing year.
“Are you well?” he asked, even though he knew the answer: as she had done every time he had asked that week, she offered him a small smile and a nod, though her eyes remained fixed on the horizon. They could not see the sea from the great halls of their home, but she stared with enough determination that he could almost believe that she could, that she was already looking at that ship, with its great white sails and bright flag.
It had been due to arrive yesterday, but that meant nothing: the sea was an ally to no one, and brief delays like this were inevitable.
He glanced out the window too, but rather than out to the sky he found his eyes drawn to the great marketplace of the city, where already people were beginning to gather. Every year his mother seemed to leave the draw later than the last time, as if it was growing harder and harder for her to do it.
Bilbo could believe that that was the case: with each name that she drew from the great urns her shoulders seemed to slump, her head bow lower, and her smile further away.
She had not been the same, he knew, since his father had died two years ago, and this would be the first draw that she would have to go through with without his comforting presence at her side. Bungo had been a rock to Belladonna on the years of the draws, and Bilbo was not entirely convinced that he was up to the task of comforting her. What could he say, to make her feel better? That she had done the only thing that she could have done in the situation? That she had saved countless lives, that she had secured their city, all for such a small sacrifice – just fourteen youths, every seven years.
Two dead for every year that Athens remained standing was a small cost, but he was not young enough not to understand that those two lives weighed on Belladonna’s shoulders, keeping her awake at night, her dreams full of screams.
For they must be dead – there was no doubt of that. No one knew what happened to the sacrifices, but they never returned, and nothing was ever heard from them again. It was a foolish hope, to believe anything else.
From the shore came the ringing sound of horns, announcing that the ship had been spotted, and Belladonna exhaled, a sharp noise in the quiet of the room as the horns died away.
“Come,” she said, and her hand was soft as she pushed Bilbo’s curls from his face, already growing too long again. “It must be done.”
He rested a hand on her shoulder for a brief moment, and then offered her an arm, helping her down the staircase, and then out of the gates and into the street. The bright sunlight caught the copper of her crown and the silver in her hair, and he smiled at her, a little sadly, as they made their way through the strangely subdued streets to the marketplace.
This was the second reaping since he come of age: the first he barely remembered. He had not known any of the youths drawn that year, but his own fear at being picked had burnt those names into his mind, though every other part of the day had been a blur. He still spoke those names to himself sometimes, when he could not sleep, softly and under his breath, wondering what they would have been and what they could have done with the lives that were taken from them. It was one of the few things that all Athenians could all do: the names of the victims chosen might as well have been carved into the flesh of every one of them, for it felt now that every family had lost a child at one draw or another.
His mother carried all of those names, he knew: one of her brothers had been selected in the first year, and she still wore the bronze pendant that had once been carried around his neck.
He could barely find the space in his mind to be afraid this year, too busy helping his mother onto the dais and worrying about her, trying to work out how to comfort her in his mind: it was only when she pulled the first name from one urn that he remembered to be scared.
“Adaldrida, daughter of Flambard.”
The maidens, first, and something unpleasant seemed to weigh on his chest as families began to silently weep, each one chosen in turn. He had to look away from his cousin when Primula’s name was read aloud: Drogo’s eyes were bright with an anger and grief that Bilbo simply did not know how to comfort.
“Dora, daughter of Marroc.”
The cries were growing louder now, and it wasn't just the family of those chosen: this was a collective grief, one which they all shared, and now those who would call themselves enemies in other years held on to each other now, drawn together by this ineffable sense of community; strangers wept on each other’s shoulders as children they didn't know slowly walked through the crowd to the front, people touching their shoulders and arms as if in comfort, parting around them as if those children (and that one, she must only have just come of age, look how frail and small she is, how slender and weak her arms are, look at the terror in her eyes and look, Bilbo, because one day it will be you that has to do this and if your mother can look every one of them in their eyes then so can you) were boats parting the waves.
“Lily, daughter of Saradas.”
Belladonna went through the motions with the grace and dignity that she had always worn, though there was a slowness to her movements now that had not been there seven years ago. She was growing older, Bilbo realised, and more tired with it, and he felt all of a sudden as if he might cry too, for how low they had been brought, for their hopelessness, for their loss.
“Wiseman, son of Rorimac.”
Her voice was steady, no quaver to her tone indicating how close he knew she was to weeping; she was always so strong, and he often found himself wondering how he would ever learn to become as strong as she was, when he took her place on the throne, a day which he dreaded.
