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Nerva paces the floor of his study. The clock ticks steadily forward without word of his son’s safe arrival with their allies. The drive lasts a couple of bells at most, and those bells have long passed. Certainly the Corculums would have sent word through Vergilia by now… unless something had gone awry.
In the wake of Zenos’s death, it wasn’t safe to keep Vespasian here, or anywhere else obvious. Varis isn’t known for making empty threats; he had made it crystal clear that should Vespasian fail at his task, he would attempt again what he did when the boy was sixteen. And failed he had: the savage warrior and the crown prince were destined to collide, their course set by Zenos’s invitation. But that was an impossible task the Emperor was counting on him to fumble. Surely Vespasian hadn’t been so reckless as to…
Nerva shakes his head. No. No, there’s no reason to believe such yet. His son is alive somewhere and making his way back.
He needs to be certain, however.
A knock on the door. The sound makes Nerva start, turn and call out. “Enter.”
Vergilia steps in, and with her a soothing wave of relief. It lasts only until he sees her frown and knows she brings no good news.
“Vergilia, out with it. Where is my son?” Nerva’s voice is piercing, though with an undercurrent of unease he can’t suppress. He knows that look on her face all too well. It never heralds anything pleasant.
Vergilia clasps her hands before her, fingers twisting together. A nervous habit he thought she’d long since broken. “I received word from my brother. He says Vespasian never arrived.”
The shock that follows is thick enough to choke on. “Never arrived?” Nerva repeats numbly, staring at her in a mix of confusion and concern. He doesn’t want to entertain the idea that has planted itself in his mind, but it’s hard to deny when Vergilia won’t quite meet his gaze.
“I’ve had my men scour the road,” Vergilia adds. “There was no sign of a skirmish. But neither was there any trace of the car or its driver, or indeed the prince himself.”
The sinking feeling that had been steadily growing in Nerva’s gut grows stronger. “No trace…” he mumbles, pacing the study once more, hands clasped tightly behind his back. His mind races with his feet, attempting to come up with any other possibility than doom. If there was no struggle, where in the void is Vespasian? He stops mid-stride, whirling to face Vergilia with the intensity of a man clutching at straws until they crack. “You’re certain? Not a single scorch mark, not one stray bullet casing?” His voice is clipped with barely restrained fury and far worse beneath it: fear. “My son does not simply vanish without cause.”
Vergilia writes an apology with her eyes that hurts all the more. “Nothing.”
Nerva scrubs a hand over his face. The situation is becoming more dire with every second, but he has to remain calm. He has to think. There is always a way to salvage any situation. But this is his son they’re talking about. His son, the kid that breaks down all his logic when harm threatens to befall him. Nerva clenches his jaw so hard it hurts. Despite his efforts, panic keeps clawing up his throat, making his heart clench. He hasn’t felt this way in years. He cannot succumb to it. He won’t.
He turns his back on Vergilia, staring at the wall to avoid her gaze. “I want every man from here to Landis searching. Every guard, every soldier. I want my son found.” His voice doesn’t tremble, but it’s close. His gloved hand balls into a fist at his side, knuckles straining against the leather. “I will find him. But you should prepare yourself—if Varis made good on his threat—”
He cuts himself off, unable to finish the thought aloud. Not again. He won’t lose another piece of his family to that vindictive tyrant’s whims.
Vergilia’s voice is as tight as his, rare from the usually sharp-tongued woman. “I will.” Neither of them wants to voice the worst case scenario, but they both know it looms over them like a sword waiting to fall.
“Good.” Nerva draws in a measured breath, steadying himself. There’s no time to lose himself to useless worry and grief. He will find his son. His son will be okay. He will.
Though it becomes harder to believe as the hours keep ticking on. Morning comes, and Nerva hasn’t slept. He has gone from pacing his study in agitated fury to slumped over his desk, bones heavy. His expression is grim, marred by eyebags as he looks up when Vergilia returns.
“Still nothing?” He knows the answer before she even speaks. Vergilia’s face, the same as the night before, tells him everything.
“No, my lord.”
The headache he’s fought all night grows ever stronger, stabbing at his temples with the news that they’ve gotten no closer to finding his son. He closes his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose in an attempt to soothe the pain there. Every moment of idleness is torture.
“We’re missing something,” he mumbles mostly to himself. “There has to be some hint as to his whereabouts and what befell him.” He won’t accept this as some inexplicable phenomenon. Varis isn’t a magician. There is a logical explanation, he knows there is.
He stands abruptly, nearly knocking over his fifth cup of coffee. “I’ll go ask Varis myself,” he declares with fire in his eyes. “I’ll shake the truth out of him if I have to.”
Vergilia’s eyes widen with alarm. “My lord, I don’t think that wise—”
Nerva waves off her protest and pushes away from his desk. He’s past being sensible. His mind and eyes are fixed only on a single goal. “I don’t care if it’s unwise. Varis knows something, and I will make him tell me.” Determination fuels every word and move as he grabs his coat and attempts to push past her.
Steadfast woman as she is, and stronger than him, Vergilia doesn’t budge from her stance at the door. “My lord,” she repeats, firmer this time, “I understand your concern for Vespasian, but you can’t go storming the palace like a one-man army.”
Nerva fixes her with a glare that could cut glass. “What else would you advise then? Sit around and wait for word that my son has been found lying in a ditch somewhere with his throat slit?”
Vergilia visibly winces at the morbid image, but to her credit, she holds her ground. Nerva admires her conviction and loyalty, even if in this circumstance it’s driving him up the wall. “No,” she concedes. “But there must be a better way than marching into the eikon’s den.”
