Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Pollution is all around me
All around me
Our solution
Lies there in clear air”

Clear Air by Svedaliza

i.

It takes Damianos quite some willpower to keep the disappointment off his face.

He is certain he could have bested the Veretian prince, not quickly, not easily, but bested nonetheless. He could have won the match and the battle and the war for them, all in one, and he would have returned home a hero, would have had songs written about him till he was more myth than man.

Instead, however, Vere had called for a parlay, calling a hold to all the fighting.

Damianos is better with the sword than with words. He feels ill at ease facing their definite enemies as potential friends, and he had assumed his father, world-wise and battle-born, would reject the offer outright.

“There is much you have yet to learn about ruling,” King Theomedes had told him instead. “A conquest doubtlessly brings glory and bounty to the victors, but peaceful coexistence can have its merits as well.”

So Damianos had conceded and kept his mouth shut. For now. He'd listen to what the treacherous Veretians had to say and then he would aptly judge them.

They arrive with their entire royal family, the king and his brother and both princes, a sign of trust. Despite Damianos' expectations, they look like all other soldiers. Their armor is more expensive and elaborate than a common man's, not too mention needlessly stifling by Akielon standards, but they wear all the signs that they, too, have participated in the battle, covered in blood and filth, fatigue in the lines of their faces.

Only the youngest prince, too young to have been let anywhere near the actual fighting, looks out of place among the proven warriors. He is dressed in a velvet doublet, deep blue with silver like stars stitched alongside polished buttons. His hair is windswept and his boots caked with mud, but other than that he is like a forest sprite between shadows, almost unreal and as though he might disappear within the blink of an eye.

Yet like his elders, he keeps himself calm and composed, his lashes lowered but watching everything around him with an attentive gaze.

Sly as a snake, even at that age, Damianos thinks and purses his lips.

“King Theomedes,” King Aleron greets and inclines his head.

“King Aleron,” King Theomedes says and does the same.

The meeting takes place in a tent between the front lines, as though they do not have frothing armies at their backs, ready to be sicced at the other at a moment's notice.

“My sons Auguste and Laurent,” Aleron introduces the man and the boy at his right, before gesturing toward his left. “And my brother.”

“My heir Damianos,” Theomedes beckons and Damen takes a small step forward.

As a bastard, Kastor had been asked to remain outside. To the Veretians, his presence would have seemed more like an insult than anything else.

They all acknowledge each other as respectfully as can be expected of men who were moments away from trying to kill each other with all their might. The air is tense between them. Theomedes lifts a hand, giving Aleron a questioning look.

“Now then,” he prompts. “Since you were the one to invite us here, I believe you should be the one to open the floor.”

“Of course,” Aleron allows, yet he merely gestures towards his heir. “But it was Auguste who tried to sway me first. He should try his luck with you as well.”

Theomedes frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Auguste steps forward, obviously well aware of the weight that rests upon his shoulders. Yet there is no hesitance in his stance, even though he must know how unprecedented this scenario is.

“It is I that requested a parlay,” he explains.

Coward, Damen thinks.

“Interesting,” Theomedes says. He does not seem convinced. Good.

“I trust my son's judgment,” Aleron asserts calmly. “And I'd rather risk the follies of youth than the stubbornness of age.”

“Well said,” Theomedes agrees. “So, Prince of Vere. What would you have us speak about?”

Auguste takes a moment to gather himself, breathe and close his eyes. When he opens them again they are clear and blue.

“I propose a treaty,” he says. “Between Akielos and Vere.”

“A treaty,” Theomedes chuckles, but there is little amusement in his voice. “One that will be ignored? That will encourage backstabbing instead of honorable fights? You skirt away from battle but welcome intrigue, it seems.”

Typical of the Veretians, Damen thinks but schools his features.

“We would honor it,” Auguste implores. “Think of how peace would benefit all of us. New trading routes – and direct trading, too. I hear you favor Veretian wine, Exalted. You could have it directly imported instead of waiting for it to take the detour over greedy Patran merchants.”

So you can poison that same wine intended for him, Damen wonders. He cannot figure out whether the Veretians are truly hoping to establish a treaty or whether this is just a poor attempt to postpone a war and come up with a different scheme later on.

“Words on paper,” Theomedes growls lowly. “What good has it done in the past? Our forefathers have failed to keep the peace, so how should we?”

“Marriage,” Prince Auguste bursts out and everyone stares. He himself looks vaguely surprised as well, as though the words had come out of his mouth of their own volition.

“A marriage between our royal families,” he clarifies anyway, visibly clearing his throat and his head before he continues. “To symbolize the pact between our kingdoms, for generations to come. Not foes, not friends, but family.”

“I have no daughters to offer you,” Theomedes points out, casting a sideways glance at Aleron. “And neither do you, I believe.”

“And a marriage between a prince and a daughter from a noble family would hold significantly less value,” Aleron's brother notes mildly.

Auguste opens his mouth, but for a moment no word comes out. Then he seems to give himself a push.

“My brother is almost of age.”

Everyone stiffens. It is quite obvious that no one had expected this turn of events, that Prince Auguste had come up with this harebrained plan all of his own – and the rest of his family does not appear too enthused about it.

King Aleron gives an uncomfortable laugh.

“Be reasonable, Auguste,” he says. “Laurent has barely seen fourteen winters.”

He looks younger than that, though, slight and fair as he is. In Akielos, most youths would already proudly sport some meager facial hair. Prince Laurent is pretty as a girl still.

Right now, however, he is white as a sheet, his hands clenched behind his rigid back. What must it feel like to be sold out by your older brother, bartered off like a goat at the market place?

“An engagement, then,” Auguste insists. “To show our goodwill until it is time.”

“Auguste,” his uncle says. “You would entrust your brother to... strangers?”

Barbarians, he obviously means to say but has better sense than to actually do so.

“It seems,” Theomedes notes in deliberation. “That you have not quite thought this proposal through yourself.”

Auguste has the audacity to look somewhat sheepish. Aleron, however, feels the pressure.

“In itself, I am not disinclined to approve my son's idea,” he says slowly. “But I believe that we should work on the details together. For that, though, I would hear your stance on the matter first.”

