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A high-pitched squawling pierces the night.
Thank goodness, it’s a boy.
Laurus wir Avitus heaves a sigh of relief, the searing pain she’s in easing with the knowledge that it wasn’t all for naught. She brushes off the maid who tries to wipe her face, and beckons over the steward who stands ready with a glass of warmed brandy. Laurus takes a long, well-earned sip. She’s been waiting for this.
“My lady, what shall you name him?”
She pauses, halfway through lifting the tumbler to her lips again.
Laurus spent years to get to where she is now. Decades spent begging and scraping to keep a nigh-indefensible position in court as fourth female cousin to the Emperor. Compared to that, securing a marriage with the reclusive Lord fae Avitus was easy: it hardly took any threatening at all. House Avitus needed prestige, and Laurus needed funding. It was the best either party could ever hope to get. The best that could be said of their wedding night was that it was productive.
But after all that, she hadn’t yet thought of a name for her child. A scion to mould to her will. Laurus’s last chance at glory. She wets her lips with another sip as she deliberates.
This will have to do.
“His name shall be Laurus.”
___
“Laurus.”
“Yes, mother?”
She thumbs away the blood on his chin. The lace on her cuff blooms red. Laurus the older takes hold of her son’s jaw and bids him open his mouth. No teeth missing. That’s good.
“Why were you sent home from the ludus literarius?”
“... Because I broke the nose of a condi–, con-di-sci-pu-lus.” He nearly stumbles over the word, but he sounds it out carefully. Like his monitor taught. Very good.
“And why did you do that?”
“There was another boy being made fun of at roll call… Because his name sounds like mine. They were kicking him.” He speaks plaintively, as if expecting to be punished. But it’s a defensible cause. No worthy Garlean should stand to have their name abused. Convenient too, to have another in his debt. And he was not even the instigator. Excellent.
Still, she sighs. She’s starting to regret ever marrying that fool Avitus. It was good that her son managed to cultivate a reputation for being sturdy and unafraid, but the surname only ever brought them trouble. She can only hope to never see that fool again.
“Mother?” He looks up at her, askance.
“You acted honorably, my son.”
Laurus the younger smiles up at his mother, elated.
She smooths his hair down. He took after his father in coloring, his hair the same bluish-grey that crowned the many disgraced scions Avitus, traitors and exiles all. But Laurus doesn’t mind it on her son. It made him, a child little more than ten, look distinguished, grave.
Here was the steel to defend the Empire. It would be up to her to wield him well.
___
“Laurus Avitus?”
“Sir!”
A youth of barely twenty snaps to attention, bright-eyed and alert. His uniform is crisp, his discipline impeccable. He hadn’t even been whispering with his fellow recruits like some others were. The drill sergeant looks down at her register. The boy’s results were really quite good. Not exceptional, but a cut above the rest, certainly. A little older than the rest, but that wasn’t so unusual. The only blemish here was… his name. She tuts softly to herself.
“Your performance was deemed satisfactory. You are hereon assigned to the capital militia, and granted the rank of oen. May you serve Garlemald well.”
“Sir yes, sir! Glory to Garlemald!”
Laurus salutes sharply, his eyes shining. The recruits around him are suddenly silent, stifling laughter. It’s a lowly assignment. The capital is the jewel in Garlemald’s crown, well-fortified and populated with the highest ranks of Her military. Capital militia are only ever called upon to escort supply crews or dispatch unruly wildlife.
Despite this, the youth beside him claps him on the shoulder. He seems genuinely proud of his friend. Laurus, holding his salute until dismissed, doesn’t dare look away from her. But his mouth quirks with joy barely restrained.
The drill sergeant gives Laurus a small smile.
Disgraced family or no, a soldier willing to do anything to prove his worth was always good to have.
___
“Patient oen Avi- Laurus, what’s happened to you?!” Lucius kir Albus, senior medicus of the capital’s salvatio corps, drops the patient record and rushes to his friend’s bedside.
It’s been a frantic day for the medica. A terrible accident occurred at a munitions depot on the outskirts of the capital. The official report going around was that a negligent supply crew managed to spark a small cache of ceruleum. Many were hurt. With Emperor Varis dead, the capital is scrambling. There is talk of civil war among the legions, despite their ongoing campaigns. Lucius fears that there are only black days ahead.
