Chapter Text
In Vere, bastard children were a curse. They tainted the bloodline, ruined a family’s honour, sullied surnames. The mere suspicion of illegitimate heritage in the features of a child born outside the lawful bonds of marriage could destroy lives.
To the surrounding kingdoms, their customs were ridiculous. To the veretian people, they were protection. Bastards were symbols of immorality — the testament to barbarism, proof that a man or woman was little better than the animals that roamed their fields. They were the product of impulsive acts, irresponsibility, betrayal. No good had ever come from a bastard child. They sparked irreparable quarrels between spouses, blood spilled over demanded inheritances, brothers raising swords against one another. Ruined unions, omegas withering under the betrayal of their bond or the stigma of promiscuity. Was not the royal family of Akielos the clearest example? A bastard poisoning his father and attempting to murder his brother, the legitimate heir? Bastard children were a curse.
Thus, when the younger brother of King Auguste II announced that he was pregnant, the entire kingdom reeled in shock.
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Laurent was calm, all things considered.
Auguste, on the other hand…
- I never should have sent you to Ios. To think that one of those… akielons laid hands on you…- The king paced back and forth, distraught. He had never felt so helpless — not even when he buried his father or faced his traitorous uncle in trial. But now his younger brother — his little brother, whom he had sworn to protect from dishonourable alphas and the hostile court — was carrying a bastard in his womb, his neck unmarked. No official courtship, no suitors bold enough to seek Auguste’s permission as the alpha head of the family.
It was meant to be a brief journey, intended to test the fragile waters of a peace agreement that had yet to materialise despite the passing years. Laurent had assumed his ambassadorial duties with all the poise and gravity that Auguste found so endearing. He had departed with a substantial entourage of guards and a rigidly structured itinerary that allowed no time for leisurely walks or games. He was to visit several temples dedicated to the gods of Akielos, paying his respects and demonstrating the veretian crown’s commitment to cultural exchange; he would meet with the kyroi closest to the veretian border — particularly the Kyros of Delpha, whose province taken from Vere remained largely populated by veretian citizens — and, near the end of the visit, he would speak with King Damianos himself to gauge the prospects for Auguste to continue the correspondence toward an eventual peace treaty… one that would open profitable trade routes for both nations.
Afterwards, Laurent would return home to deliver his report, and Auguste would handle the rest. King Damianos could prove somewhat difficult to reach by letter — particularly after the events that had nearly claimed the lives of both him and his father — yet Auguste had hoped that the presence of the Crown Prince of Vere, coupled with his genuine interest in peace, might serve as leverage to advance the negotiations. Auguste would have preferred to manage the matter himself; he knew Laurent found political discussions tiresome and far preferred the quiet of his private chambers or Acquitart with a good book and undisturbed solitude… then a trifling cold had confined him to bed for several days, obliging his younger brother to take the reins. Laurent was more than capable — he had never doubted that.
He only doubted his brother’s sanity for announcing to the Council that he was pregnant — three months after that fateful trip to Akielos — and that he intended to keep the child. No discussion.
- Enough. It was merely a diplomatic visit. It went well. King Damianos will send a delegation of scribes this summer to work with our ministers on addressing the prohibition of slavery in his lands. You have been invited to observe and participate in the next Okton, to be held near the border. I see no reason to make a scandal of it - a half-eaten lemon pastry was set aside, beside a book marked near its end. His brother remained impassive while Auguste teetered on the edge of collapse. Perhaps it was the lemon pastries. Laurent had always loved them, and now he used the pregnancy as justification for the royal kitchens to supply him with colossal quantities of sweets. At least the palace servants had not recoiled at Laurie’s announcement. On the contrary, they seemed even more determined to spoil him senseless.
There was no gain in arguing. Auguste himself had been the chief culprit in spoiling Laurent. This was merely the consequence of his own actions.
He tried to adopt a mask of firmness, one that always cracked when it came to his little brother. His Laurie, whom he had carried on his shoulders while pretending to be a horse to make him laugh. Whom he had challenged to foolish races through Arles despite the protests of their guards. Whom he had held tightly as they laid their father in the Mausoleum, uncertain who was comforting whom. The sole driving force in his mind when he confronted his traitorous uncle and executed him in front of the people. His younger brother, who had grown up overnight — brilliant beyond measure, yet guided by a soft heart that loved horses, wept over books read until dawn, and had always regarded with tenderness the infants that omegas placed in his arms for the royal family’s blessing during tours of Vere’s villages to display unity and strong leadership.
