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Though he grew there, Varis disdained the Imperial Palace. He avoided it when he could, busied himself with his conquest. Once, that hard work had been a cry for attention from the man who ostensibly raised him: look at me. I can fill the hole my father left behind. I can be useful too. Why won’t you look at me? It quickly turned into the best way to avoid the Emperor and his cold indifference. If Varis was off in the provinces, he could evade the urge to storm before the throne and demand his time. That, and he didn’t have to face how wrong his own son was turning out.
Now, though, he had to keep his foothold. The bastard he called grandfather came close to croaking, finally, and a blind fool could see Titus moving for the throne. Not if Varis could help it. Lucius had left him this legacy, and he planned to hold onto it with his knuckles blanched. Emperor Solus had not given word of succession, even as his time steadily ran out. As soon as the last grain of sand fell, Varis would be prepared for war.
But that was ways off. Though Solus had begun the construction of Palatinum Novum a stone’s throw away, where the losers would evacuate to lick their wounds—a sick sense of humor he had—Varis was forced to endure his family’s presence within these walls for the time being. Zenos had the sense to continue the cycle, at least, off in Doma for his deranged ‘hunt’. That boy couldn’t be normal about warfare if it saved his social life. At least he was a warrior, however, unlike the pathetic whelp that stood in the hall as Varis made for his office.
Vespasian, Nerva’s spawn. On some level, Varis knew not to blame the son for the father’s sins. He certainly hoped the same principle held in reverse. In practice, that was a hard sell, for the apple that fell off Titus’s tree had barely rolled when it came to Nerva, and merely nudged to the side when his child came about. Thin as a twig, bubblegum pink hair bleached near-white, donning a ridiculous shirt doubtlessly pilfered from his arriviste mother’s wardrobe as he stared dumbly at a portrait of young Solus hung above. As soon as Varis took the throne, his first course of action after spitting on his grave would be to tear all of those down.
“Quite a fashion icon,” the boy whistled. “Do you think he’s kept that peacoat?”
As soon as Vespasian turned and faced him, that playful tune changed. His eyes widened before he schooled his expression to what could pass for sheepish respect if Varis didn’t know he came from a pack of wolves. Suddenly, Varis thought he saw double: that jawline though softened by youth, that prominent cupid’s bow, those smoky eyes of gold all mirrored the portrait. Familiar resemblance could be expected, of course, but this was past that. As if Solus had stamped his face on another body just so he could continue spiting him from beyond the grave.
“I apologize, Uncle,” Vespasian stammered. “I mistook you for someone else.”
That too ground Varis’s gears. Uncle. So overfamiliar, and not even accurate: they were second cousins once removed. And why did he have to announce his familial relations in every conversation? Always father this, father that with him. Nerva may tolerate it, but Varis would not. Thank his banners Zenos never addressed him as such, or he would have gotten the sword’s scabbard.
“Spare me your simpering.” Varis’s upper lip curled in distaste for his troublesome relative. “I doubt you’ve crawled from whatever den your father keeps you in just to gawk at outdated paintings like some slack-jawed tourist. State your business here.”
Vespasian was quick to straighten his shoulders, that abashed smile hardening into defiance. He crossed his arms over his chest, which further emphasized the wrong fit of the ill-gotten shirt, and leveled his gaze up at Varis. The way his jaw muscle twitched as if fighting off a retort made the resemblance to Solus all the more striking. Varis couldn’t help but wonder how much of this was the brat’s own doing and how much of it was learned behavior from his pompous father.
“Can I not roam for the joy of it? It’s my home as much as it is yours,” he settled on after a pause Nerva had most definitely instilled in him. Think before you speak, Varis could imagine him lecturing; a much needed lesson for this juvenile gossipmonger. Though calling these halls home was preposterous, this almost passed without peeving him further before he added, “for now.”
“For now, indeed,” Varis repeated the words like a verdict. He would not be the one to retreat, and the boy better get it through his skull. “I suppose it would be convenient to think yourself entitled to these halls, little viper. But a nest does not belong to the hatchling simply because it was born there—nor to the pest who slithers in uninvited.”
He strode past Vespasian, close enough that the boy had to lean back or risk brushing against his pauldron. A scandalised scoff resounded from behind, but he gave it no mind.
“Enjoy your tour while it lasts,” he said in unmistakable dismissal. “The portraits will not miss you.” And neither would he.
“You can’t wait to be rid of him, can you?” Vespasian indulged his damnable need for the last word. With one more glare his way, Varis spotted a flash of not fear but the reckless frustration of a cornered beast. The boy refused to yield ground even as Varis’s shadow loomed over him. “Every trace of him. Even the ones you carry yourself.”
There was that calculating precision of a knife seeking a seam in armor. In his periphery, Varis swore the portrait smirked. His gauntleted hand itched to snap out, to seize that lookalike jaw, to make him choke on any further smart comments. He suppressed the urge.
“Solus has left his marks on more than canvas,” he stated frigidly. “If you fancy yourself their keeper, then by all means, bleed for them.” He swept past without stopping. One day, he’d bear the Emperor’s cape, and its billow would punctuate his departures. For now, he had to dream of it. His armor’s resonance in the empty hall filled its absence. “See how well it serves you.”