Chapter Text
The world moved in slow motion. It was as if a handful of moments had stretched out into an eternity as Damen’s mind gave way to instinct, thought traded for movement.
There was a man in front of him. Then that man was dead, Damen’s sword removing his head from his shoulders. Another assassin advanced, brandishing a wicked looking dagger. His eyes were on Laurent, where Damen had instinctively pushed him behind. Damen grabbed that man’s wrist and twisted, bringing the man to the ground. He slammed his fist brutally into his head just as a wet, pained noise came from behind.
The world suddenly rushed back into real time as a third assassin pulled a dagger out of Laurent’s back. Laurent’s eyes were wide, another sound escaping his parted lips. He collapsed at the knees, then into Damen’s arms.
“Long live the King,” the assassin hissed just before Nikandros, having been barely a dozen paces behind them, slit his throat.
Damen couldn’t draw breath to shout, which was ridiculous. He hadn’t been stabbed. Laurent had. Laurent, who was bleeding, his hands fisted in Damen’s jacket, his lips parted. Trembling, Damen tried to cover the wound, but he couldn’t tell where it was. Laurent’s entire side was a darker blue than his clothing, but red spiderwebbed across Damen’s knuckles when he pressed his hand to the wet fabric.
“‘Get me a physician!” Nikandros roared. He knelt beside them. “Exalted, we have to get him inside.”
Damen blinked at him. His mind flashed between the present moment, in the garden he and Laurent walked through regularly, and five years ago, when he’d been bleeding out in the slave baths and pronounced King. He thought, I should be the one bleeding.
“--you hear me? Damen!”
Snapping back to the present, Laurent heavy in his arms, Damen pushed mightily to his feet. He needed to get them out of the garden. Into somewhere with limited exits, where he could be sure that only people he let in were in the room. He didn’t let himself look at Laurent’s face as he made his way as quickly as possible up the marble steps, back into the palace. Every face he saw was an enemy, every guard a threat.
Nikandros shoved through the crowd that had formed ahead of them, shouting commands and pushing people that stayed too long in the way. Despite that, it still felt like an eternity before they reached the Kings’ private quarters.
“Where the fuck is the physician?” Nikandros shouted in Akielon, to a poor Veretain guard. Realizing his mistake as Damen pushed past him into the room, he said, “Medic, idiot!” in sloppy Veretain.
Damen laid Laurent on their bed. He could feel every single beat of his heart all the way in his throat as his finger’s fumbled on the stupid fucking laces that held Laurent’s jacket together.
Then Nikandros was there, a knife in his hand, and Damen moved without thought, lunging for him.
“To cut the ties,” Nik panted as Damen forced him face first into the wall. “That’s what the knife is for. Damen, just cut the ties.”
It took Damen’s mind an extra, crucial moment to understand. Nikandros hadn’t meant to finish the job— he’d been offering Damen the knife hilt first.
Damen let him go and swept the blade off of the floor. It cut through the material of Laurent’s jacket like butter, then through his shirt.
Laurent was blinking at him dazedly as Damen forced himself to slow down, carefully turning him so he could see the wound. Damen didn’t have a whole lot of medical knowledge, but he knew a good knife strike when he saw one. The blade had gone straight into Laurent’s side, just beneath the ribs. He was still bleeding. Damen bunched up his tattered shirt and pressed it against the area.
There was a cold hand on his face. Laurent was touching his cheek, his brow furrowed. “You’re crying.”
“Laurent,” Damen sobbed.
Laurent’s face was as pale as Damen had ever seen, his lips bloodless. His eyes had taken on a dull, glazed appearance as he concerned himself with the tears on Damen’s cheeks.
“Shh.” Damen took his hand, kissing his wrist. “Shh. Pascal is on his way.” Then he turned slightly to shout in Veretain, “Where the fuck is Pascal?”
“I’m here,” Pascal said, hobbling into his room. His newest assistant came in after him, hauling all the medical supplies the poor girl could carry. Pascal waved his freckled hands at Damen. “Get out of the way. Let me see him.”
Laurent let out a noise of protest as Damen backed away, hands reaching blindly for him.
Pascal examined the wound, his wrinkled face pinched. He snapped something at his assistant, who flipped open the medical trunk.
Damen paced like a caged lion as they worked. After a few minutes, Pascal turned to him. “He needs stitches. You have to hold him still so we can work.”
