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Was this the face that launched a thousand ships

And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?    

Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.  

Her lips suck forth my soul; see where it flies!—    

Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.    

Here will I dwell, for Heaven is in these lips,    

And all is dross that is not Helena

~Christopher Marlowe, The Tragical History the Life and Death of Dr. Faustus, Scene XIII

I. Laurent stands on the highest point in Ios, overlooking the sea. If he stares directly ahead, eyes to the horizon without wavering the slightest downward, he can see the blue of the summer sea innocent of ships. He lets his eyes linger there, grants himself a moment or two to not see the endless warships arrayed in the waters below. The reprieve is imperfect: when the wind shifts, there is no way to escape hearing the creak of sail and clamor of steel, the grunts of men and beasts, the myriad sounds of the armies surrounding the city by land and sea.

They have been here so long Laurent can hardly remember what the view from the towers of Ios looked like when the fields and sea were not crowded with battalions and armadas. The first had arrived at the city scant weeks after Laurent himself: Veretian caravels and Kemptian longships and biremes from Patras that looked little different from Akielo’s own fleet. Mounted archers from Vask, and Veretian cavalry in heavy armor, Patran infantry with shields of bronze and Kemptian infantry with shields of wicker. Some of the companies in the fields below are from the far reaches of the Vaskian empire and the Great Northern Forest--there are men and women down there whose languages Laurent has never heard, whose dress is completely foreign and whose fighting style is completely unknown. The world had gathered at his doorstep, or at least those parts of it that are sufficiently war-like. 

Worse than the portions of the assembled armies that are unknown are those that are all too familiar. Some of the enemy soldiers wear the sort of armor and wield the sort of weapons Laurent had trained with since childhood. Their tactics are the ones he grew up studying. Laurent suspects he knows the name of nearabouts every Veretian warship in the harbor. 

Down there are men Laurent trained with in boyhood. Down there are weapons instructors, friends, maybe every guardsman who ever stood before his rooms in Arles. His father. Auguste.

Laurent stops himself from looking over the fields to spot the gold-on-blue of his brother’s banner. He wonders, not for the first time, whether Auguste thinks he is fighting to rescue Laurent or to recapture him. 

For all of this--the soldiers, the ships, the wounded, the dying, the grain left in the fields with too few farmers left at home to harvest it--is in some way about him. They are here to reclaim him, to return him to hearth and home at whatever cost. To do so, some were willing to travel hundreds of miles. To do so, all are willing to burn Ios to the ground. All because the Prince of Akielos dared to steal him away. 

And yet, in another way, it is not about him at all. For in all this, he has never been anything more than a symbol. 

There are footsteps on the stair, and then Damen is there on the balcony beside him. Laurent finds himself drawn to him as he always is, moves closer to him until their sides are touching, places his hand on Damen’s back. Damen wraps an arm around Laurent’s waist and gathers him closer. 

Damen says, “The sky is so clear, you can almost see Isthima.”

Once, in their early days together, Damen had promised to take him to Isthima. He had spoken of the gardens, the beaches with crystal clear waters. “But of course, what you’ll love most is the poetry,” he had said. “Isthima has the best poets in the world, the best libraries, there’s an amazing festival every summer--” 

In those days, the armies beginning to gather around the city had seemed like a passing threat, easily driven off, or otherwise easily outlasted. Now Laurent and Damen look out towards Isthima on clear days, knowing they will likely never go there.  

“They will have the outer watchtowers soon,” Laurent says. “It’s only luck they haven’t taken them already.”

“We can drive them back,” Damen says. 

‘But for how much longer,’ Laurent does not say. There is a heaviness to Damen’s voice, a weariness to his limbs. He is no longer the rash, dauntless young man who had told Laurent that he loved him, and would have him, and consequences be damned. He has not been that man in some time.