For a moment, Theomedes looks thoughtful. Then he turns his dark eyes on his son.

For the first time, it occurs to Damianos that he would be the other counterpart of this political deal. The idea does not sit well with him.

“He's little more than a child, father,” Damen protests, making a sweeping gesture towards the younger prince. Laurent bristles but Auguste, by his side, looks strangely relieved.

“But light of skin and hair,” Theomedes points out and cocks an eyebrow because he does know his son after all.

“No heirs would be born of this union,” Damen adds. “What good would it-”

“Symbolism,” Augusts reiterates, not even noticing that he has rather rudely interrupted him. “Vere allows for weddings between men, and Akielos allows for bastards to become kings. You could keep mistresses and have as many heirs as you wished for.”

“Have you no shame?” Damen asks. He cannot fathom that this allegedly beloved crown prince of Vere would so eagerly try and offer his younger brother to a man whom he believed to be little more than a savage.

“I mean no offense,” Auguste replies, more carefully. “I have only our kingdoms' best interests in mind.”

“But not that of your pawns, it seems,” Damen huffs, squaring his shoulders. “I cannot bind myself to someone whom I have just met.”

“Laurent could accompany you to Ios,” Auguste says. “Spend the year there, getting to know you and your culture.”

Something is fishy about this. Not about Auguste himself, but about his eagerness to seal this potential engagement. Is he planning for Laurent to poison the Akielon king and prince when then think themselves safe from deceit? But no, there seems to be more to it than that.

Yet Damen stills his tongue, unwilling to sour the overall tolerant mood of the parlay.

“He's just a boy,” Aleron's brother says. “And you would have him far from home for so long?”

“Hmm,” Aleron hums. “It does appear like a bit much.”

“Damianos could come to Arles perhaps,” Theomedes says. “For the remainder of the summer.”

Damen turns to his father with a betrayed expression.

“You've made up your mind then?” he asks. “I am to marry the enemy?”

“A trial run,” Theomedes harrumphs. “A season to get to know the people and your prospective spouse. See whether you can learn to trust them and whether you would let one of them rule by your side.”

If they went through with this marriage, Damen realizes, there would eventually be two Veretian monarchs reigning. A chilling thought indeed.

You had been ready to wage a war against them, Damen thinks frantically, and now you would let them into your palace and into my bed?

“You still have the option to change your mind later on,” Auguste reminds him. “This is merely... testing the water.”

I'd rather drown, Damen wants to say but catches himself. When he glances over to the far right, Laurent is studiously glaring at the ground. He's the only one who hasn't said a word so far. The only one who's not being asked for his opinion. All in all, Damen is probably better off.

“Very well,” he says, though he cannot resist the urge to petulantly cross his arms in front of his already armored chest. “I consent – for now. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“That is all we ask for,” Aleron says. His brother doesn't say anything, his eyes lowered in a thoughtful, almost demure fashion.

“Come then,” Theomedes genially waves them closer, already reaching for the paper that has been laid out. “Let us further discuss the details of the contract.”

They spend the next hours outlining agreements for trade, territory, taxation. Damianos remains by his father's side, refraining from glaring at the royals across the table.

When the ink is dry, the contract neatly written up in both Akielon and Veretian, Damen finds himself forced to put his name underneath. Scratching the letters onto the parchment takes but a moment, yet he knows he sells part of his future away in the process.

The contract is turned over to Prince Laurent. The boy is still pale, his lips bloodless, the quill clenched between his fingers.

“Laurent,” Auguste urges gently.

Laurent blows out a breath through his nose, spells his name with more flourish than necessary, and consents to becoming the Akielon queen.

After all, there is no word for prince consort in their language. There is one for hostage, though. Damen is not sure which one would be more fitting.

ii

Damianos of Akielos arrives in Vere via ship and with a small entourage to accompany him. It's both a safety measure and a means to impress the Veretian court. More than half of his people will leave again after the first three weeks. For now, though, Damen is grateful for their presence. Especially since he has his best friend since childhood by his side.

“We can still turn around,” Nikandros whispers conspiratorially and Damen cannot help but grin.

“They are already mooring the ship, Nikandros,” he points out but his friend only shrugs.

“Our blades are sharp,” he says, casually putting a hand to the hilt of his sword. On the surface it's a joke about cutting through the ship's ropes before they anchor at the port of Arles, but underneath that lies a threat and a promise. Nikandros would not shy away from protecting his prince, if need be.

And according to many, there would be need. The news of the sudden treaty had not been received kindly. The Akielons were a people that looked for glory in battle, whether through death or victory. Paper politics were not suited to their fiery tempers.

But Damen had given his father his word that he would set a good example and inspire his men to follow the course they had chosen. Damen still does not like it but he has had time to better hide his discontent.

After the contract had been signed and the armies called back, both royal families had returned to their respective courts. Damen had been given short precious weeks to settle all his affairs and gather all he needed to take with him, before boarding the ship that had now taken them here.

“It's only for the summer,” he reminds both himself and Nikandros. That's all he had agreed to, after all. A trial run. After that, he would be allowed to change his mind. They could go to war then or keep the peace. In any case, he would be able to rid himself of this strange promise regarding his nuptials. It wasn't even a proper betrothal. Instead, he and Laurent were betrothed to be engaged. There was nothing real about it but words on paper.

Paper can burn, Damen thinks, much like cities.

Arles itself, however, is an impressive sight, the castle stunning against the blue backdrop of the sky, the color all the more enhanced by how it is reflected on the calm sea today.

Damen wants storm clouds to suit his mood, but all he gets is sunshine and smiles.

Or one smile, at least, when he makes his way off the ship and is warmly greeted by Prince Auguste.

“Prince Damianos,” he says in slightly mangled Akielon, spreading his arms in a universal gesture of welcome. “It is good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Damen says, forcing a smile onto his own features. “I cannot imagine a more joyous occasion under which I might have first stepped foot into Arles.”

Conquest, his mind supplies unhelpfully, but instead he turns towards Laurent who is, once more, standing by his brother's side.

“Prince Laurent,” he greets. “It is a pleasure to meet you again.”

“You have very low standards for pleasure then,” Laurent says in pointed Veretian and for a moment Damianos is caught off guard.