“Then tell me one!” The volume in his voice makes her flinch. He regrets the outburst immediately, but he’s too far gone. Frustration, helplessness and terror claw at his chest and tear him off his hinges.
Vergilia steps forward and grips his shoulder with a firmness meant to ground him. “Listen to me. Charging at Varis head-on plays right into his hands. You know that.” She leads him back to sit down before he collapses from rage. “He wants you to lose control. Don’t grant him the satisfaction.”
Despite every instinct asking for war, Nerva allows himself to be herded to the nearby couch. He sinks into the cushions like a puppet with its strings cut. Vergilia’s touch alone anchors him in the present and force his racing mind to slow. She’s right, damn it. But it’s so much easier to give over to anger than the all-consuming dread he’s trying so hard to suppress. His adrenaline drops swiftly, leaving him feeling weak and tired more than anything else.
“What do I do then?” His voice strains, his head droops low.
Vergilia kneels before him and places a gentle hand on his. “First, you need to rest. You can barely stand.” He begins to protest, but she swiftly cuts him off. “No buts. You haven’t slept a wink all night. You won’t be of any use to anyone, least of all your son, if you collapse from exhaustion.”
A long-suffering sigh escapes Nerva, but he accepts the command like swallowing nails. “Fine.” It’s grumbled, but compliance nonetheless. He slides back in his chair, staring at the chandelier above like an equally helpless baby’s mobile. The reflected light off its crystals and his easing panic reawaken some spark of intelligence within him. “The driver saw him last. Turn every stone to find him if you must.”
The man has chaperoned Vespasian since he was but a child. To think he’s turned coat to Varis’s side is unconscionable, but must be considered. Even if not, he should know something.
Vergilia gives a solemn nod as she stands. “Roger.” She studies him with boundless sympathy. He can practically hear the gears turning in her mind. “Your bedchamber awaits,” she says finally, in that voice that says there’s more to be said, but it can wait. “You will rest until I return. Am I understood?”
Her boldness in bossing around her superior never ceases to make him smile, even now—but they’re more than a prince and his Legatus, aren’t they? “I will try,” he agrees, holding out a hand for her to help him up. She hauls him to his feet with practiced ease.
A trace of a smirk plays at her lips. “No mere ‘trying,’ my lord. You’ll rest properly, or I’ll have no choice but to stand guard and ensure you do.”
This whole disaster has rendered him too weary to protest further. There’s comfort in her presence, in the way she doesn’t coddle him but refuses to let him self-destruct either. Still, as they walk to the door, he hesitates. His grip on her hand tightens in wordless gratitude.
“… Bring him home.”
Her expression hardens with resolve. She salutes. “I intend to.”
With that, she strides off, leaving him to walk solo to the quiet of his chambers and the restless thoughts that will haunt him until sleep takes him.
On the way, he walks past his wife’s door. Polistea stands at the threshold in her nightgown, her arms crossed. The sight of her makes him pause mid-step. His wife, usually so untouchable in her grace, looks pale and exhausted, her steely eyes brimming with quiet, controlled distress that mirrors his. It’s unheard of for her to show it so plainly.
“You heard,” he states in defeat.
Polistea doesn’t move to come closer, only studies him with a gaze so intense he could swear it seared a hole into his soul. No pity dwells in any part of her, no kind words or false reassurances of how things will be alright. When she speaks, it’s cruelty instead. “I believe this is where you hear my ‘I told you so.’”
The wince of pain she causes is unmaskable. He can’t blame her for the jab. They’d argued over Vespasian, over the risks he was taking. He knew his wife was worried and he brushed her off. Now he’s standing at the cusp of the abyss he was so sure he could keep his son from falling into. Any attempt to regain his composure slips like sand through his fingers. “Spare me the lecture. It’s done.”
Polistea steps forward until they’re a hair’s breadth apart, her glare biting as a winter storm. She’s much shorter, yet the force behind her outrage makes him feel like a scolded child. “Spare me your arrogance,” she snaps. “You allowed this to happen. You refused to rein in that fool, and now he’s in Varis’s hands. You brought this on yourself, and on him.”
He turns his face away, unable to bear the weight of her accusation. “Go ahead,” he mutters. “Tell me I failed him. I already know.”
The anger finally cracks in Polistea’s mask of composure. Her hands grasp his cravat, yanking him down so they’re nose to nose. “I will, because it’s the truth and you need to hear it! You did fail him. You failed as a father and a protector. You let that brat run wild, and now look what’s happened. I should have stepped in long ago. Instead, I trusted you!”
He wants to push her away, to shout back, but he knows it’s futile. Everything is his fault. He should have been a better father, a wiser politician, a stronger man. Now his son pays the price. His trembling hand springs up on its own accord, grasping her wrist. He holds her there like he’s trying to hold onto his last sense of sanity. “I tried my best,” he breathes.
“Your so-called ‘best’ was gambling with our son’s life like he was just another one of your damned maneuvers.” Her voice finally wavers, and that cracks him more than any blame. “Find him,” she orders, shoving him back with a sharp hiss, “before Varis reminds us all what happens to failures in this family.”
Nerva stumbles from the force of her push, but doesn’t retaliate. His chest aches like a bruise pressed too hard, but not from her strength. “I will,” he promises them both. “Even if I have to burn half of Garlemald to do it.”
Polistea gives him a long, scathing look, then turns sharply on her heel and slams the door between them with finality.
His promise to her, he hopes with every fiber he can fulfill. His promise to Vergilia, however, he shall not manage tonight.