Their elopement had meant censure and disgrace for Damen, even as it had meant escape for Laurent. Damen had left Ios crown prince, beloved of his people, respected and admired by his soldiers, the apple of his father’s eye. He had returned from Bazal with the Prince of Patras’s husband in his arms and war on his heels. Overnight, he went from war hero to harbinger of destruction. Theomedes had stopped short of disowning Damen entirely, but he had stripped him of his status as crown prince and returned the inheritance to Kastor. And while things are better between Theomedes and Damen now, and while Damen has had the opportunity to reestablish himself as a war hero in the public eye again and again, Kastor remains crown prince. Damen says it doesn’t bother him. 

For Laurent, meanwhile, life in Ios has meant freedom. Freedom from being treated like a thing, an ornament for Torveld of Patras to put on display when he wishes to and to put away again when he does not. Freedom from a man who thinks that a politically convenient marriage grants him full possession of Laurent’s body, and has not the slightest interest in knowing Laurent’s mind or his heart. 

And, in defiance of all the soldiers telling each other they are fighting for the honor of the most beautiful man in all the world, freedom to be something other than a pretty face. He suspects that at first, Theomedes had invited him to councils of war as simply a source of information, rather than of insight. Who better to provide guidance on how to defend against attacks from Veretians and Patrans than a prince, Veretian by birth and Patran by marriage? But Laurent had acquitted himself well in those early days, had won Theomedes’s respect and that of his generals. Now, he is as relied upon a voice at court as Damen. 

Yes, he had gained much by running away with Damen, and of course, respect at court was the least of it. Laurent thinks of a thousand mornings laughing with Damen over breakfast, a thousand evenings sitting in the cerulean twilight together, sharing stories and poems and hopes for a future together. A house in the countryside perhaps, or perhaps by the sea. Nights spent with the unexpected and indescribable pleasure of Damen’s hands on his body. The time Laurent had tried to teach Damen Veretian folk songs, and Damen had lit up like a candle at the sound of Laurent’s voice, then blushed like a schoolboy once he’d worked out the lyrics’ meaning. The day Damen taught him to sail a tiny boat around the Ios reservoir. Damen chasing him through the palace halls, both of them laughing, then catching him and carrying him to their rooms.

He wishes he could see Damen smiling now, wishes he could at least take some of the weight from his shoulders, smooth the furrows from his brow. 

“We’ll drive them back,” Laurent agrees.

Damen leans impossibly closer, slips Laurent’s hand into his. ‘Would you do all this again, my love?’ he asks. ‘Even knowing all that would come of it?’

Would Laurent do it again? He wants to say no, of course not. He wants to say yes, in every one of a thousand lifetimes. He looks again to the horizon, to the blue of the empty sea.

‘Would you?’ he says.

II. Laurent had always known his life belonged to Vere. He was of royal blood, and his family belonged to the kingdom as much as the kingdom belonged to them. 

In his studies, he would pursue not the fields which interested him, but those which would most benefit a prince and advisor to the king. In the practice courts, he would train not to the limits of his own inclination, but until reaching the level of skill deemed necessary to lead troops in battle. In his leisure time, he was to cultivate the sort of hobby that paired easily with feigned-casual excursions finessing courtiers. His friends are, and will always be, his agemates from houses with whom his parents wish to demonstrate favor.  

His marriage, too, would be conducted for the good of the kingdom. Laurent is thirteen when Auguste is betrothed to a noblewoman from Vask. The Veretians call her Archduchess, but Laurent knows among her own people, her title is somewhat different, more martial. Her name is Katya, and she is niece to the empress, and winning her hand for Auguste had been a major coup for the ambassador. She and Auguste, when their betrothal is announced, have never met. 

The arrangements, before the betrothal papers are signed, are a quiet, serious affair. Laurent observes keenly, knowing he is witnessing a glimpse of his own future. What he sees is nothing too distant from diplomatic discussions negotiating trade or fishing rights. Long meetings in which the Veretian Ambassador presents a list of eligible women to king and crown prince and Council. Meticulous discussion of the relative merits of each candidate--whose family was best connected in the Vaskian court, and who would offer the most in dowry, and whose selection would best reassure nervous Veretian border lords. What discussion there is of the candidates as people has a distinctly utilitarian flavor: who has the diplomatic and managerial experience necessary to be princess and queen at the Veretian court, whose lineage seems inclined towards ease in childbearing. 