“Olo, son of Marcho.”
Bilbo only really became aware that there was something wrong when his mother paused: he glanced across at her, but her face was still, and grave, and as if in slow motion, he watched her mouth open, her lips pale and dry in the summer heat.
“Bilbo, son of Belladonna,” she said, and there were murmurs through the crowd.
He wasn’t sure what happened for the rest of the day: he remembered his grandmother crying, and his mother beating her hands against the colonnade of their courtyard until they bled, but they seemed strangely distant to him, lost in some fog of confusion. This couldn't really be happening, surely? He wasn't really going to have to get on that boat, wasn't really being lead down to the docks, wasn't really standing in line with the other sacrifices, listening to his mother bid them farewell.
She told them that their names would always be remembered, and that they were loved, so very loved, but it seemed to him to be nothing more than the wind in the olive tree that grew outside his window; insubstantial, barely there.
It was only as she embraced him, the sea rough against the port, the salt spray sharp against his cheek, that he really understood that he was going.
“I love you,” Belladonna told him, and she didn't make him promise to come back.
He boarded the boat without saying anything more to her, though he would come to regret that in the weeks on the sea, when the storms raged against the side of the ship and the other sacrifices offered prayers to any God above that might have been listening. The youths that they had sent, each and every seventh year, had never come back, and he had heard every possible rumour about what happened over on Crete. From the men that ferried the ship, from the merchants and sailors that landed there, from the old men and women that still muttered under their breaths about the time that Thror’s armies had come and then had left again.
They knew little about the island, other than its wealth, which was beyond compare: even though Thror’s armies had retreated after a time, they had taken enough gold with them to set up the Kingdom for centuries to come. The trading was always good: merchants always sold their wares for a high price there, their spices and dyes and fabrics from far off lands far beyond Bilbo’s knowledge, and were traded in turn for fine silks, and silver goods. It was those that came in turn to Athens, in their own time, along with the stories of a fine palace sat high on the hill, of a strong and beautiful royal line, of temples made of strong white stone, in which the Gods rested with plentiful sacrifice.
But what were those sacrifices?
What happened to those Athenians, barely more than children?
The tales told were all of those tributes being met by grand men, of carts with wheels of gold: the sailors who dropped them off said that they were greeted as if they were royalty, bowed to as if there were no one more important in this world. But after that, the stories dried up: they were lead up to the palace, were left in the care and goodwill of the King, and were never seen again.
That didn’t stop the rumours from circulating. Some said that they were sacrificed to the Gods, that it had only been human blood that had given Thror enough divine favour to spread his power so very far. Even worse stories told that it was Thror himself who consumed the victims, that every seventh year he would dance naked through the palace with the blood of innocents smeared across his face, that it was devouring the strength and youth of Athens that kept him so fierce, even now, in his silver years.
It was on these stories that Bilbo dwelled on the long journey, though he tried his hardest to put them from his mind, so that he might get to know the other Athenians, growing closer to these men and women that he otherwise might never have met. The weeks passed slowly, and as they grew closer their whispers of fear grew louder, and he heard more than one rumour that he never had before.
Primula tried talking to him about it, at one point during the journey. He had always liked her, despite them having rare enough occasion to meet, and had looked forward to her joining their small family, so that he might have a chance to get to know her better. The opportunity for that, at least, had come, even though it was in the worst of situations.
She was a pretty thing, all things told, with the dark hair of her family. It fell in gentle curls around her face, currently dry and a little wayward from the salt water and wind, but even the redness in her cheeks from the harsh weather could not distract from her charm. He himself had often wished, in his younger years, for the sort of gentle beauty that she had her family possessed. Despite his royal blood, his line had always strayed towards the plain: round-cheeked and good natured, copper-brown hair and eyes to match. But the older he had become the less he had come to care for such things, and the more he valued the good fortune he had been blessed with, the wise head his mother had passed on, the patience he had found in watching his father.
“Do you think any of those stories are true?” she asked him, staring quietly down at her lap. She had loved to draw, and now her hands moved as if they were still holding a stylus. Bilbo couldn’t help but wonder whether she would ever be given the chance to draw again.
Bilbo bit his lip, and watched the horizon.
“I doubt it,” he said, honestly. “I think if the King of Crete danced around in nothing but the blood of children, then there would be a lot more stories, and they’d have traveled a lot further.”
She laughed, then, though it wasn't a particularly happy sound.
“And besides,” he said, trying to be comforting, but not entirely sure that he was being successful. “Tales are always exaggerated, aren't they?”
