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There is an orchard at Marlas.
A year ago, when he last walked these fields, the saplings came to his shoulder, strong and delicate all at once. Now they are flowering, the sweet aroma filling the air. Damen pauses by one tree, and sits against the trunk, watching.
Waiting.
His eyes pass over the rest of the orchard. If he closes his eyes, he can remember the first time he was on these fields, over ten years ago, the land crimson with the blood of the fallen. He can remember the sounds of the battle, the screams of the dying, the clash of steel. If he closes his eyes, he can almost taste the acrid smoke from bodies and dreams burning in the darkest night. But today his eyes are open, and he looks on.
His eyes pass over the rolling hills. He can see the fort in the distance, scaffolding embracing the crenellations, masons and carpenters restoring the delicate architecture to its former Veretian glory. Inside, he knows the tapestries have been restored, the tilework is again delicate and dizzying in its intricacies.
His eyes pass north, toward Fortaine, and he waits for Laurent to come.
“Exalted.”
Damen lifts his head. Nikandros stands a few feet away, eyes lowered. Damen smiles, and gestures for him to sit next to him. Nikandros folds himself next to Damen, and hands him a missive. “The King of Vere sends his regards, and informs you that he is detained, but will be with you shortly.”
Damen unfolds the note. It reads, “If Counselor Jeurre finds his head on a pike, I am not to blame.” He quirks an eyebrow at Nikandros.
“In as many words,” Nikandros amends.
Damen laughs once. “Laurent find the Council trying.”
“As you find the kyroi,” Nikandros counters. “It is not going to be an easy thing, what you are trying to accomplish. Centuries of enmity do not vanish overnight.”
“I know,” Damen says, but doesn’t expound. They have had this conversation before, many times.
The winds begin to blow, gently creaking the trees. Damen brushes an errant petal off of his chiton. The minutes pass in companionable silence.
A twig snaps, the sounds of booted feet approaching. Nikandros stands and bows. “I will see you tonight, Exalted.”
“Nikandros.” Damen closes his eyes as Nikandros takes his leave, tilting his head back to lean against the trunk, the dappled sunlight kissing his face. He smiles, as Laurent approaches and sits next to him, shoulder almost close enough to touch. “Well met, your Majesty.”
“Exalted.” Laurent says, as he settles his limbs in a picture of practiced repose, wrists crossed over a bended knee. “I apologize for the delay.”
“No, you don’t,” Damen says.
“True.” Laurent says. “Apologies are beneath my station.”
Damen leans his head toward Laurent, taking in the slight tightening of Laurent’s brow, the turn of his lips. “It sounds as though your meeting was trying.”
“When are they not?” Laurent says. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
A moment, then –
“I ran into your nephew,” Laurent says. “On my way here. He was trying to climb the outer fortifications.”
“That sounds like him,” Damen agrees. “Lysandros informed his nurse yesterday that he wants to join the circus and become an acrobat.”
“Last time I saw him he could barely walk.” Laurent frowns. “You’ve been keeping him hidden.”
“He’s too young to travel much, and bores easily,” Damen says. “Children do not enjoy political summits.”
“Akielon children, perhaps,” Laurent says.
“Ouch.”
Their conversations often start like this. Gentle ribbings on each other’s politics, their culture. Peace has softened their words, differences becoming endearments. Damen relaxes into the familiar back and forth. It has been a long year. Damen opens his eyes fully, and looks at Laurent. He is dressed in his usual style, blue-black laces tight against his throat and wrists. The sunlight reflects off of his golden hair, a mantle of practiced nonchalance rests upon his tense shoulders. He looks older. Damen does the calculations, and realizes that this year Laurent is the same age as Damen was when they first met. It feels a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago.
“Come.” Laurent rises. “The banquet will start soon. You should not be late.” He offers a hand to Damen to help him to his feet.
Laurent’s sleeve lifts slightly, and sunlight gleams off the hint of a golden cuff. Damen grasps his hand to lever himself up, a warmth settling in his chest. “I thought you didn’t care about being late.”
“I don’t,” Laurent says, “but you always care.”