The unconscious man stirs, but he does not turn towards Lucius. He does not need to. The left side of his face is livid and mottled, his scalp ceding ground to his forehead as it burned off. Small metal shards jut out from his skin at angles, a black starburst in a red sky. By a miracle, his third eye is completely unscathed. Blood trickles out of Laurus’s ear, spreading onto the pillow beneath him.
Lucius takes a cloth to wipe it away, looking around for the burn kit. He will have to treat him quickly for the best chance at recovery.
As the cloth touches his skin, Laurus flinches awake. He grabs at Lucius’s wrist, looking up at him in surprise. The sclera are red, but his pupils are only slightly dilated, his gaze swimming around Lucius. Not unexpected, and it could have been worse. Lucius is too frantic to be comforted by this.
“What’s the matter with you?! Let me help you!”
“Lucius?” His too-loud voice is hoarse, no doubt grated by the smoke. Black-blue clouds billow in the distance through his bedside window. Even indoors, the air smells faintly of ceruleum. It’s stronger on Laurus, as if the fuel had seeped into his uniform.
“Yes, Laurus, it’s me! What the hell happened?”
Laurus squints, shaking his head. When his burns contact the pillow he flinches, hissing, releasing the medicus’s wrist.
Lucius is coming to a terrible conclusion.
He snaps his fingers by his left ear. Laurus only looks up at him in confusion. A weight sinks in Lucius’s stomach.
Oh no.
Life-changing injuries in military service are honored, but only for legatuses. This was a major accident in Garlemald’s capital, a black mark on everyone involved. Even a sas could lose their rank because of this. Laurus is just a militiaman – an honorable discharge is the best possible thing that can happen to him. But after that?
It’s not a question of skill – Laurus is disciplined and hardworking. He can learn any trade if given the chance. But who would take him? His name, compounded with an ignominious crippling? He has no connections, no family.
After ten years without a promotion his mother had disowned him. She then promptly drank his father’s fortune away. Even if he was legitimized, there is nothing he could inherit.
There is nothing else for Laurus.
Kind, honorable Laurus. His best friend. The child who smiled and helped Lucius up, despite the jeers. The boy who let him sketch medical diagrams on his back, when they both should have been sleeping. The man who didn’t laugh when Lucius thought of exploring the stars, asking him instead how it could be done.
Lucius has to do something for him.
He has to keep him safe.
___
Laurus sits up, half-awake in his chair. He had heard something.
In the weeks of his convalescence, he’d only ever heard sounds in the room he was in. He barely heard the wind that rattled windows in their frames. Distant pops and bangs, sometimes. Lucius said that that was normal, his ear healing in stops and starts.
But this was… a voice. Distant, urgent. Someone is calling for him.
Perhaps Lucius? Strange, since he knew it was a tall order for Laurus to carry a conversation across a room, let alone through several walls. He’d have to give him a piece of his mind for putting up a racket this time of night.
He got up, intending to check Lucius’s office.
But… no. The voice wasn’t coming from there. It was outside.
He heads for the door, grabbing his coat and rifle on the way. Lucius had stressed why he shouldn’t try to speak to anyone outside of his household, but questions about why he wasn’t with his platoon could be answered later. Someone needed his help.
Laurus runs out of Lucius’s manor, thundering down the steps and into the courtyard, leaving trenches in powder snow. Lucius would at least know where to find him.
Pine trees and scrub smudged as he rushed on, his breath coming fast. Laurus tugs up his muffler to keep the air from stinging his lungs. The voice was getting clearer, though he still couldn’t make out the words. He just hoped he wasn’t too late.
There, a break in the forest – a place where he could see further than he could hear. Thankfully, it was a clear night, and warmer than most nights in Garlemald. There was no doubt that Laurus could see for miles and miles around. He looked out, doing his best to listen for where the voice was coming from.
Finally, he found it.
The tower.
___
Burning cold, numbing heat.
Garlemald’s children stand to protect Her.
Against foreign man. Against fellow man.
Against man.
Protect. Watch.
The wind whistles in his ears, whipping his tattered coat. He pays it no heed. The pitches and valleys of white are stark. His rifle is icy at his back. He can search for more rounds later.
Protect.
Watch.
The cold stings his skin, but the boiling heat between his ears keeps him warm. There’s no need to change his bandages yet. They’re fresh. He’ll change them when the stars are gone.
A dead man looks up at the sky.
There was something about the stars.