- You will never again throw in my face the times you covered me when I slipped away to the brothels of Varenne. Never again, Laurie, - he said, recalling the occasions in their youth when Auguste had escaped with a few guards to spend time with some ladies while Laurent kept silent and covered his absence with lies and idle chatter.
The only response was a pair of rolled eyes.
Raise crows…
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From Arles to Alier, the people of Vere spoke of Prince Laurent’s pregnancy with awe and morbid fascination. Would His Majesty disinherit him? Banish him? Confine him to the fort at Acquitart, letting solitude and shame consume them until forgotten?
Many nobles — particularly those who had once aligned with red rather than blue — licked their lips at the scandal. A sign from fate, perhaps, that the royal family had seen its days of glory end. The common folk, who had received aid and food from Prince Laurent’s own hands when the kinslayer attempted to rebel against King Auguste in a disastrously failed coup, were upset and confused.
Then a missive arrived in every village, a replica of words written in Prince Laurent’s own hand for every loyal subject of the crown.
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While Vere was largely agnostic, Akielos boasted an extensive pantheon of gods for every aspect of life: temples everywhere and priests who enjoyed considerable social standing. Their myths were carved into murals, statues, and metalwork — famous beyond Akielos for the antiquity of their art. Those myths seemed to explain everything, from the changing seasons to unpredictable rains or the shifting tides. The age of attributing every life event to the gods had long passed, and their importance had waned across generations, yet the myths endured — told as lessons to small children or frivolous excuses to share wine and roasted meat beneath the stars. Festivals and songs, much of the old art drew inspiration from the gods.
Particularly, they had a troubling number of stories about the god of the skies leaving children across Akielos with various women and through bizarre means.
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Prince Laurent’s words were read aloud in every square by crown envoys. They were shared in every tavern and debated in every market. The intent was clear: the prince offered an explanation for his pregnancy and sought to reassure his people about his situation — and, above all, the situation of the unborn child. It was a lengthy speech, interwoven with details of his journey to Akielos and phrases so intricate that even the most learned struggled to unravel them.
The nobility dismissed the missive as a feeble attempt to salvage honor stained by a savage akielon. The king couldn’t save his little brother from ruin. From the age of thirteen, Laurent had worn an arrogant expression, rejecting every courtship attempt as an annoyance, using his brother the king as a shield against the attentions of the most respectable men of Vere. And now he carried an akielon bastard? The audacity knew no bounds.
But the common people drank in every word as if it were the finest wine—and undoubtedly grew drunk on it.
The conclusions were first whispered as madness. The wildest theory gained traction and soon spread like plague.
Their prince was the most beautiful of all omegas, unquestionably the most beautiful man in Vere. One of the patran princes had composed a song for him. More than one vaskian warrior had attempted to woo him with words and bloody gifts to prove their worth as alpha and provider. It made sense, then, that even a foreign god might fall captive to his beauty.
It appealed to veretian pride that the God of the Skies revered in Akielos had chosen their prince’s beauty over any other. A child of a god could not be a bastard, could it? It couldn’t be a curse. A bloodline touched by divinity would only strengthen the kingdom. The akielons could hardly fight against one who carried their god’s blood, after all.
The people celebrated Prince Laurent’s child with near-feverish fervor. Every akielon traveller was waylaid for hours, compelled to recount again and again the tales of their gods and the demigods they sired. Gifts poured into Arles from entire families wishing to pay respect to the child due in five months: coats knitted from the finest wool they could afford, tiny hand-sewn booties, the best harvest fruits to support Prince Laurent’s health. Paintings, perfumes, ointments, and distilled liquors. What feats would the unborn child achieve? Would they face monsters on the path to greatness? Would they bear the serene blond beauty of the prince, or resemble his divine progenitor?