+++++
As the years have passed, the banquet announcing the start of the joint summit has developed into a routine. Damen speaks, Laurent speaks, advisors speak. As the evening progresses, Damen and Laurent sit while a stream of nobility and dignitaries kneel before them, offering gifts and praise. It is, Damen thinks privately, one of the most excruciating things in the world, to sit serenely and graciously while the same platitudes are repeated over and over, until they cease to have any meaning. All the more excruciating to sit next to Laurent, who is the picture of regality and poise, accepting all gratitude with the smallest smile and nod. Laurent jokes of Damen being a barbarian, but he only feels it here, roughness and force sitting next to beauty and strength. One year Damen mentioned this to Laurent in private, and Laurent pierced him with such an incredulous stare that he vowed to never bring it up again.
Laurent makes his exit first, his retinue sweeping out behind him. The Veretian delegation has been at Marlas for a week, preparing the agenda for the conclave, as well as preparing the fort for dual royalty. Damen’s party rode in this morning and spent most of the day settling in. After the festivities, Damen and his men sit in the hall and compare the Veretian agenda against Akielos’ own, and Damen makes notes in his head as to where the disputes will be most vehement.
It is the darkest of night when Damen finally rises from the table. The kyroi depart, slaves and servants in tow. Damen brushes aside the attentions of his own servant and walks down a quiet hallway toward the regal chambers. He rolls his neck as he walks, a hand raised to it to try to work out a kink. It has been a very long day.
At this point, the guards posted at his door do not even move as he walks past it, another destination in mind. He places his hand to push against the door next to his, waiting for one breath, two, before entering.
Laurent is still at his desk, as Damen knew he would still be. His face framed by candlelight, he sits, parchment in piles around him. Upon closer inspection, Damen notices that Laurent’s head is resting a bit too heavily against his hand, his posture a little too relaxed. He is asleep. Damen bends to remove his sandals by the door, and treads across the floor in bare feet, trying not to make a sound. He lifts a hand to Laurent’s brow, softly reaching to brush silken strands of hair out of his eyes. Laurent sighs. “I thought you would keep me until morning,” he says, not opening his eyes.
“I apologize for the delay,” Damen says. Laurent huffs softly. “Have you been well?”
Laurent raises a hand, and makes an expressive gesture with his hand. It is Damen’s turn to laugh quietly. “You look tired,” he says.
“Your powers of perception never cease to astound,” Laurent murmurs. Damen sifts his hand through Laurent’s hair, back toward his neck, and begins to unlace his jacket.
The years have tempered them both, as well as their emotions. Damen spares only the most fleeting of memories toward the first times he did this for Laurent, under anger and duress. Distance has taught them to live in the present. Laurent, for his part, barely moves as Damon’s hands work at the stays on his wrists, first his left, then his right. Damen’s fingers glance against the cuff at his wrist, worrying the skin against it for the briefest of instants before shifting to push the jacket off of Laurent’s shoulders. It is only then that Laurent opens his eyes.
“Take me to bed,” Laurent whispers, and Damen complies.
+++++
The first two days of the summit pass with a minimum of fuss. Trade between nations is the topic of the first day, and the creation of a stronger infrastructure to support increased traffic between the nations. The second day is dedicated to the planning of international military training exercises. Damen goes through the motions automatically, voicing the most perfunctory of objections when necessary, leaving most of the finer points of negotiation to Nikandros. He spends most of the time watching Laurent.
Laurent, who is suspiciously silent. Damen knows he is up to something, but to give credit to Laurent, he is always up to something. Damen doesn’t question or pry, knowing that Laurent will speak when he is ready ¬– when everyone else expects it the least. Damen, however, knows that it will be on the third day.
On the third day, the primary subject on the agenda is the line of succession.
For Akielos, the line of succession is at least clear, if not lengthy. Damen’s nephew, Lysandros, is viable to ascend the throne. There is talk of marriage (to a Patran princess, no less), but negotiations have been a formality at best, with no forward momentum imposed by either side.
For Vere, there is only Laurent.