“Laurent,” Auguste chides, looking somewhat scandalized. Laurent takes a deep breath.

“I welcome you to my birthplace, Heir of Theomedes,” he says, very formally. It sounds rehearsed, but it's difficult to tell whether that it because he does not actually speak Akielon or because the phrase completely lacks sentiment when coming out of his mouth.

“Forgive my brother,” Auguste sends Damen another quick smile, tentative around its edges. “He is nervous about properly meeting his fiancé.”

He is a brat too young to understand proper decorum, Damen thinks and the glare Laurent sends the both of them is yet another reminder of Damen having promised his hand to a spoiled child.

“As am I,” Damen claims agreeably because he cannot afford to start off on the wrong foot. “I have never been this far from home and for so long, too.”

“Oh?” Auguste says in surprise. “I heard you had traveled to Vask before?”

“Only the mountain range,” Damen supplies. “Just behind the border.”

“Close enough to Vere then,” Auguste claims. “Though I'm afraid you will find Arles much different from what you are used to.”

It's a mere statement of fact, no hidden barb, no insult. Prince Auguste is strangely guileless and open, so different from the tent at Marlas.

“Please,” Auguste says now, making an inviting gesture. “Your journey was long and I am sure you would like some rest. But for the evening, we have prepared a feast in your honor.”

“Much appreciated,” Damen says and waves at his men to unload his luggage from the ship.

The one thing Damen likes about Vere is the cuisine. He is treated to several courses of foie gras, quail eggs, candied fruit, and only the best Veretian wine. His father would definitely profit from the new trading routes.

Other things, however, take some getting used to. The nobles and courtiers are all laced up in silks and velvet, tantalizing inches of skin exposed here and there for the especially daring. It is in stark contrast to the half-naked pets they keep around, decorated with jewelry and face-paint.

In Akielos, the slaves wear no clothes at all, but here the gemstones dangling between pert breasts and the sinful red dusted on full lips seem much more scandalous.

Pets sell their bodies in exchange for full bellies, Damen reminds himself of what he has learned during his last-minute lessons. They draw up contracts and promise to serve their masters, all in all a rather pragmatic affair. It is no wonder, really, that people growing up in such an environment would see nothing wrong in doing the same to one of their princes.

Damen tries to focus on other, less stomach-turning, observations. A Veretian feast, for example, is a much quieter affair than an Akielon one. In Ios, though everyone starts out at their assigned seating arrangement, the people begin moving around as the night progresses. There are few boundaries, nobility encouraged to mingle with their soldiers, women leaving their husbands' sides to chat with friends, children and dogs running around, slaves always underfoot. There is music and loud singing, food thrown around, at least past midnight. Drinking contests. Burping contests.

It makes for an easy atmosphere, easier still when it's men Damen has ridden to battle with. They've seen each other piss and fart and fuck and vomit, and that has only strengthened their bonds.

Here, Damen is a stranger, tenaciously holding on to the impeccable manners he had been taught just shortly before coming here.

“You can just eat with your fingers,” Auguste encourages him when Damen rather futilely tries to pierce an orange slice with his silver fork. As if to demonstrate, he snatches up an apple slice from Laurent's plate in an entirely un-Veretian fashion.

“Hey,” Laurents protests, dangerously brandishing his own fork.

“You weren't going to eat it anyway,” Auguste teases. “You had too many chocolates already.”

“Did not,” Laurent huffs, blowing his fringe out of his face.

“He has a sweet tooth,” Auguste informs Damen helpfully. “Is there any food you favor, Prince Damianos?”

“Ah, all kinds of meat,” Damianos says, belatedly realizing how unrefined that answer makes him sound. “But please, my friends call me Damen.”

He does think of the Veretians as friends, of course, but it seems like a prudent offer, not to mention that he hopes the familiar nickname will make him feel a little bit more at ease.

“Damen, then,” Auguste says and smiles again. He hands his smiles out very liberally and Damen would wish to call them fake but they are warm and golden, just like everything about the crown prince, if the stories travelers tell are to be believed.

“We made small-talk and talked about politics so far,” Auguste continues. “But it seems that I know nothing of you as a person yet. What are your interests, your dislikes?”

Veretians, Damen thinks in reply to the latter.

“Sports,” he says instead. “In Akielos, I often participate in various disciplines, such as wrestling and sword-fighting.”

It might be a grim reminder of how he had almost faced the prince in combat, but Auguste easily ignores that.

“I hear there is a game of kings,” he muses. “It is called the okton, I believe.”

“Yes,” Damen says, allowing a genuine smile of his own. “The most difficult of all. A personal favorite.”

“I never quite understood how it works.”

“It demands much of its participants,” Damen explains. “Strength and precision for spear throwing. Quick decision-making and awareness of everything happening around you. Outstanding riding skills.”

Auguste makes an interested noise. “Laurent is a gifted horseman,” he notes. “Perhaps he would be interested in joining one day.”

Damen throws a short glance at Laurent, slight and slender as he his, his face youthful and the palms of his hands soft.

“One day, perhaps,” he agrees good-naturedly. “To be allowed in the okton, one must first prove their worth in one of the other disciplines. Archery, dueling, wrestling.”

“Ah,” Auguste laments. “I'm afraid Laurent hasn't shown much interest in any of those yet.”

“Is it true that, in Akielos, the men wrestling each other are naked and covered in oil?” Laurent suddenly pipes up and Damen throws him a surprised look.

“It is,” he admits.

“Barbaric,” Laurent snorts.

“Now now,” Auguste says soothingly. “I'm sure we have conventions that seem strange to Akielon eyes.”

Damen hums in mild agreement but deems it better to leave it at that.

iii

The first few days in Arles are tedious, to say the least. Damen knows he is not yet welcome to wander around on his own so, between the various entertainments offered to him, he prefers to stick to the company of his men.

It's not the best course of action, showing them all to be still ill at ease in the presence of the Veretians. Nikandros especially eyes everyone around them with distrust and it's not long before he earns the title of Royal Guard Dog.

The only bridge between the two parties, spanning across the chasm like a determined thread of gold, is Prince Auguste.

