Chapter Text
“Congratulations,” said Damen. “You’ve forced my hand. You have what you want. Delpha, in exchange for your aid in the south. Nothing given freely, nothing done out of feeling, everything coerced, with bloodless planning.”
“Then I have your agreement? Say it.”
“You have my agreement.”
“Good,” said Laurent. He took a step back. Then, as if a pillar of control had finally collapsed, Laurent surrendered his full weight to the table behind him, his face drained of all colour. He was trembling, his hairline pricked with the sweat of injury. He said: “Now get out.”
- C. S. Pacat, Kings Rising, chapter 4
* * * * *
King Damianos of Akielos was dismissed quite unceremoniously by Prince Laurent of Vere, whose rigid control had given way at last in the face of apparent injury and exhaustion. In spite of Laurent’s icy, calculated behavior, Damen had to fight the misplaced urge to cross the tent and help support his weight, even comfort him. Instead, Damen forced himself to turn away, square his battle-sore shoulders, and leave with as much dignity as he could salvage. Stepping out into the afternoon sun, he walked purposefully around the side of the tent to cover for his need of a few moments of privacy to compose himself before returning to his own men.
Damen knew he had been out-maneuvered at every turn; he felt Laurent’s relentless planning with each painful beat of his heart. Soon, he would have to tell Nikandros, the Kyros of Delpha and his dear friend, about Laurent’s cold, strategic play to retake Delpha for Vere, to which he had reluctantly agreed. Later, the battle fatigue and its accompanying aches would be a welcome physical distraction from the rage and hurt that filled Damen’s mind. But at this moment, his swirling brain struggled to reconcile the Laurent he had known mere days ago with the callous, unyielding Prince of Vere with whom he had just met.
In spite of his anger at having been so blind-sided, Damen’s thoughts kept returning to Laurent’s bloodied shoulder, his pallor, and the exhaustion that the Prince had attempted to hide. Damen knew him too well. He had guessed at Laurent’s injury by the careful way he’d held his body and the subtle signs of pain in his face; clasping Laurent’s shoulder and seeing the blood bloom there had only confirmed what Damen already understood.
Concern for Laurent twisted uncomfortably in Damen’s gut. He tried telling himself that if the tables were turned, Laurent would be unmoved by his injury, but he could not quite believe it. Regardless, and however much he wished otherwise, Damen had come to care deeply for Laurent. Memories of their one beautiful night together kept surfacing, unbidden: Laurent’s warmth in his arms, his intoxicating kisses, his awkward thoughtfulness, his sighs of contentment as he slept after, his sweet, unguarded smile in the morning light.
Lost in his reverie, it took Damen a moment to realize that he was hearing sounds in the present. His idle wandering had taken him round the back of the tent, where a smaller chamber adjoined the larger pavilion space where he had met with Laurent. Listening more intentionally now, Damen heard a weak moan, as if stifled. He could not help himself, and peered in through a tiny gap where one tent panel was tied to the next.
Inside, Laurent reclined on a raised pallet, his back supported by pillows. His physician, Paschal, attended him. The Prince was unlaced from his jacket and shirt, entirely unclothed from the waist up. Paschal had lit several lamps, and they cast stark, unforgiving light on Laurent’s battered body. His right shoulder was ravaged by a grisly knife wound, the surrounding skin swollen and purpled with bruising. There were also dark bruises on his face, and a smattering of others across his torso. None of this had been as apparent in the kinder, dimmer lighting of the pavilion tent, and all of Laurent’s Veretian layers had further hidden the evidence.
Laurent’s eyes were tightly closed, and his face was gray and damp with sweat. He had rolled a piece of cloth between his teeth, no doubt to help preserve the illusion of his good health to anyone within earshot. He trembled subtly, and tears slid down his cheeks. As Paschal worked to clean and then suture the knife wound, Laurent clenched his hands into fists. Small, low cries, though muffled by the cloth, still reached Damen’s ears. Despite Laurent’s harsh treatment of him minutes before, Damen’s heart was rent by the sight of Laurent’s suffering. He also felt, in some small way, vindicated.
I knew there was a good reason you didn’t meet me at Charcy. I was sure of it, Damen thought to himself.