“Right, right.” Damen went around to the other side of the bed, crawling carefully across, so not as do jostle Laurent. He gripped his hip with one hand, trapping his legs between his own, and cupped the back of his head with the other hand.
“What’s going on?” Laurent asked as Damen guided his face into his chest.
“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” He stroked his hair soothingly and nodded to Pascal.
It was not a pleasant experience. Laurent thrashed at first, trying to push his way out of Damen’s hold. Damen had to fix his grip to a near crushing one, trapping Laurent’s arms between their bodies. When Laurent realized he couldn’t get out, he resorted to letting out screaming sobs.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Damen felt like his own heart was collapsing in on itself. The stitching took longer than Damen thought it would, and each tug sent Laurent into another fit of pain. By the end of it, thankfully or not, he’d lost consciousness, going limp in Damen’s arms.
“Done.” Pascal stepped back. “He’s lost a lot of blood and the risk of infection is high. Tell me, was there any poison on the blade?”
Damen hadn’t even thought of that. “I don’t know. I didn’t see any.”
“There wasn’t,” Nikandros said, eyes on Laurent. “One of the assassin’s is still alive. We have him under heavy guard beneath the keep.”
“Kill him.” Damen gently rested Laurent against the pillows and stood. “I want every single one of them dead.”
Pascal and his assistant exchanged a look.
Nikandros stepped forward. “Exalted, we should—”
“I said kill him,” Damen snapped.
Nikandros gripped his shoulder when Damen tried to walk past him to give the order. He said, “Damen. We need to know if there’s any more and what their plan was. We will kill him, but he needs to be questioned first.”
Damen shook with rising tension, but Nik was right. “Fine.”
Under Damen’s watchful eye, Pascal dressed the wound with careful hands. He was silent as he worked, a muscle in his jaw flickering.
“What is it?”
Pascal straightened. “The risk for infection is incredibly high. The salve I put on should help, but if it was already infected...”
Damen closed his eyes. “Tell me.”
“He may not live through the night.”
Damen felt his knees go weak. The world spun. Nikandros was there, holding him up, but Damen couldn’t see him. All he could see was Laurent’s soft smile the morning after they’d made love for the first time, Laurent’s laughter through the Summer Palace.
“Damen, Damen.” Nikandros cupped his face. “He is not dead yet. There is still hope.”
“Stay beside him,” Pascal said. “He needs you now more than ever.”
Damen nodded and said, “Yes.”
*****
Damen sat down heavily beside the bed. Laurent looked so small on it, drowning in purple silk. Not at all like a king, but like a boy, caught in a riptide fever of pain.
Damen wanted to hold his hand, but everytime he did, he couldn’t stand the limpness of Laurent’s long fingers. It was too much like how his father’s hand had been in his last days.
But these weren’t Laurent’s last days. Damen informed him of such. He smoothed his thumb over his pale cheek and said into the silence, “There is no one in this life that can take you from me.”
Laurent didn’t wake up for two days.
One the third, feverish blue eyes fluttered open, and it was like watching a tsunami crest. Damen lunged across the room the moment he saw, dropping the gauntlets he’d been inspecting.
“Laurent,” he breathed as he pulled his stool over. He brushed his hand across Laurent’s hot brow. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”
Laurent blinked at him a few times. His cheeks were rosy, hand clammy in Damen’s, but his fingers flexed. “I feel…” He turned his head, looking around the room. “I feel…”
Damen inched closer. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“The, uh. We came back home from Ios. We’re at the new palace in Marlas.”
“That’s right. What else do you remember?”
Laurent’s gaze fixed on their joined hands. “We were in the garden and… oh. That’s not ideal.” He let go of Damen to try to lift the covers, but Damen stopped him.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore?”
“I can feel it. It’s sore, but manageable.” Laurent licked his lips. “Are you okay?”
Damen chuckled dryly. “Yes, sweetheart. I’m fine. They were after you, not me.”
Laurent frowned, lifting his hand to Damen’s face. He touched his cheek, then his neck. “Are you sure?”
Damen took his hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “Yes, my love.” He stood, taking a step back.
Laurent caught his sleeve. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to get Pascal and then get you some food. Don’t move, okay?”
“Okay.” He let go.