He goes out of his way to make sure his guests feel comfortable, not just Damianos himself but those ranked below him as well. He provides only the most elaborate living quarters and the best food, has wine sent to them in the evenings and inquires about any other wishes they might have.

They are all reluctant at first. Nikandros suspects the wine might be laced with something and refuses to drink any, but the other men are ailed by nothing but mild hangovers the next morning.

With each passing day, Damianos has to grudgingly acknowledge that maybe the Prince of Vere actually means well. It is with that in mind that he eventually agrees to the hunting trip that Auguste proposes.

“Many accidents can happen while hunting,” Nikandros cautions. “Stray arrows and spears, spooked horses. You ought to be careful.”

Damen just rolls his eyes. He has been itching for a chance to get out of the castle and meander further than just the gardens and the markets in town.

They gather in the courtyard, Damen and his entourage, Auguste and some well-meaning friends, as well as the usual rabble of attendants. Laurent is there, too, ignoring all humans around him and instead standing at the edge of the pack of hounds. They seem to like him, easily accepting his presence and the occasional pat on the head.

Damen sighs quietly. So far he has barely had any opportunity to properly get to know the boy. When he had first come here, he had suspected that they would always be supervised by some sort of chaperon, but so far that had not even been necessary. Laurent didn't give him even the semblance of a chance to catch him on his own.

Finally, it is time to mount. Damen is given an impressive blood bay, the largest horse of the party, and when he swings himself up into the saddle he breathes freely for the first time in days. This is something he knows how to do. Hunting and riding come easy to him. Diplomacy does not.

Across the yard, he can see Laurent who is perched on a young piebald mare, neither of them dainty at all but with poised perfection that speaks of years of experience, and Damen recalls how Auguste had mentioned his brother to be a proficient rider.

Auguste himself is, too, if the way he easily maneuvers his gray gelding through the crowd is anything to go by.

“Perfect weather for a hunt!” he calls out to Damen. His long hair is tied back in a high ponytail, swishing back and forth between his shoulder blades with every step his horse takes.

“A little on the hot side,” Damen notes. It's still early morning but it would grow hotter throughout the day. Akielons are used to it, of course, but Veretians surely burn easily.

“The trees will grant us shade,” Auguste knows. “It won't take long to reach the outskirts of the forest.”

“Auguste,” a petulant voice says and when they look up Laurent has joined them.

“Will you help us lead the party?” Damen asks, trying his best to sound warm and inviting, if only so that no one can later claim he never made an effort.

Laurent only bestows him with a cool gaze.

“I always ride by my brother's side,” he claims pointedly, turning his nose up under the guise of adjusting his seat in the saddle.

“Laurent,” Auguste chides in that exasperated tone that Damen has already grown used to hearing over the past couple of days. For the first time in his life, he finds himself strangely relieved that he was never blessed with younger siblings.

“Yes, I will ride with you,” Laurent amends with a roll of his eyes as though it were a terrible chore.

“Wonderful,” Auguste says. “Then let's go.”

Damen's stallion shudders in anticipation.

The Great Northern Forests are a sight to behold. Akielos does not have forests like that, not that dense and magical. The foliage offers welcome reprieve from the summer sun, dappling everything in patches of fluid gold, until oaks and beeches give out to larger pine trees.

Damen, to his prideful pleasure, makes the best kill of the day, a large stag that dwarfs even his steed. The meat will probably be rather tough and bitter with age, but the antlers alone make the chase worth it.

Etienne, son of a nobleman and one of Auguste's friends, takes down a boar that will feed them that night, and they all return to the castle hungry and exhausted, but blissful.

The thrill of the hunt has the peculiar habit of uniting men who did not care for each other before. There is a competitive streak to it, doubtlessly, but overall it is a joint effort. Even Nikandros compliments Etienne on his kill and from then on it's easy laughter between them all.

Almost all, Damen amends.

Laurent, though he had been the one to spot the stag first, had not actually participated in the hunt itself. He is too young to take on a boar, of course, but he had not shown particular interest in any case.

Damen groans inwardly. He had already suspected that Laurent was not particularly fond of physical exercise, but if he was one of those waspish boys that shied away from blood and sweat then Damen truly did not know how to handle him.

His tentative attempts to engage Laurent in conversation during their ride had been received by a cold shoulder shrugging him off. Laurent had the incredible talent to walk the fine line between direct insults and bland statements, so Damianos had not allowed himself to call him out on it. It would do little good anyway, he suspects.

The only one who seems to be able to reach Laurent is Auguste and even he seems to be having trouble these days, at least when it comes to convincing him of being nice to his potential spouse.

Momentarily lost in his thoughts, Damen now looks around the busy courtyard because he could have sworn Laurent was there just a moment ago.

“He probably went to take care of his horse,” Auguste informs him as though reading his thoughts.

“Oh?” Damen cocks an eyebrow. “Do the stable boys not live up to his standards?”

“It's not that,” Auguste says. “I gave him that mare when she was little more than a filly. He takes is responsibilities very seriously.”

“A proof of his strength of character,” Damen says, hoping to sound well-meaning, but Auguste only laughs.

“He uses it as an excuse to get away from everything after all the noise,” he explains. “He is fond of solitude.”

Damianos, extroverted to a fault, always happy to be the center of attention, has trouble relating to that.

“He won't partake in dinner then?” he asks politely and Auguste shrugs.

“He'll probably show his face, but don't expect him to be there for long. He must be rather tired. It's been a long day.”

Laurent does appear at the feast, but he only eats half a plate before picking at the rest of his food. He attempts to follow the conversations around him, his gaze zapping around, but he looks more and more tired by the minute.

The boy trying to keep up with the men, Damen thinks and smiles privately.

After some gentle nudging from Auguste, Laurent eventually does make his excuses. He drags his feet as he leaves the hall, just a little, and Damen wonders what he might be like if he truly let his guard down.

There's time for that, though. They have half of the summer still ahead of them.

iv

The first time Damen finds himself actually bored since coming to Arles is on a rainy day after summer solstice. The sky is heavy and overcast, forbidding any thoughts of venturing outside. Nikandros and everyone else already left weeks ago and Auguste has duties to attend to, the kind that do not allow for a foreign prince to tag along.