Paschal finished stitching Laurent’s shoulder wound, carefully tying off the thread. Then, the doctor massaged a salve into the area surrounding the wound. Laurent winced at the initial contact, but after a few moments, the salve seemed to soothe him. His face relaxed visibly. Finally, Paschal fitted a sling for the Prince’s right arm and settled it gently into the soft fabric.
His most urgent work now finished, Paschal reached to Laurent’s mouth to remove the roll of cloth that the Prince still clenched between his teeth. Laurent’s eyes opened slowly.
“That’s the worst of it, Your Highness,” Paschal said kindly. “I’m going to give you something to help you sleep. I fear pain will keep you awake otherwise. You’ve lost a lot of blood, and rest is essential to your healing.”
Laurent’s eyes held both relief and gratitude. “Thank you, Paschal,” he said, his voice tired but true. He unclenched his fists slowly.
Paschal prepared the sleeping drought and brought it to Laurent, who downed it in one gulp and then drank some water to chase it. As Paschal used a damp cloth to gently wipe the sweat and tears from Laurent’s face, the Prince’s fever-bright eyes slid closed. Paschal rearranged the pillows so that Laurent could lie back more comfortably, and tucked a blanket around him. The physician sat with his Prince until Laurent’s breathing evened into sleep, and then stepped through to the pavilion chamber in the front of the tent.
Damen had watched it all silently, his heart hurting. Then, as if encouraged by a force he did not fully understand, he untied the laces of the tent and stepped into the stuffy warmth inside. As he moved, his eyes never left Laurent’s still, pale face.
Damen crept over to Laurent’s bedside, and stood over him. He watched the steady rise and fall of Laurent’s chest, and was pained by the sight of each bruise and cut on his pale skin—more were visible this close—as well as the fresh bandage on his maimed shoulder, already dotted with red. Laurent, Damen realized, was lucky to have escaped with his life. And he had conducted their whole exchange, all his ruthless manipulation, while barely able to stand and in searing pain. A wounded animal is at its most vicious and dangerous, Damen’s father had taught him, and here lay that lesson exemplified. Damen sighed. Laurent’s intractable strength and determination were both admirable and infuriating.
Damen did not know how long he stared at the quiet face, golden brows finally smooth in slumber. The cool, untouchable mask Laurent so often wore in his waking hours was gone. In its place was the face of a surprisingly young man, softened by sleep and hurt, but for the moment, peaceful. And so very beautiful, even bruised and utterly spent. Tears threatened to cloud Damen’s vision, and his heart felt heavy as it thudded against his ribs. He wanted to comfort and care for Laurent, but it seemed he had no place here. The Prince had made it clear that he was not welcome. What a difference a few days could make.
Even so, Damen could not leave just yet. Unable to stop himself even though he knew it was madness to risk it, he reached down to smooth the sweat-damp hair back from Laurent’s hot forehead. The Prince sighed softly, but otherwise did not stir.
Then, feeling strangely emboldened, Damen laid his hand atop the blanket, just above Laurent’s heart. He now doubted whether that heart would ever belong to him, but he needed to feel its stubborn, living beating all the same. Drinking in the sight of Laurent, Damen stood still and watched his hand rise and fall with each of the Prince’s breaths. Through his touch, Damen silently willed Laurent’s too-rapid heartbeat to calm and align with his own body’s healthier rhythms. The tear that had been threatening finally rolled down Damen’s cheek. Laurent sighed again but slept on.
At last, Damen knew the time had come to take his leave. His absence would be noticed soon, and if he was discovered here, even by Paschal, things would not go easily for him. With his hand still resting over Laurent’s heart, Damen stooped to press a gentle kiss to the Prince’s yellow hair.
“Heal, Laurent,” he whispered in Veretian. “Maybe one day, when all of this is over, we can try…. Perhaps you’ll…oh, I don’t know, Laurent. I just can’t stand seeing you like this,” Damen trailed off, lost for the words he needed. He studied Laurent’s face intently, as if committing it to memory. A long moment passed. “Just heal. Please,” he finished, shaking his head at himself.
With reluctance, Damen lifted his hand from the warm blanket, straightened slowly, and slipped quietly out of the tent, re-lacing the panels together. His heart felt simultaneously more at peace and more shattered. But he knew it was time to leave Damen in the shadows of Laurent’s tent and return to his own camp as Damianos, the rightful King of Akielos. Standing tall in spite of his fatigue, and trying to assume the face of a leader in a difficult situation, he walked away to rejoin his men.
