Chapter Text
“Am well. Thinking of you always. Love.”
― Albert Camus, The Plague
It started with a rumor. Whispers heard about the city and in the fields.
Damen ignored them, with difficulty.
Rumors became gossip. Again, Damen dismissed them. It was only fiction, a scrap of truth twisted out of proportion over the long miles between kingdoms. One kingdom soon, once Laurent returned. Then they would meet in Delpha and be wed, joined as husbands and rulers both.
It was nonsense. Silly talk between Akielons with nothing better to do than speculate. There had been no word from Laurent. All was well. Damen refused to believe otherwise.
Then, the scout came.
He was a young man, so young the beard he’d had no time to shave was patchy and sparse across his cheeks.
“Forgive my appearance, Exalted,” he’d said, down on one knee. “This was too important to delay.”
“Tell me,” Damen commanded. He was in the middle of the training yard. He and Nikandros had been sparring, a welcome distraction from the rumors he would not give credence to. Not when-
“I’ve ridden from Karthas,” the scout panted. “We’ve had word. Black flags were raised at Arles.”
Damen’s stomach turned. “When.”
“A week ago, maybe.” The scout fumbled with the leather satchel at his side. “I’m to deliver this to you personally, Exalted.”
He withdrew a letter, stamped with a familiar crest and Damen’s name written in a familiar hand.
Nikandros stepped in front of Damen. “This came from Arles?”
“Yes, Kyros.”
“Nik,” Damen muttered, because he could see what Nikandros meant to do.
“You’ve endangered the king-”
“He’s endangered only himself,” Damen cut in. He shouldered Nikandros aside. “This-” The word was ash in his mouth; he couldn’t bring himself to speak it. “How quickly does it spread?”
“They say two to three days. It starts with a rash, here, on the neck.” The scout bared his neck, unblemished.
Damen had assumed as much. He looked pointedly at Nikandros. “It’s a four day ride from Karthas.”
“Even so-”
“You must be exhausted.” Damen addressed only the scout. “We’ll have a room made up for you, and food prepared.”
“At least-” Nikandros bent his head. “Exalted, I suggest we keep him quarantined, at least for a few days. If only-” he rushed on, “to stall any panic.”
Damen couldn’t argue with the wisdom of it. “Will you do that?” he asked the scout.
“Whatever you command, Exalted.”
The letter still laid in his outstretched palm. Damen took it, despite the hiss of protest from Nikandros. Damen gestured to the scout. “Make your arrangements, Nikandros. I’ll find you later.”
Nikandros knew better than to argue. Damen’s mind had been made up the second he recognized Laurent’s handwriting.
Damen left the training yard in a fog. He let his feet carry him outside the castle walls, down the path to the sea. He could barely hear the waves over the ringing in his ears. He walked until he felt cool water rush over his ankles. It was late in the afternoon, hot enough that most Akielons would be hiding in the chilled shade of the baths. Damen stood at the shore and stared at the sun until it became a smudge of light against the backs of his eyes.
He didn’t want to read the letter. Not the one written in Laurent’s hand. Not when he knew what the black flag meant. There had been a black banner at Ios, almost twenty-five years ago. Damen was too young then to remember much. Only that he’d been sent with Kastor to Isthima for three months. At two years old, Damen hadn’t understood why.
He wished he didn’t understand now.
Damen sat in the sand and turned the letter over in his hands.
King Damianos of Akielos
Laurent’s Akielon letters had always carried a Veretian curl at the edges.
Damen brushed his fingers over Laurent’s seal, a sunburst stamped in gold wax. He closed his eyes and recalled the color of Laurent’s hair. The faint smell of lavender, crushed into the soap Laurent favored. It had been almost a month since they parted at Fortaine and Damen sailed home to Ios. Laurent was supposed to meet him at Marlas in three weeks.
Damen,
I am not sick.
Damen stopped reading. He set his head between his knees, black spots dancing in his vision. Laurent wasn’t sick. Laurent was alive. Laurent was-
Put aside whatever idiotic plans you’re making to cross the entirety of Artes. It's almost winter here, and your ridiculous Akielon ships won’t make it past the ice that's beginning to form. I’ve ensured this letter came to you only through clean hands, including my own. The sickness spreads quickly; Paschal believes it would have taken me already if it meant to. I’m continuing to research what I can. It matches nothing in our records and nothing Paschal has seen in his time. I’ve attached a list of symptoms and some herbs that seem to help, or at least provide the ailing a bit of comfort on their way to healing. I doubt it should spread as far as Delpha or even past Belloy. Deaths have been few, and contained. Still, we make the necessary precautions.
Things are very busy here, as you can imagine. I’ll write you when I can. It’s likely we’ll have to postpone our reunion at Marlas. That weighs heaviest on me.
I miss you.
I am well.
I love you.
- Laurent
Damen exhaled slowly. Laurent was well. That mattered most. He allowed himself another few breaths, and the peace of that knowledge, before turning to the other page of Laurent’s letter. The list was written in meticulous, if cramped, Veretian that Damen knew had to come from Paschal. Damen scanned the first page again.
‘Deaths have been few, and contained.’
That too, was good. Thinking now as a king, Damen was glad they’d quarantined the scout. He’d turn Laurent and Paschal’s list over to their own healers to see what they could make of it. Better to be prepared.
He pushed himself to his feet. He'd soaked his chiton and sand clung to his legs. Laurent’s letter remained dry, clutched tight in his fist. The walk back was long and silent. He imagined Laurent whispering the words he’d written.
‘I miss you.’
‘I am well.’
‘I love you.’
Nikandros was waiting for him at the castle gates.
“It's true then.”
Damen set his shoulders. He was a king. He had to face it, to speak it, though the mere thought left him paralyzed with fear. Laurent is well. Laurent is well.
“Yes,” he said. “Plauge has come to Vere.”