Damen bent to kiss his brow before stepping into the hall. He summoned a servant to send for Pascal and Nikandros. Once the servant left, footsteps came from behind him. Damen turned.
Jord bowed and said, “Your Majesty” because there was no Veretain word for “Exalted.”
Damen waved him off. “Tell me how our prisoner is doing.”
“He has not attempted escape of any kind and refuses to eat or answer questions. He…” Jord trailed off, glancing at the closed door behind Damen. He took a deep breath. “Sir, I know it’s not my place, but I’d like to see him.”
That was not what Damen had expected. Even now, the loyalty Laurent had cultivated in these men shook him to his core. Very few leaders could do what Laurent had done.
Jord went on, shifting nervously on his feet, “We, um, Huet and Lazar and I… we’ve all been worried. He… The King is very important to us. You know that.”
Damen nodded. “I will ask him. Wait here.”
He wasn’t sure how Laurent would feel, letting his men see him so weakened. Laurent had pushed himself to a sitting position and was poking at his wound when Damen came back in.
“What the hell are you doing?” Damen burst out, crossing the room in three large strides.
Laurent continued his examination, having pulled off the dressings of the wound. “You said Pascal was coming. I wanted to see how bad it was.”
It was bad. In fact, it was still bad. Two days of rest had only eased the swelling, not healed the wound. Damen caught both of Laurent’s wrists and stuck his face close enough to touch noses. “I said, don’t move .”
“He’s always been a terrible patient,” Pascal said as he came in. He bowed. “It’s good to see you awake, Your Majesty.”
Laurent had a sour look on his face as Damen stepped aside for Pascal. “I was just looking.”
Pascal touched his brow. “Your body is fighting off infection. His Majesty is right. Any extra exertion, no matter how small, can be detrimental.”
Damen crossed his arms over his chest, meeting Laurent’s dry glare.
“I’ll have the kitchens put together some soup and we’ll add a sleeping drought.”
“You want to drug me,” Laurent said flatly.
“Well you clearly can’t be trusted to rest on your own,” Damen snapped back. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you’re already picking—”
“That’s enough.” Pascal gazed steadily at Damen. “He does not need a lecture right now. I understand that you’re upset, but he needs his husband, not a general.” He turned, pointing at Laurent. “And you need to not make this difficult for everyone. Your health is our priority right now, not aggravating your husband.”
Damen coughed, feeling like a lectured child. Laurent sniffled indignantly and lowered his chin.
Pascal clapped once. “Excellent. Now let me check the wound.”
Laurent was quiet, but obedient through the examination and redressing of the wound. Pascal made him promise not to poke around again before he left to get the soup.
Damen sat beside Laurent and checked his brow again. He was still warm, but he clearly had plenty of energy.
“Oh, are you a physician now?”
“Hush.” Damen braced his arms on either side of Laurent’s legs and leaned in to kiss him softly.
Laurent allowed it, his lashes brushing Damen’s cheeks.
“Jord wants to see you,” Damen said after he pulled back. “He’s worried. They all are.”
That seemed to surprise Laurent, but he hid it quickly. “I don’t know if it’s good for a ruler to be seen in this state.”
“I don’t think he cares.”
Laurent chewed on his bottom lip for a moment before he nodded. “Alright. Let him in.”
When Jord came in, he bowed immediately to Laurent. “Are you— I mean, I know you’re not okay, but, uh…”
Laurent waved him off. “I’m fine. It’s Damen who is spreading this dramatic tale of me almost losing my life. It wasn’t that bad.”
“It was that bad,” Damen grumbled.
Jord wasn’t fooled by Laurent’s fibs either. “I’d like to personally guard your rooms during your recovery, Your Majesty.”
“You cannot possibly stand out there for days on end.”
“I can and I will,” Jord said firmly.
Damen pinched his brow. “How about you rotate? You, Lazar, and Huet can trade shifts, and the Akielon guards will take the other post.” It was something they’d agreed upon after the castle was first built: their personal rooms would be guarded by one Akielon and one Veretain at the same time.
“Very well.” Laurent sunk a little deeper into the cushions. “But, as you can see, I am of optimal health and will be back to my duties shortly. There is no need to worry.”
Jord looked between Laurent and Damen for a moment, but he nodded and bowed again. “Thank you, Your Majesties.”
Laurent dismissed him, then asked Damen for help walking to the bathing chamber.