So for once Damianos will have to entertain himself. He decides to go to the library that Auguste had shown him during his first days, even though it takes him a while to find his way back to it, too proud to ask anyone for directions. When he finally does, however, he realizes that he is not as alone as he had expected.

Laurent is curled up on an armchair by the window, a book propped up against his knees and angled towards the sparse light of the white sky. His face doesn't give away much, but he seems to be completely lost in whatever he is reading.

Out of common courtesy, Damen raps his knuckles as he passes one of the shelves, alerting the boy to his presence. Laurent, however, doesn't startle, just drags his eyes up to fleetingly fixate on Damen.

“Are you stalking me now?” he asks and Damen cants his chin forward, by now used to the poor manners he is continuously being shown.

“I was just hoping to find a nice book to entertain me,” he says blandly. He has given up on faking smiles that will only be rebuffed anyway. In a way, he prefers these exchanges between them, no niceties, no pretenses. It's less draining than what he attempted before.

Lazily, Laurent drops his gaze back onto the pages. “I don't think many of these come with pictures.”

“I'll have you know that I'm fluent in not only Veretian but Patran as well,” Damen remarks, irked. “Which is one more language than your brother speaks. Not to mention that Akielos is the birthplace of abstract mathematics and physics. So you should reconsider whether I deserve to be called an uncivilized barbarian.”

That, at least, has Laurent's feathers ruffled. “Vere has achieved just as much.”

“Truly?” Damen asks, randomly pulling a book from a shelf. “Such as what? Poetry?” He flips the tome open, cocks an eyebrow at the words that greet him. “Raunchy poetry.”

“I wouldn't expect an Akielon to understand,” Laurent sniffs.

Damen looks at him for a moment before turning back to the book. Then he takes a deep breath.

“His sword sheathed inside me,

Yet no blood, no pain,

A cry upon my lips

Then mine on his.

So little to lose, so much to gain;

In no one's arms I'd rather be ,” he reads out loud, glancing up just in time to catch the red creeping high into Laurent's cheek.

“You are right,” Damen continues, making a show of creasing his brow. “I don't understand it. Please enlighten me about the deeper meaning. What is this sword the poem speaks of? Have you much experience with handling one?”

For a moment, Laurent seems to be warring with himself. Damen almost thinks he has taken it too far, has overstepped the boundaries Laurent set before they even exchanged their first words.

Instead, however, Laurent simply jumps up from his seat, whizzing through the library, deftly collecting a number of book in his arms, never once stopping.

“There,” he snarls, tossing book after book down onto the table between him and Damen, giving brief, head-spinning explanations for each. “A condensed account of Veretian history, back to when it split off from Akielos. These are various theological writings by Veretian philosophers; not an easy read, but inspiring. A collection of Veretian folk tales, with illustrations. Veretian linguistics and how it relates to other languages. A genealogy of our noble houses. Horse breeding. Herbalism. Take your pick.”

By the time he finishes, he is short of breath. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes spark like the sun reflecting off the Ellosean Sea.

“You have read all of those,” Damianos realizes quietly and he cannot tell whether the heat in his chest is respect or embarrassment.

“I have,” Laurent bares his teeth. “So stop looking down on me.”

You are rather short, Damen wants to quip.

“I will. If you can return the favor,” he says instead. “Since I came here, your father and your brother have shown me nothing but kindness, and I strive to return it tenfold. Auguste despairs of your being so uncooperative.”

At the mention of his brother, Laurent predictably looks away.

For a little while, they stand in tense silence. Damianos dares to take the next step, more hesitant than he has every felt in his life.

“Which of these would you recommend?” he asks, not knowing what he expects in return.

A beat. Laurent clenches his jaw. With pointed fingers, he pushes one of the books across the table. It's the one on folktales.

“I like this one,” he reveals. “The language is a bit archaic but some of the stories might be similar to what you grew up with in Akielos. They are... entertaining.”

“And they have pictures,” Damen notes.

“And they have pictures,” Laurent agrees.

“Thank you,” Damen says and picks up the book, weighs it in his hand. It is heavy and well-worn.

“May I keep you company?” he asks and Laurent gives a put-upon sigh.

“I can't very well stop you,” he says as though he were not a prince of Vere. “Just don't try to talk to me.”

“What if I don't understand a certain word?”

“Dictionaries are on the far end of that aisle,” Laurent points and then folds himself back into his armchair.

They do not talk for the rest of the afternoon but Damen is curiously alright with that.

v

Against his initial expectations, Damen's stay in Arles passes quickly and he finds himself sorry to see summer coming to an end. He's enjoyed himself, he can admit, even though he had originally counted on anything but that. There was no backstabbing, no scandals. Merely a culture other than his own, with differences that he has bridged with relative ease.

He is going to miss Auguste, he knows, having found a true friend in him. Suddenly, peace does not seem like a chore anymore. Their fathers will be proud.

Yet the one bump in the road still remains.

Damen definitely could get behind Auguste, in more ways than just one. Auguste, however, seems to favor women, if his occasionally wandering gazes are anything to go by. Ludicrous to think that, here in Vere, it would be a scandal for the crown prince to be caught with a woman. He keeps a doe-eyed pet by his side, though, but does not truly seem to make much use of him, apart from having him perform tasks that would otherwise be done by mere servants.

One way or another, marrying Auguste is out of the question. Even in a joint nation, Veretians and Akielons would tear themselves apart over which of their kings would be more of a king.

No, the only valid candidate is Laurent and, as summer steadily comes to an end, Damen realizes that that still makes him no proper candidate at all.

It is difficult to view Laurent, who looks and acts so much like a child still, as someone who he might be sharing his life with as an equal. He is bookish and standoffish, headstrong and vicious, and Damen could live with all of that, if he were allowed to still take on other lovers, but what he cannot stand is the thought of imprisoning the boy in a farce of a marriage.

Laurent is spoiled, doubtlessly, but he is also simply used to being doted on by Auguste and, to a lesser extent, by his father and his uncle. He would learn his lesson, one day, but forcefully removing him from the gentle cradle of his family would do him no good.

That is what Damen thinks when he is one evening drinking wine with Auguste, sitting by the open balcony and enjoying the last bit of summer warmth that is still laced through the night.