She nodded, staring out at the slow bronzing of the horizon, growing
“Let’s talk of something brighter!” Bilbo declared, as the sun sank a little lower down the horizon, and they spoke instead of the betrothal between Primula and Drogo, a topic which made her laugh and blush all at the same time. They did not touch on the fact that Prim would never be given the opportunity, now, to wed Bilbo’s cousin. Bathed in the orange light of the setting sun, this was not a moment for sadness.
“And what of you?” she asked, when Bilbo’s teasing grew too much. “Much has been said about the heart of the eligible Prince of Athens, and his prospects. Apparently there is no young girl nor youth that has caught your eye, but I refuse to believe that there is no one at all who you have never been at least a little interested in.”
Some unspoken distance between them had been shed, in this brief moment of levity. No one had ever asked Bilbo that question before, apart from his mother, and now it was his turn to be embarrassed. He smiled, and rubbed his hair, and she laughed, a genuine and light hearted sound that drew the attention of the rest of the Athenian group, who moved a little closer at the sound, clearly listening. He perhaps should have been a little more embarrassed at that, but he couldn't bring himself to be. He smiled at his comrades.
“No, Prim,” he replied, only a little dishonestly. “There has never been anyone that, well, that is to say…”
“Oh come on,” said another, perhaps a little cheekily. “You can tell us. We’re not exactly going to tell anyone, are we?”
“Well, not now,” said someone else, and just then the brief moment of happiness was shattered.
“Aye,” Bilbo agreed, with a sigh.
There was a moment of silence, and Primula stared once more at the sun.
“Sorry,” she said, when the pause was stretching a little too thin. “It isn't really our place to ask, is it?”
Bilbo rested a hand on her elbow, squeezing a little in comfort.
“I am no longer a Prince, after all,” he told her and the rest. “We are all the same now, and that makes you all my kin, in a strange way.”
They glanced at each other, and Bilbo swallowed.
“And I know that we are all a little afraid of what is to come,” he continued, his voice a little thin. “I know that I certainly am, after all. But I will do my best, I promise you, to protect you all. I don’t know what I can do, but I will try.”
It didn't seem to comfort them all that much, but they did move a little closer, the group huddling together for some brief comfort in the cold spray coming off the seas, still running rough against the side of the ship. He knew full well that there would not be much that he would be able to do against whatever they were going to meet on the island, nothing that so many Athenians before him had failed to do, but he felt that he had to promise, for all that it might come to nothing.
A sailor called, at the other end of the ship, the call for land on the horizon.
None of the other Athenians made to look, but Bilbo stood, and turned. In the distance was the low bulk of an island, long and ominous in the growing dark of the evening.
They were here.
They were unloaded onto the docks quickly, and with little ceremony – Bilbo had expected more, if he was going to be honest with himself, perhaps some welcome or celebration, or at least the address of some person to greet them. But instead they stood, huddled together, waiting for someone or for some indication of what they should do, or where they were to go. The sun had long set: despite how close the island had looked earlier, it had taken hours for them to reach it, and now it was pitch black, the night set fully in, and the sailors were quick to unload both their cargo and their passengers, casting uncertain eyes around them as if they were afraid that something might leap from the dark and pull them down into the sea. There was no moonlight, the stars hidden by the heavy cloud, and he shivered in the strangely warm breeze that threatened to bring a storm later in the night.
“Hey!” Bilbo called out, as the sailors, back on their ship, began to slip back below the deck. “Where are we supposed to go?”
They didn't answer him: they simply glanced between themselves and disappeared from sight.
Prim took his hand in the dark, and he cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said, to his assembled kin. “I suppose, then, that we should-”
“Welcome,” came a low and unhappy voice from the darkness. “I am a little later than I intended.”
Bilbo squinted into the darkness, but could not make out the owner of the voice. There was a huff of laughter, and then a candle was lit, sheltered by a hand, and for a moment it illuminated the face of a man, tall and a little gaunt, frowning at the group of them, looking terribly unhappy.
“I’m Bard,” he told them, glancing up at the dark sky. “King Thror’s estate manager. He’s sent me here to collect you all.”
Prim’s hand gripped his a little tighter.
“Where are you taking us?”
He looked at her, a little confused, his frown deepening even further.
“To the palace,” he answered. “Where else would I be taking you?”