Inside the tent, Laurent stirred with heavy limbs and opened his eyes blearily.
“Damen,” he called out quietly once, and then again, though he could see no one there. Had he just heard Damen’s voice on the edge of sleep? The medicine Paschal had given him made it so hard to wake up. Laurent felt a soothing warmth on his chest, just above his heart, and what felt like the ghost of a kiss in his hair. But after the way he had treated him, Damen had no doubt left the Veretian camp without a backward glance. Surely it had been a dream. It must be the fever.
Still, Laurent wished that he hadn’t dreamed, and that somehow, impossibly, Damen had just been with him. In spite of himself, and perhaps because he felt so completely broken, Laurent allowed the wish to grow into hope, fed by the lingering warmth that still lay near his heart. And that simple, glowing hope helped ease him back into a deeper, more restful sleep.
* * * * *
Paschal needed some air. Though it was often an unavoidable part of mending and healing, he had always found inflicting pain to be one of the hardest parts of his job. But Paschal endured it with steady, practiced hands and a clear head. It was in the quiet afterward that the cries and moans of his patients would sometimes haunt him. Paschal had loved his Prince since Laurent was a child; he hated that there were those in this world who would harm the Prince, even torment him deliberately. It was difficult to stomach such cruelty.
As soon as he was sure the sleeping draught had taken hold, Paschal walked through the pavilion tent and stepped outside to fill his lungs with the fresh afternoon air. He closed his eyes and turned toward the sun, welcoming its beams as they soaked lovingly into his lined face. Paschal had learned long ago that a few moments in nature could remind him of the beauty in the world and help him come back to himself after a difficult procedure. There had been nothing overly complex about Laurent’s injuries except that they were Laurent’s, and his suffering upset Paschal deeply. He breathed deeply, letting the sunlight warm him through; as it did, his worry for Laurent, and his anger at those who had hurt him, gradually settled. Paschal breathed again, another long, slow inhale and exhale. After a few more calming breaths, he felt ready to return to his patient.
Paschal crossed the pavilion tent, and started to open the flap to the smaller chamber behind, where Laurent slept. But he stopped when he heard a low voice inside. Peeking in silently, Paschal saw Damen, or he supposed he should now call him King Damianos of Akielos! The King’s hand lay over Laurent’s heart, and there was a tenderness in his eyes that dispelled any fear Paschal might have had that Damen meant Laurent any harm. Paschal heard his broken words, and saw the single kiss that Damen pressed into Laurent’s hair. He had always liked Damen; even once his true identity had been revealed, Paschal hadn’t been able to stop liking him. It seemed to him that Damen’s presence had only ever been good for Laurent, and that the two actually complemented one another remarkably well.
Paschal stood frozen in place, watching Damen memorize Laurent’s face; the King was obviously loath to be parted from the Prince. Damen’s eyes were bright with tears when he finally stood and took his leave. Paschal stayed where he was a moment longer to give Damen the time he needed to make a proper escape. It was then that he heard Laurent call out Damen’s name, soft but unmistakable.
Paschal watched his Prince come to partial consciousness, calling again for Damen. The physician was concerned that Laurent would become agitated, but instead he seemed calm, even comforted. Laurent lifted his left hand to his chest, just above his heart, and laid it there. A hint of a smile touched his exhausted face, and his eyes closed again. Sleep returned quickly, and it seemed more restful this time.
Paschal could not help but smile himself. He felt grateful to Damen for bringing Laurent a measure of peace that he doubted anyone else could have provided him. And knowing that Damen cared for Laurent gave Paschal a precious bit of optimism when he thought of the difficult days that still lay ahead. Paschal had long wished that someone so honorable and true would support Laurent and stand strong beside him against his uncle’s treachery. He could never have predicted that it would be the Akielon King, but an ally was an ally. Especially an ally who loved the Prince.
As he reentered the small chamber where Laurent slept, Paschal found that he could not stop smiling. What he had witnessed had warmed him against the Regency’s chilling, heartless plans, and Paschal welcomed that warmth, and the hope it brought him. He would need both in the trying days to come. Quietly, Paschal took a seat beside his beloved Prince. He still smiled, and so did Laurent, peaceful in his sleep at last.