“So,” Auguste begins anew, after their talk had naturally puttered off in the late hour. “My father has been wondering whether you have made up your mind.”

“About what?” Damen asks, not drunk but lazy with the pleasant atmosphere. He has no head for the Veretian way of beating around the bush. Fortunately, Auguste has always been the most straightforward of the bunch.

“About your betrothal to Laurent,” Auguste says as though it were obvious. Perhaps it is. Damianos simply has a habit of pushing unpleasant matters to the back of his mind, hoping they will not be brought up for closer examination.

“Ah,” he says now, sitting up in his chair. Straightforward or not, Auguste certainly knows what he is doing, plying Damen with sweet wine before asking bitter questions.

I am fond of Laurent, he means to say, but even that would be a lie.

“I know you mean well,” he says instead, carefully cushioning his words. “And I know you only intend what is best for us all. But, Auguste, after the time we have spent together I am glad to call you my friend and I am certain that we will be able to maintain peace without having to go so far as to marrying into each other's family.”

He had expected agreement or gentle ribbing at most. Instead, Auguste has stiffened, staring into his goblet for a long moment before deliberately setting it aside.

“Damen,” he says, leaning forward in his chair. In the sparse candle light, his eyes are pools of blue, deep and unfathomable. “Listen to me,” he says. “I understand your doubts and your misgivings. But this is the only solution.”

“Solution to what?” Damen says, a little uncomfortable, trying to act over it by spreading his arms and slapping on a winsome smile. “We are at peace. We have a contract. What more do we need, truly, but this word between honest men?”

“There is more than-,” August breaks off, wipes a hand over his face. For the first time, Damen feels acutely aware of the years his new friend has on him. “I need you to do this, for Laurent's sake.”

“Laurent?” Damen laughs in disbelief. “Laurent thinks me a brute and a nuisance. He'd rather stab me with a fork than marry me.”

“He shows affection in unusual ways,” Auguste claims but his lips purse. “He is young. He may seem contrary now, but he will grow into a fine upstanding man. Would it truly be such a hardship for you?”

“Auguste,” Damen groans. “Give it two years and your brother will surely slay grown men with a mere look. He already is smart as a whip and just as merciless. Some days I think he understands more about politics than I do. But right now, he is still a child. I cannot set my heart on that and certainly not my crown.”

“But just think-”

“No,” Damen says, a little more forcefully this time. “We are not talking about a willful filly that needs breaking in. Let him grow, prickly a rose though he might be. Don't make me the one to take shears to his thorns.”

“That,” Auguste says. “That is the reason why you are the best option. I didn't know it then, not at Marlas. You were... a distraction. A desperate attempt. But I know it now, I know I can trust you. You would never hurt him, not intentionally.”

Dazedly, Damen wonders how strong the wine was. Because it seems unreal how fast this conversation seems to have spun out of control.

“So give it time,” he repeats. “Two years, three years, what difference does it make, other than that I will be able to look at your brother and be able to think of him as an equal instead of chattel? I can return next summer or the two of you can come to Akielos. And who knows, maybe something will take root then, if the gods deem the earth fertile.”

“Please,” Auguste pleads, his voice shaking. Helplessly, Damen thinks the other prince is one moment away from falling to his knees in front of him. “Please give him a chance. Go through with the engagement. You can still break it off later on, for whatever reason. But for now, Damen, I beg of you – agree to marry my brother.”

And Damen cannot even begin to understand, cannot comprehend why Auguste would be so utterly desperate in this matter. He doesn't know what to say, how to console or convince him.

So, in the end, he chooses the only option there is.

“Alright,” he relents, his own voice a dull echo in his head. “If he will have me, then alright.”

vi

The engagement feast takes place in Arles. King Aleron had been not exactly delighted but agreeable to the idea of sealing the deal, even going so far as to dismiss the concerns voiced by his brother.

Laurent himself, however, refuses to speak his mind.

“I agree,” he had said when Damen had tried to press his opinion on the matter. “Isn't that enough?”

“I want to know I'm not forcing you into anything,” Damen had insisted. “You are still young-”

“As you keep reminding everyone,” Laurent had scoffed. “Nevertheless, I understand politics. I may not be the heir but I accept that sometimes sacrifices have to be made.”

“Akielos would honor the contract in any case,” Damen had pointed out. “I am only acting on Auguste's request.”

“As am I,” Laurent had said and that had been the premature and unsatisfying end of it.

The feast, at least, makes the trouble kind of worth it. It is held on the evening before Damen's return to Ios and King Aleron has gone out of his way to organize something deserving on such a short notice. There are dancers and musicians, performing a mixture of Akielon and Veretian plays and songs. They are missing the cruder drinking songs, but the night is still young.

Damianos is clad in a swan-white chiton, adorned only with golden thread at the seams. It's the best he had brought with him from home, but next to the Veretian nobles he feels painfully underdressed.

Laurent is wearing a black doublet, laced up tight and much too severe for his coloring. He looks better suited to a funeral than his upcoming nuptials, and he has the facial expression to go with it.

“Smile, little brother,” Damen overhears Auguste remind him on more than one occasion, and each time Laurent plasters the facsimile of bliss onto his lips.

He looks prettier with a real smile, with shining eyes and rosy cheeks, as Damen had the fortune to witness now and then, when Laurent went riding, when he was lost in a particularly riveting book, or merely when he talked to Auguste. Yet Damen has never been on the witnessing end of such a smile and he feels all the poorer for it.

“Congratulations,” Lady Vannes says, a noblewoman whom Damen has gotten to fleetingly know during the past weeks. “It's been a long time since there was a wedding in the royal family, and never such a – ah – controversial one, I believe.”

“It is not yet a wedding,” Damen cautions as much as he dares to. “But I thank you nevertheless.”

“He is quite the catch,” Vannes notes teasingly. “And not yet fully grown, I believe.”

It takes Damen a moment to realize that this is directed not at him but at Laurent who is seated beside him. Laurent glares at Vannes, glances at Damen and then studiously stares down at his plate again. His cheek are dusted red.

“Then when do you think the official ceremony will be held?” Lady Vannes asks, smoothly accepting Laurent's lack of response. “I've always favored spring weddings, to be honest.”