“What is going to happen to us?” another girl asked, but Bard just shook his head, refusing to answer. He gestured for them to follow him instead, and after a moment of hesitation they did, knowing full well that there wasn’t any other option for them. He lead them to a cart (certainly not plated in gold even in part, let alone in full) and loaded them up, passing thick wool blankets around for them to tuck themselves under to ward off the chill of the night. Bilbo hesitated for a moment, the last to get on, thinking of the strangely sad and perfunctory welcome that Bard had offered to them, before climbing up next to Bard at the front instead, sneaking one of the spare blankets to wrap around his shoulders. Bard looked at him a little strangely, but did not protest.
They took a long and slow route through the town, the quiet mules leading the cart through the meandering streets with little protest. Indeed, Bard seemed to have to do little to keep them on their course, as if they had walked this path so many times that they could walk it in their sleep – or, in this case, in the heavy night.
“What is the palace like?” he ventured, after a moment, and Bard glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. Bilbo just stared back. “Well, you work there, don’t you? Who is better to ask than the estate manager of the place?”
Bard huffed something that might have been a laugh, but he didn’t answer Bilbo’s question. They pulled out of the town, and out onto a slightly wider path that started to wind upwards, curving through the gentle foothills at the base of the cliffs. Bilbo couldn’t see where it was going, but there was a glow on the clifftop a little further away, just beyond what he could distinguish. The palace, he was sure.
He turned around, to see his comrades, most of whom were drifting off under the warmth of the blankets and the dark of the evening, the rocking of the cart a lull against the distant sound of the sea.
“Do you know why we’re here?” Bilbo asked, his voice quiet.
Bard sighed, then, keeping his eyes on the path in front of them, barely visible in the dark.
“You’re not going to tell me why, are you?”
Bard glanced at him, his eyes shadowed.
“Why do you think that you are here?”
There was a silence between them, one which he didn’t know how to break, too quiet and singularly significant by far. The cliffs rose above them, a dark and dramatic shadow against the grey-black of the sky. What Gods were watching, Bilbo wondered – who was up there, in the fathoms of the stars, keeping an eye on the movement of such insignificant men?
“I don’t know,” Bilbo replied finally, completely honestly. “I can’t even imagine what the King wants with us.”
Bard opened his mouth, as if he were about to say something more, but stopped himself at the last moment.
“It is not for me to say,” he answered, eventually, as they turned another corner.
“Look there,” Bard said instead, pointing out in front of them. “The palace.”
Bilbo’s eyes widened at the sight.
There is was indeed, just above them still, lit with what must have been a hundred torches, flaming bright against the night, gold and bronze firelight fighting the dark back and illuminating the great columns of the place, the vermilion paint, the huge golden doors that looked more like they should belong on a temple for the Gods, not on a dwelling for mere men.
“It’s beautiful,” he said, without quite meaning to, and Bard hummed a low sound of agreement.
He hadn’t expected it to look like that. He’d thought of it as intimidated, as threatening, as something to be afraid of, not as some great beacon of light against the creatures of the night, not as some place that made you feel, well… safe.
As they drew closer a group standing in front of the doors came into view, and he reached behind him, shaking the first Athenian he could reach.
“Wake them all up,” he whispered. “We’re here.”
One man strode down and away from the rest as the cart drew up to the front steps, his arms opening wide as if in welcome. He was a great, barrel-chested man, his shoulders only just starting to slump in age, his hair a thick mane of silver down his back, far longer than anyone would have worn it in Athens. His eyes were lined with sorrow, but there was a kindliness to his smile that put Bilbo immediately at ease, despite himself.
“Welcome,” he called out, his voice deep, as Bilbo stepped down from the cart, keeping one eye on his kin. “Welcome to the palace of Thror, and the island of Crete, jewel of the sea!” He smiled at them again, a little warmer than even before. “I am King Thror, and welcome to my home.”
To Bilbo’s surprise, he dropped into a bow, the great golden crown he wore across his brow glinting in the torchlight.
“Greetings, King Thror,” he replied, bowing even lower than the King, keeping one eye on him even as he did so. “And may I speak for all of my friends when I say that it is our honour indeed to be welcomed in person by you.”
Thror straightened up, and beamed at him, though there was some strange kind of sadness about his eyes that Bilbo couldn’t quite put his finger on.
He did not ask their names, but instead launched into a long speech about how pleased he was that they had all reached the shores of Crete safely. Bilbo only paid attention for the first few minutes, his gaze drifting instead to the others, still waiting at the top of the stairs, in front of the doors. Thror paused at one moment to introduce them his kin, letting Bilbo put names to their faces.