The reluctant nobility was nearly buried beneath the enthusiasm of the people — a people who had known little joy beyond King Auguste’s coronation after the war with Akielos and the death of the beloved King Aleron in a foul treason by his kinslaying brother, who had risen with treacherous red-cloaked soldiers to usurp his nephew’s rightful throne — had lingered in memory like a crusted wound slow to heal. Now all was forgotten in the anticipation of a royal child with divine blood in his veins. If any of the kinslayer’s old allies had hoped the veretian taboo against bastards would end the royal family… well, they would have to content themselves with silent bitterness.
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Auguste thought his brother was mad.
Seeing the pile of gifts delivered by delighted peasants from every corner of Vere… he did not change his mind. But it served as a reminder that, mad though he was, Laurent remained the cleverest brother. Perhaps things had spiralled somewhat out of control: originally they had sought merely to calm… or confuse… their people a little to give them something to gossip about and divert attention from the question of who the child’s father might be. The direction the entire issue had taken was strange. Auguste was king, but before he was king, he was always an elder brother. As an elder brother he was prepared to face the Council, the Court, the Tribunal, and the entire populace to defend his little brother. He had braced himself to argue endlessly over the issue of bastardy and had grown fond of his sword once more, anticipating the duels he would fight to keep Laurent and his baby safe. He hadn’t expected enthusiastic faces, child clothes, and home-baked loaves queuing before his throne. He hadn’t expected letters pressed into the guards’ hands at the gates with express requests to be delivered to Prince Laurent.
Laurent had not foreseen such an overwhelming reaction to his absurd attempt to deflect attention and sow confusion — if the soft blinking over eyes glazed with tears was any indication. Or perhaps it was merely the sensitivities of pregnancy. Who could say. At least he was handling everything with his customary composure. More letters full of gratitude and praise for the veretian people’s respect and love were dispatched as swiftly as Laurent could sit and take up a quill. More lemon pastries vanished from the kitchens, the account books continued to be reviewed and corrected, taxes were properly regulated… Auguste continued to rule justly, Laurent continued to solve problems from the shadows, the people rejoiced… Everything was going well.
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King Damianos sent a messenger ahead, announcing a wholly unexpected journey to Arles to speak with King Auguste and his brother, Prince Laurent.
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After months of trying to pry the name of the child’s father from his impertinent younger brother, the answer was plain in the letter he held. The trembling script, the almost careless and hurried language of a king who had not paused to consult advisers or consider diplomacy. Damianos wrote as one who had made an impulsive decision. Moved by something. By someone.
Auguste raised his gaze to meet Laurent’s blue eyes, which bore no trace of shame.
- When I said no one was better suited than you to negotiate with Damianos… I didn’t mean it exactly that, little brother.
- He has broad shoulders and arms the size of my head. Several of his soldiers spoke of rumours about his stamina in bed… something about a gladiator and six hours. I was curious! Can you blame me, Auggie?
- Why do you hate me, Laurie?
- I endured your drunken rambles about women’s breasts and your pitiful attempts to compare them to ripe peaches or spring hills. Suffer in silence, as I did.
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There was something odd about Damianos’s sudden visit to the heart of Vere. Some speculated he had learned of the divine origin of Prince Laurent’s pregnancy and came to demand proof or, in the worst case, to claim the child for Akielos. Others preferred the calmer version: an akielon king concerned for diplomacy, willing to offer peace thanks to divine visions from the child’s unborn progenitor. The most morbid spoke of sacrifices and possible assassination attempts, though these were dismissed as absurd. Who would dare harm a pregnant omega? Especially with his alpha brother at his side — the King of Vere and a swordsman master. Through rumors flying everywhere and a nervous veretian court, the days were counted with trembling lips until Damianos’s arrival in Arles.
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Laurent didn’t attend the official reception on the white steps of the palace, as protocol demanded for high-ranking visits. He was a pregnant omega and was meant to remain sheltered from prying eyes. Three months remained until his child’s birth — if Paschal’s calculations held any sense — and already he struggled to rise from bed or chairs… climbing stairs or traversing the palace as he once had, unburdened by the extra weight.
- It will be a heavy child, Your Highness, given the size of your belly and… the progenitor, - Paschal’s bored tone irritated him deeply. He surely knew, as he always knew when Laurent hid scrapes on his legs after sneaking to the stables - I will contact acquaintances in Delpha for advice from akielon midwives.
- To know what to expect from an akielon child at birth? Do they emerge clutching a sword?
- To ensure both you and the child survive, Your Highness. You above all.