Spring, Damen thinks sullenly, little more than half a year away.

“Not for another three or four years at least,” he says instead and Vannes' eyes widen.

“That far into the future?” she asks in disbelief. “That's a – ah – an unusually long period for an engagement, even among royalty.”

“I'd like for Laurent to be able to spread his wings a little,” Damen admits with a pleasant smile. Before he is all too quickly stuck into another golden cage, he thinks. “There are many things he has yet to learn, about being a man and a king and himself. I want to give him that time.”

Next to him there is a small noise, followed by a dull clatter. When he looks over, he finds that Laurent has knocked over his golden goblet.

“How clumsy of me,” he says idly and beckons over a servant who immediately begins mopping up the watered down wine that has spilled across the table. Some of it has splattered onto over his lap, too, barely even noticeable on the dark velvet, but he smoothly rises to his feet anyway.

“Please excuse me,” he tells Vannes and Damianos. “I should get myself cleaned up.”

“My prince, do you require-,” the servant speaks up hesitantly, but Laurent waves her off.

“I shall manage on my own,” he says and, after just barely inclining his head at Damianos, he walks off.

Once alone, the Lady Vannes openly grins at Damen.

“He's a handful, that one,” she tells him, almost conspiratorially.

“Aren't all Veretians?” he asks, certain in the knowledge that it won't be taken as an affront.

Vannes throws her head back an laughs.

“Indeed,” she agrees. “But Laurent more so than anyone else.”

For all the pomp and splendor, it becomes painfully obvious that the engagement is nothing more but an empty gesture. Though Laurent does make a re-appearance later on, he does not return to Damen's side, instead choosing to keep to the outskirts of the festivities, vaguely entertaining some minor nobles. He is not the youngest present, but he is by far the most cultured among his peers. He does not appear to have many friends, his need for social interaction satisfied by what Auguste gladly offers him. Yet Damen can read it as nothing but another glaring contrast between himself and the little prince.

Damianos has never had trouble making friends, out of strangers, out of rivals. He has a winning nature that his half his father's temperament, half his mother's kindness, and wholly his own easy charm. People gravitate towards him, men and women of every age and status, for various reasons, children like him and animals trust him. Even the Veretians here who had been skeptical of him had quickly been drawn in by his humor and easy-going nature, since he, of course made, a point of always being on his best behavior.

The only one resistant to his allure, it seemed, was still Laurent. It's not surprise, really. The boy is spiteful and stubborn. Because of their engagement, it was practically demanded of him that he like his new spouse. Quietly projecting his dislike was his only means of acting out against expectations.

I have years, Damen reminds himself. Years to still break off the engagement. Auguste had promised after all, and Damen would take him up on it.

Across the hall, he spots Laurent being apprehended by his uncle. At first he thinks the boy might be getting a reprimand for abandoning his fiancé this early into the night, but the man's expression is kind, his body language gentle, and after only a few words, the pinch on Laurent's face smooths and he gives an agreeable nod.

Damen reaches across the table for some grapes and, when he looks up again, he has lost track of Laurent.

He makes his excuses not much later, citing his early departure upon the morrow. King Aleron has already begged off because of a headache, and Auguste's friends are crowded around him, ribbing him about soon having to find a wife as well, naming various candidates, one more outrageous than the next, until one finally offers his mare's hoof in marriage.

Veretians, Damen sighs fondly and makes for his chambers.

His belongings have already been packed away in a number of chests. He hadn't brought much with him when he first came here, but he has been given a wide array of presents and plans to bring some souvenirs for his loved ones as well. Primarily Veretian wine for his father, of course, but also various trinkets that caught his eyes here and there, reminding him of Kastor and Nikandros and the cook's little daughter.

He slips out of his sandals, flexes his toes a little, runs a hands through his hair, before stepping over to the wash basin that has been set out by one of his servants. He splashes water on his faces, wipes some of the tiredness away. He is not exhausted as such, not physically anyway. But the strain of a maintaining a pleasant facade throughout the evening has taken its toll.

Maybe this is why Laurent prefers to be on his own. The Veretian court has a peculiar way of getting under your skin and, though Damen does not think them the dangerous vipers he once did, he still feels as though being thrown into a snake pit would be the less daunting affair.

All of a sudden, there is a frantic knock at his door. Immediately, Damen is on alert. No attendant would ever knock like that, not if there weren't a life-threatening matter, and the same goes for the guards.

Quickly, Damianos grabs his sword from the bedside table and then makes his way over to the entrance with fast, but quiet steps.

“Who's there?” he demands, his voice as sharp as the blade he has unsheathed.

“Damianos,” Laurent's voice comes through the wood. “Damen, it's me.”

Damen is so caught off guard that he does not even question it. He opens the door, sword loosely at his side, his chest carelessly exposed.

“Laurent?” he asks, stumbling back when Laurent squeezes himself through the gap and slams the door shut. “What on earth happened?”

Because Laurent looks disheveled and out of breath, as though he had just run from one side of the castle to the other.

It takes the boy a long moment to gather himself, his lips pursed and his brow furrowed. When he opens his eyes, they are determined and unflinchingly trained on Damen's.

“I want to go with you,” he says and there is just the faintest quiver in his voice.

Damen stares.

“Go where?” he stammers. “What do you mean?”

But Laurent does not answer right away, just takes an unsteady step forward and clenches his fists in the front of Damen's chiton.

“Take me with you,” he begs and for some reason he has the same desperate look that Auguste wore only a few nights ago. “Take me with you to Akielos.”

“What?” Damen startles. “Laurent, what are you talking about all of a sudden?”

“Please,” Laurent says, his voice hitching, and then he surges up to kiss him.

vii

The next morning, Damen wakes with a groan and to the sound of rapid knocking on his door. Rather reminiscent of last night, really.

He groans again as he gets up, rubs his shoulders, because sleeping on the divan had not been the best of ideas, and then makes to open the door. Once more, his sword is by his side, trusted and steady.

“Damen,” Auguste says as soon as they come face to face, and his eyes are wild. “Damen, have you seen Laurent, he-”

“Ah,” Damen says, stepping aside to let him in. “He's here.”