Laurent watches, in Katya’s early days at court, how she and Auguste conduct themselves with one another, perfect impersonal politeness colored very slightly by a mutual sense of absurdity that each was now bound to spend the rest of their life with the other, a near stranger. Watches, over the following months, how an initial bond over love of horses and hunting grows into genuine enjoyment of each other’s company. They do not have the lived-in comfort in each other’s presence Laurent has seen in long-married couples, nor the effervescent joy he has seen in young couples courting. But what they have is honest, and it is solid, a foundation to be built on in years to come. 

That would not be so bad a fate, Laurent thinks. When the time comes for him to marry, he will learn to get by. 

III. The insight, when it comes, seems like a small thing to have upended Auguste’s whole world. Just another bit of drunken gossip, just another petty insult to his brother’s good name. 

Auguste has long come to despise Torveld. They had scarcely known each other, before the war began. During the siege of Ios, they had come to know each other as fellow commanders, the formal politeness of court diplomacy exchanged at first for the camaraderie of brothers-in-arms. Auguste had respected Torveld as a tactician and warrior, and largely still does. His contempt for the man is a personal matter.

Torveld never needs more than the faintest hint of an invitation to complain of Laurent. Give him a cup or two of wine, and he’ll begin the complaints entirely unprompted. How Prince Laurent was lazy, self-centered, arrogant. How he was frigid, his unearthly beauty all but wasted. Auguste knows their armies are full of men saying worse of Laurent, but no one else has the nerve to slander his brother in front of him. 

He would have called Torveld out a thousand times over, made him answer for his words with the sword, had his father not repeatedly forbidden him. It would hardly do, Aleron said, to have two allied generals making a spectacle of themselves dueling. So Auguste grits his teeth and bears Torveld’s petty malice at dinners with the other commanders. Bears his cruder remarks over wine around their campfires. Speaks civilly to his father and his brother-in-law in strategy meetings. 

But tonight. Tonight Torveld was not complaining of Laurent avoiding his responsibilities at court to go off riding alone. Tonight Torveld was not calling Laurent unnatural for rebuffing Torveld’s affections or returning them with insufficient enthusiasm. 

“As if I didn’t see what was happening,” he had said. “Right there in my own home! My so-called husband and that Akielon brute, making eyes at each other across the table. Like I didn’t notice that they were forever sneaking off to talk and do gods know what else. And then he runs off and makes a fool of me before the world. That faithless, self-righteous little--” and here Torveld had noticed Auguste’s eyes on him, his fingers twitching at his side, and had thought better of what he was about to say next. 

But for once, Auguste had had more to think on than Torveld’s rudeness. Because the point Torveld was making, behind the insults, behind the self-pity--he was saying that Laurent went willingly. That Laurent had fallen for Prince Damianos, had been having an affair with him possibly, or considering it. That he had not been kidnapped by Damianos, but had run away with him.

Auguste had long known that Laurent’s marriage to Torveld had not been a happy one. Laurent had made some effort to hide it, in the letters he sent home from Bazal, but he had stopped short of outright lying to Auguste, and Auguste hadn’t been fooled by his dissembling. And Torveld’s remarks had certainly not painted a very bright picture. Hell, Auguste himself had fantasized, more than once, about riding to Bazal and spiriting Laurent away back to Arles. But Auguste had put his feelings on the matter aside, had repressed whatever consternation he would have felt at once again sending Laurent off to live in Bazal, because even if Laurent’s marriage was unhappy and his husband distasteful, surely rescuing him from the hands of a kidnapper took priority.

Now though. If Laurent had run away, if Laurent was in Ios by choice, if Laurent had chosen Prince Damianos--well, Auguste will not be the one to kidnap him. Not to return him to his family in Arles and certainly not to return him to Torveld of Patras. 