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The pregnancy had been a surprise. An unforeseen crisis born of what should have remained a fleeting caprice of a single night. Night after night, Paschal had supplied special teas to spare the prince scandal and avert what would have been an incipient political disaster.
Laurent drank none of them.
The mere thought of holding a baby in his arms warmed his heart as nothing else could. He didn’t wish to be rid of it. He didn’t want to endure foolish courtships and foolish alphas and submit to a loveless marriage merely to have a child who would likely grow up witnessing parents trapped in a bitter union. Perhaps the child wouldn’t be happy and though Laurent wished to paper over the cracks with all the love in the world… He wanted a child who would be loved wholeheartedly, who would grow up secure, who would learn honour and become a worthy prince of Vere. He wanted a child who loved horses as he did, who would be a fine swordsman like Auguste. Who would possess the gentle sweetness of Queen Hennike. It didn’t matter whether the child was alpha, beta or omega. Laurent wanted a child to love as Hennike had loved him, a child to nurture and teach as Auguste had done for him. Adoption had been under consideration from the start… if only the Council would cease being a nursery of old men with sticks up their arses. Laurent knew Auguste would be furious if he poisoned them all, so he restrained himself to a degree. But that pack of fossils loved to strew splinters and thorns in his path in hopes he would bleed. At this rate Laurent would die childless.
Then he became pregnant and decided the Council could burn in hell alongside his uncle.
Changing the people’s view of bastardy and illegitimate children would be difficult. Very difficult. Nonetheless, he didn’t need to do it overnight — only to prepare the soil and plant the seed. This pregnancy was a good beginning. He merely needed to divert attention for a time. Collective memory was short, imagination abundant, and if he played his cards right, everyone would love his child before they realized it. With time he could shift opinion on bastards and, at last, grant some recognition and rights to children who would never bear the blame for their parents’ sins. It was a matter of steady, silent work.
He announced his pregnancy one morning and refused to back down.
Auguste’s face had been worth it.
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Auguste received the akielon delegation with a degree of reluctance.
Yes, he wanted a peace treaty and expanded trade routes. He wanted to leave behind the memories of war and turn to a more fruitful chapter. Damianos was an honourable man — he had known it since that day on the battlefield… but now… the man stood before him, and Auguste could see only a littlebrotherstealer. Damianos wasn’t there to apologize for bedding Laurent. His eyes held a determination that proclaimed he had come to take Laurent away. Auguste wasn’t at all pleased with that.
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Nikandros had been blunt when he shoved him in the practice sands and said without affection “if you want him so bad, write him a letter and ask if he is willing to be courted by you. You are a damned king, Damen, and the strongest alpha in Akielos. Only a fool would say no.”
He supposed he had worn Nikandros out with rhetorical questions and fictional scenarios. He had never been “this pathetic” with previous lovers. But Akielos lacked Vere’s restrictive, outdated customs, which might take offence if Damen approached Prince Laurent with intentions less pure than marriage.
And marriage was on his metaphorical table. Several kyroi had expressed interest after witnessing how respectful and formal the veretian prince had been during the diplomatic meetings. They had expected a spoiled, eccentric veretian brat but instead met a decent omega — austere as few princes were, a trained soldier who wielded a sword with steady grip and never shrank from challenge. Makedon had remarked after a few cups that if he were thirty years younger, he might consider it himself… Makedon the renowned for his vehement hatred of veretians. Damianos had nearly struck him.
Prince Laurent was the most beautiful omega Damen had ever known, and he might have knelt right there, at their first meeting, to request permission to court him. That impression had not faded even after a tense discussion of border treaties and the situation of the veretian citizens in Delpha. Before he knew it, he was extending a cordial invitation to Laurent’s elder brother, King Auguste, for the next Okton games, certain to be held at the start of the new year. They could negotiate certain agreements on Delpha there and rewrite the border’s pacts into something more beneficial for both sides. Then they drifted into a quieter conversation about the slave system Damen wished to abolish, having seen its true nature thanks to Kastor’s vile betrayal. Laurent offered valuable counsel and invited Damen to send people to discuss formalities with the veretians ministers, who clearly adored laws and legal wordplay. It was an offer of goodwill and Damen accepted it confidently.