Auguste practically falls into the room and then he crosses it with quick strides, over to the bed where Laurent is still blissfully unaware of the worry he had apparently caused.

It takes Damianos a moment to shrug off the disorientation of sleep but, when he does, he freezes.

“It's not what it looks like,” he insists hurriedly because he knows exactly what it looks like. His young fiancé found defenseless in his bed after having been missing all night. For any lesser men, it would be a death sentence.

Instead of infuriated, however, Auguste only looks relieved.

“Oh thank Heavens,” he breathes, heavily leaning against the chair Damen had sat on last night as he waited for Laurent to drift off to sleep. “I had feared- but oh, he's too clever by far.”

“What?” Damen blinks, not understanding at all what is happening in his friend's head. Or what had been going on in Laurent's, for that matter.

“Nothing, just-” Auguste wipes a palm across his face. “I was worried for him. His servants couldn't find him anywhere and I thought- But he was just with you.”

“He showed up last night after I left the feast,” Damen explains, hoping to get some proper explanation in turn. “He appeared rather frantic and... he begged me to take him to Akielos today.”

He does not mention the kiss, of course, but Auguste still looks up sharply. His face is pale.

“Did you agree?” he asks.

“He would only calm down when he had wrangled the promise from me,” Damianos admits. “But-”

“Yes,” Auguste nods, starting to pace around. “Yes, that's for the best.”

Damen finds himself reminded of how Auguste had wanted his brother to go to Akielos from the very beginning, before they had even written up the contract. But why? Why is he so adamant about it? And why is Laurent, too, all of a sudden?

“Auguste?” Laurent mumbles, stirring on the bed. He must have been extremely wrought out from yesterday to have slept through most of the commotion.

“Laurent,” Auguste breathes, sinking down onto the mattress and reaching out a hand to run through the boy's messy hair. “Are you alright?”

The brothers exchange a long look then and an entire conversation passes between them, one Damen cannot even begin to comprehend. Finally, Laurent gives a short nod and Auguste's shoulders slump with released tension.

“You'll go to Akielos then?” he asks and again Laurent nods.

“Father will be surprised,” Auguste warns.

“I'll convince him,” Laurent promises. “I'm older now.”

By one summer, Damen thinks, frazzled. He has completely lost track of what is going on.

Auguste turns around, turns his earnest eyes upon him.

“Do you really agree to this?” he asks. “To fostering my brother in Ios?”

“Of course,” Damen says because that, at least, he can promise, even if nothing else makes sense. “But for how long?”

“A year, at least,” Auguste decides.

“A year?” Damen starts. “Surely-”

“A year,” Laurent says, his tone brokering no argument. “Until...”

He trails off, another moment of silence between him and Auguste. It feels very profound. Very final.

“A year, then,” Damen relents, etching a smile onto his face. “Akielon winters are wonderfully mild. You'll like it.”

As predicted, King Aleron is surprised, but it does not take much get him to agree.

“If I am to marry him, then I should get to know his country and his people first,” Laurent claims stoutly, hands folded behind his back.

“You barely speak Akielon,” Aleron cautions.

“All the more reason,” Laurent says. “What better teacher is there than an entire kingdom?”

“Very well, then.” Aleron nods. “You know you are free to return at any time, should you wish to.”

“As though anyone could stop me,” Laurent says and smiles.

“You will treat my son well, Prince Damianos,” the King says, and it's an order and a threat.

“Of course, your Highness,” Damen says because there is no alternative.

He still does not understand what has happened. From Laurent and Auguste's panic from before to their calm reasoning now, nothing seems to make sense. Least of all the kiss that neither he nor Laurent have acknowledged since then, though Damen suspects it was mostly a means to distract him than anything else. He does not fool himself into believing that the boy has suddenly discovered his undying love for him.

Indeed, after Laurent had wrestled the surrender from Damen, had made him agree to take him to Akielos, he had promptly fallen asleep in Damen's bed, as though the tumultuous emotions had bereaved him of his powers.

Preparations the next morning then had left everyone in a flurry, the court hastily arranging everything for their prince's departure. Laurent does not seem to be overly worried, claiming that he does not need much of anything and that he can always send word to Arles to have something delivered later on.

Though Damen had planned to leave by midmorning, they are delayed till the early afternoon when they finally make their way down to the docks. Of the royal family, only Auguste joins them. Aleron has other matters to attend and his brother had been curiously absent all day.

Ironically enough, the Akielon ship waiting for them is called Ivory Princess , and Damen cannot help but think how much Laurent will stick out in Ios where only some prized slaves had such fair coloring as him.

“Farewell, Prince Damianos,” Auguste tells him now, formally shaking his hand, but then he leans in and kisses Damen square on the mouth. Kissed by two Veretian princes in less than half a day. Damen must be setting a new record.

“Take care of him,” Auguste says with his forehead still pressed against Damen's. “I beg of you.”

“Of course,” Damen replies solemnly, though by now he knows that there must be something he isn't being told. But he still considers Auguste his friend and that means trusting him.

Then it is time for Auguste to say goodbye to Laurent. They hold on to each other, Auguste on his knees to better wrap his arms around the smaller boy. It seems like a crime to the gods to force those brothers apart. Damen does not understand why they insist on separating each other. He hopes they know what they are doing.

When they finally board the ship, Laurent is accompanied by two personal guards, two attendants, and a cook who claims to be able to prepare Veretian cuisine even far from home.

It takes a while to get the ship moving but, when they do, Auguste is still standing by the docks. He and Damen wave at each other. Laurent keeps his hands firmly clenched around the railing.

They stand like this, side by side, no words spoken, as they make their way out onto the open sea.

“Last chance,” Damen says eventually, not looking over.

“What?” Laurent says, frowning up at him.

“If you jump overboard now, you can still safely swim back.” To Vere, to Arles, to Auguste.

Laurent lets out a shuddering breath and squares is narrow shoulders.

“I'm not a very strong swimmer,” he admits, turning away from the railing.

Damen allows himself a small smile.

“I'll have to teach you then,” he says and they both know that it's a promise.

At their backs, Arles slowly fades into the distance. But the world always has new horizons to offer.