He is still fuming about it when Katya returns from the dinner she’d been attending with her fellow Vaskian generals. “What’s the matter, love?” she asks, coming to sit beside him. “Another fight with your father?”

“Torveld said” --here Katya makes a face-- “that Laurent liked Damianos. That he went with him of his own will.”

Katya considers it for a moment, shrugs. “And this upsets you?” she says.  

Auguste knows what she means. On the face of it, it’s good news--if nothing else, at least Laurent hadn’t been abducted. At least he wasn’t being held prisoner for years on end while Auguste and the rest of them tried and failed to get him free. And Auguste knows he will think of it that way later, will sleep easier knowing his brother isn’t spending his nights alone and afraid in the hands of a monster. 

But at the same time-- “Of course I’m upset! This whole war--we’re supposed to be here to rescue Laurent, and it turns out he probably doesn’t even want to be rescued!”

“Yes, that does complicate his position,” Katya says.

“And ours.” Auguste sighs. “I’ll bring the news to my father first thing in the morning.”

“You’ll--and then what? Auguste, you know that this cannot have bearing on our strategy?”

“Strategy? We don’t need a strategy. We’re laying siege to the city to get Laurent back. If he hasn’t been kidnapped and isn’t being held captive, there’s no need for further bloodshed.”

“Listen to you,” Katya says, a bit of fondness still noticeable behind the weariness. “As if the war wasn’t bigger than that. It isn’t just Laurent’s fate on the line and you know it. It’s Patran honor, Veretian honor, showing the world that abducting people from clan or household has dire consequences. What, are we supposed to all turn and take ship for home with our tails between our legs because Torveld’s gone and changed how he tells the story?”

“And how many more people must die to avenge Torveld of Patras’s cuckoldry?” Auguste says, voice rising. “Isn’t it enough, that thousands have died already?”

“Thousands whose deaths you thought justified when you believed they were dying to rescue one man,” Katya says, and there is steel in her voice. “Is that really all that better?”

Auguste is silent a moment. “In the morning, I will go to my father. I will tell him I can no longer fight for him. I will take the men of my household and I will return to Vere to bring in the harvest.”

“Whether you leave due to cowardice or morals, the results are the same. You are just as much abandoning your country.” 

“And where should I be, to better serve my country? Here, maintaining an endless siege in a pointless war to defend the nation’s pride, or at home, making sure there are enough people working in the fields to harvest the grain we need for winter?”

“I thought we had established you were perfectly content to be here, endless siege or no, as recently as a few hours ago when you still thought your brother was in danger?”

“I--that’s a fair point,” Auguste says. He sighs. “Let’s not keep fighting about this. It’s late.”

Katya says, “All right, we’ll talk about this tomorrow. Tell me about something brighter.”

It had been their habit, when Katya was new in Arles and feeling lonely or homesick, that she would ask Auguste to describe for her something about Vere that he found wonderful, or beautiful, or captivating. In Ios, with both of them far from the life they had made in Vere, they have picked the habit up again. 

 “Deep in the woods of the park around Chastillon, there is a clearing wholly ringed in lilac bushes,” Auguste says, making his voice softer and slow. “Lilacs in every shade of lavender and violet and white and near-pink.” He gets up and starts to get ready for bed.

“And when they bloom, the scent is so heady you could drown in it,” Katya says, picking up the familiar words. 

“I recall I spent an afternoon there, once, with a lovely woman I know and a couple of incorrigible rascals,” Auguste continues. He smiles at the memory of that day, the picnic with Katya and their children.

“And all was well, until the bees came for the jam,” Katya says in turn. 

They move around each other seamlessly as they prepare for sleep, both the movements and the cadence of the story effortlessly familiar.

IV. The negotiations surrounding Laurent’s betrothal are not the quiet, serious affair that those for Auguste and Katya’s had been. Those had been relatively straightforward, with most of the work handled by ambassadors and bureaucrats, Auguste involved primarily as crown prince learning to govern, and Aleron the final arbiter. 