A part of Damen wonders why this has never been brought up in years past. Perhaps Laurent was able to persuade his councilors not to bring it up through a mix of guile and persuasion. Perhaps they didn’t realize that this would be an issue of contention. That of course Laurent, as king, would have no qualms about marriage, if only as a matter of political significance and convenience.
Damen remembers quiet words spoken in a quiet room in a quiet inn, in the quiet Akielon countryside: My line ends with me.
The planning of Laurent’s marriage is further along than Damen realized. A suitable woman has been chosen: Cerise, a daughter of a Veretian noble who had an estate in Delpha before the war. According to Councilor Herode, she is gracious and beautiful, and a wise political choice.
“If Your Majesty assents, she will be brought forth tomorrow. To announce the engagement here would be propitious,” Councilor Herode is saying. He draws breath as if to go on, but stops as Laurent raises a hand. Damen steels his resolve: it begins.
“No, His Majesty does not assent,” Laurent says.
Damen can see the shock in Councilor Herode’s eyes, but also the slightest hint of resignation. Councilor Audin tries next.
“Sire, we have not broached this topic before, out of respect to your desires,” and Damen can feel Audin’s gaze flicker toward him, “but we must think toward the future.”
“My desires,” Laurent says flatly. “How generous of you.”
“Sire – “
“It seems my desires, however,” Laurent continues, “are secondary to those of Council. Are you really so desperate to watch me fuck?”
Councilor Herode clutches the table. “We are only – “
“Because that can be arranged,” Laurent says. “Why not bring a slave here, right now? The desires of the Council are my command.”
“Perhaps we should adjourn,” Nikandros ventures. Damen gives him credit for trying, even as he recognizes the futility. “Surely this is a discussion that can be continued among the Veretian delegation alone.”
“Discussion,” Laurent repeats. “There will be no discussion. My mother had a sister, who had children. They will suffice.”
“Your Majesty –“ Councilor Mathe this time “- your successor should at least be through your father’s lineage. If Cerise does not suit, there are other options.”
“There will be,” Laurent repeats, “no discussion.” He rises abruptly, turning on his heel even as the Veretians scramble to rise. By the time they stand, he is gone.
+++++
Damen finds Laurent in the orchard, lying beneath the same tree that they met under three days ago. The apricot petals swirl in the breeze and land on Laurent’s clothing, delicate intrusions against an austere background. One guard stands by Laurent’s horse, clutching the reins in one hand, the other resting easy on the pommel of his sword. Damen signals to Nikandros.
“Clear out the guard and the horses,” he says. “You alone will see that we come to no harm.”
“Yes, Exalted.” Nikandros ushers the guard away. Damen watches as they disappear into the trees. Only when the faintest whisper of their footsteps fade does Damen turn toward Laurent.
“Have you come to persuade me?” Laurent asks. His eyes, dark with emotion, stare motionless into the canopy. “I had not counted on your collusion.”
“I am not colluding,” Damen says, allowing himself a low groan as he bends to sit next to Laurent. “I would never.”
“That’s probably true,” Laurent concedes. “You haven’t the stomach for it.”
Damen feels that he should object to that, but knows that it’s true. Laurent’s eyes narrow.
“Oh, say something,” Laurent says. “Tell me that I’m being childish, that I am shirking my responsibilities. That we knew this day was come, that this transitory dalliance would have to end.” He moves his hand to his chest, as if to brush away the flowers, but instead rests it there. Damen watches the hand rise and fall with Laurent’s breath.
“It doesn’t have to,” he finally says. Laurent turns his head to stare.
“Idealist.”
“Fatalist,” Damen retorts, and leans down for a kiss. Laurent sighs, but pulls away.
“We can’t avoid the discussion forever, can we.” It was not a question, but Damen was compelled to answer.
“No,” Damon says, “but it can wait.” He watches Laurent’s expression, as the eyes close, as though bracing him against inevitability.
“Next year,” Laurent says quietly.
“Laurent –“
“Let me have one more year.” Laurent reaches for Damen’s shoulder, his fingers reaching for the lion pin holding up his garment. “Let us have one more year.”