His son, Prince Thrain, a tall and fierce looking man, broad across the shoulder and frowning down at them. Then there was Thrain’s children: first Prince Thorin, whose gaze was fixed firmly on the distance, at the sea, indeterminate in the darkness but for the sound of it, a quiet and ever-present roar. Prince Frerin was smiling at them, his hair tied back in a long braid, and to his right was the Princess Dis, beautiful in the glow of the torchlight. Her husband and children stood just behind her, quiet and still and almost in the shadows.
Then Thrain’s wife stepped forward, Thalassa, beautiful in spite of her age, and she patted Thror on the shoulder and took over, offering them her own welcome as the woman of the house. She promised them food, and rest, and began to lead them inside, through quiet, warm corridors.
Just as Bilbo climbed the stairs, and levelled with the rest of the royal family, Prince Thorin turned, and glanced at him, before immediately looking away again.
Bilbo paused, for just a moment, waiting to see if Thorin would look back at them again.
He did not: Bilbo shrugged, and followed his kin inside.
They were lead through the palace with various instructions, promises uttered for anything that they might need, but he couldn’t shake the thought of that Prince’s eyes. There had been something about it that had made him wonder, once again, just what they were doing there, just what Thror wanted from them – Thorin had seemed so singularly sad, so full of an impossible grief that Bilbo had no name for - no, not just grief. It had been some indeterminate combination of grief and guilt, as mixed and inseparable as wine and water in a drinking cup.
They were brought to the rooms that would house them last of all, and Bilbo was careful to make sure that he was left to last, that all his friends were in their own rooms before he let the Queen lead him to his own. The fatigue had finally settled into his bones, aching from so many weeks spent at sea, and he sighed as she opened the door for him. He’d seen the rooms that his friends had been given through the doorways, and his was equal to theirs, in every way.
They were beautiful, as large as any that he had at home, the walls hung with dyed silks and the floors made of marble, polished to such a shine that the light from the torches caught them, reflected and glowing. The stone was warm to the touch, and the bed was wide, fine cotton thrown across the thick mattress of it, looking far too tempting after so many weeks curled up on the ship, and the long hours of the night spent so far on the cart.
There was a distant rumble of thunder, from somewhere far across the sea, and the gauze of the fabric pulled across the open windows billowed for a moment.
He sighed, once more, and bade the Queen goodnight, shutting them door behind her, shutting it on the entirely strange place.
The King had been welcoming, friendly even, far warmer than Bard had been, but there had been an odd nuance to his voice that had set Bilbo a little on edge, something about him that had made him wonder at just how genuine he had been. There had been something brittle to Prince Thrain’s expression, too, something hollow in the way that Prince Frerin had smiled, and the Princess Dis had not even bothered, looking at the whole scene with some sort of distant sadness, as if she hadn’t wanted to be there at all.
There was fresh fruit on the table, clean water and a fine smelling wine in jugs close by to it, and the promise of food to come whenever he should want to call. There was a bed to sleep in, and through an open doorway he could see a bathtub, full of steaming water, that would no doubt ease every ache that he felt throughout his body. He took a step closer, catching the scent of the oils that had been mixed in. His skin would be soft, and supple after a bath like that, the salt finally gone from him. He could rub those oils through his hair until the coarseness of it had been dispelled entirely.
Oh, and it was tempting.
What else had their escort said? That if they should call, a slave would be sent to rub down their aching muscles, to ease every pain that they had developed, on board the ship. And fine clothes would be sent to them too, the best fabric that they had in the palace, clean and soft.
And then he could sleep, couldn’t he?
But though he longed to relax, to slip from this strange dream that his nightmare had somehow morphed into, he couldn’t quite help but feel on edge still, as if there was something about this that he had missed, something that he hadn’t considered.
Everything felt very… strange, he thought, and not at all what he had expected, and he stood in the middle of the large room for a moment, wondering at just how wrong it all seemed to be, at least to him. But as he exhaled, wondering what there was to do, he happened to glance at the other side of the room, only to glance suddenly back as he caught sight of something. There was a strange shadow along the line of light underneath the door, and he edged a little closer, his breath easing out and growing slower as he did. He paused, and cracked the door open a little, making sure to remain silent as he peeked outside.
It was as he thought.
Propped up against the doorframe, bronze sword glinting at his belt, was a guard, holding his post firm.
He was not a guest, and it would do him well to remember.
He was a prisoner.