The evening grew pleasant after the talks and before he realized, he was alone with Prince Laurent, kissing his exquisite skin and yielding to the soft scent of the omega in his arms — a scent that even the special perfumes crafted for veretian nobility couldn’t entirely mask. He had tried to stop once he comprehended Laurent was virgin, but the prince enthusiastically encourages him to continue. He wasn’t the sort of omega who spent his nights in company, Laurent said almost amused, but he could make an exception this once because Damen was well-proportioned in every respect, and he had heard from too many Akielons (three) about a marathon of six hours with a gladiator — which the Exalted himself corrected with a greedy smile. “Seven hours, actually. But if your curiosity is so huge… I can satisfy it.”
He didn’t last seven hours, nor six. It was considerably less, yet it felt entirely different from anything before. As though the empty, arid hollow in his chest had suddenly filled with an entire sea, waves crashing with every shared heartbeat. Damen knew it was something he would not have again. He claimed every sigh and caress, bit his tongue before promising things he couldn’t keep, slept holding Laurent in his arms, and thought he could manage the life without him the next morning.
They parted the next day, without sentiment. The King of Akielos and the Prince of Vere. Damen returned to Ios and didn’t stop thinking of Laurent for a single night. The mere thought of Laurent surrounded by alphas attempting to court him was enough to boil his blood with jealousy. He was far away in Arles, mistreated by fools who didn’t comprehend the worth of a man like Laurent. If he were in Ios with him…
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Five months later, rumours carried from Vere began circulating in his own court. Damianos nearly choked on a grape when he first heard it. “The brother of the King of Vere is carrying a child. They say it is of mixed blood.”
Damen knew what that meant. Nikandros did too, if the stare boring into his nape was any indication.
As king, he could not simply race to Arles, sweep Laurent into his arms and carry him to the safety of his home, far from the veretian vipers who would seek to harm him. He knew how veretians treated bastardy. How they treated unmarked omegas. The chaperones at meetings, the insults that led to drawn swords and defended honor. He also didn’t know what Laurent wanted. It had been one night — one night that Damen treasured like a dragon hoarding gold. Perhaps Laurent had forgotten it, had woken that morning with a “life goes on” and left Damen behind. He didn’t know if Laurent would wish to be courted by Damianos, if he would be willing to bond with a foreign alpha and leave his brother behind.
“You do not even know if it is truly yours… you knew him only a few days and bedded him once, it could be…”
“It’s mine. That child is mine. I know it.”
The only thing holding him back was the hesitation. They were rumours; a king could not act on rumours. A king did not make decisions based on feelings, least of all when provoked by a veretian prince of breathtaking beauty and soft gaze in intimacy. He had to send a spy to confirm or deny those rumours.
The spy returned shortly with a story far worse than Damen had imagined possible. “Prince Laurent had announced to his Council that he was pregnant and intended to keep the child, who would be granted all rights befitting a prince. The news spread through Vere, forcing the prince to send word to the people… claiming the child in his womb was the son of… the Lord of Thunder and Sky? Every version differed — some said the Thunderer approached the prince in his temple at Sicyon in the form of a swan. Others, as wind. Some spoke of a dove. But all concluded it was the child of the Impetuous One.”
Damianos remained immobile while chaos erupted among his people. Of course, it was a shameless lie. That some advisers were asking what to do if the child truly were the Thunderer’s son was almost laughable. Almost. He didn’t find it funny. Not in the least.
No god had descended and worshipped Laurent as Damen had. No god thought of him every day and wondered when he might see him again. None longed for him as Damianos did. The gods remained aloft for a reason — distant from the mortals who adored them.
He returned to his chambers, took up a quill and wrote a brief message to King Auguste and Prince Laurent. He sent an emissary first. Then he ordered a delegation and soldiers to be prepared. Damianos would travel to Arles himself, not because he believed the child carried divine blood, not to debate the matter of their gods with the veretians. He wanted that child to know his father was Damianos. He wanted to see Laurent again, to court him as he should have from the beginning, to get to know each other properly and then to take him as spouse and lifelong mate. He wanted to hold his son or daughter in his arms and promise they siblings. Siblings who wouldn’t betray them. Parents who would love them. The Thunderer had nothing to do with it — and Damen didn’t wish to contemplate him near Laurent for any reason beyond a brief temple visit to pay respects.
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