But as Laurent grows from boyhood to adolescence to young adulthood, his beauty is said to grow ever more remarkable, and certainly the stories around it grow ever more fanciful. Aleron is not simply finding an advantageous spouse for a younger son or a fitting companion for a future advisor to the throne. He is offering in marriage the prince now commonly considered the most beautiful person in the world. It would be foolish not to take advantage, Laurent supposes. 

And take advantage Aleron does. In the years that follow Laurent coming of marriageable age, the Veretian court hosts envoys from Vask, from Kempt, from Patras, and from any Veretian nobles of significant standing. These visits are never for the explicit purpose of arranging a betrothal for Laurent--rather, they are to draft treaties and forge alliances, renegotiate old agreements and relitigate old land rights disputes. But Laurent is endlessly present during these visits, and not just during the negotiations, which are the only aspect that interest him. No, he must attend every gala, every banquet, every hunting expedition, an ever-present reminder of what there is to gain by staying on Vere’s good side. 

His too-plain scholar’s clothes are banished, replaced with an ostentatious and multihued wardrobe. His new clothes, by Veretian standards, toe the line between coquettish and tasteless. At every dinner, he is seated next to the visiting princess, or general, or duke, publicly supplanting Auguste in a manner that would lead to dangerous whispers were not the true purpose of the charade clear. At every gala, he must dance with the guest of honor, must be the one to ask the guest of honor to dance, if an invitation is not immediately forthcoming. 

And in the negotiations, Aleron neither makes explicit promises nor shies from implying what the improved ties begun with a trade agreement or diplomatic concession will likely bring. He walks a fine line with these not-quite-promises, Laurent knows. He is betting that a great number of powerful people will take rejection gracefully.

Here is how Aleron manages the risk: first, he makes it a point to tell his guests that he is allowing Laurent to choose his own spouse. An indulgence for a beloved younger son, he says. Any future rejection, therefore, will not be a calculated slight on the part of the Veretian crown, but merely the romantic whim of a man barely grown out of boyhood. 

Second, he manages to extract a binding promise from each guest that they and their kin will absolutely respect Laurent’s decision, whomever he decides to marry. Not only will they not contest his choice, but they will fight to defend it, should anyone else dare try to steal Laurent away from his intended. It’s a strange request, but one that serves Aleron’s purposes well . His guests assume that in requesting their willingness to protect Laurent from those who would try to come between him and a hypothetical spouse, he is actually assessing their willingness to protect Laurent from dishonor should he choose to marry them. The very question suggests their courtship is likely to succeed. 

But whatever the assurances Aleron requests, the results are the same. Where Laurent’s would-be suitors might have turned their attention towards persuading Aleron of their practical merits as a marriage partner, they instead simply appease Aleron on the issues of the moment and direct the majority of their energy towards winning over Laurent’s affection. It is this aspect of the situation that Laurent hates most: that the suitors flock to him like ants crawling over a spilled drop of honey, that they believe him as easily won over as a child offered a sweet. That it is responsibility, for the good of Vere, to lead them all on, to listen to their meaningless platitudes and reply with gratitude equally meaningless. To offer words that encourage, invite, but promise nothing. 

It is remarkable, Laurent finds, how much time people can spend in his company and hanging on to his every word, without learning the slightest thing about him. The suitors are here because they wish to marry the most beautiful man in the world. They do not particularly want to marry Laurent. 

So until the papers are signed and the delegations have gone home, he hides away his sharp edges. He is clever, but never more clever than his suitor is. He is fascinated by his suitors’ interests, and content to let them dominate the conversation, and would love nothing more than to attend parties every night while his bookcases grow dusty. 

He remembers being twelve, being told that he must cease being friends with Bernart of Dinan because of Bernart’s father’s public opposition to the king on some matter of foreign policy. He remembers being ten, his tutor informing him that he could not study Artesian, as there was little practicality in studying a dead language and his time would be better spent mastering Patran and court Vaskian. He remembers endless hours on the practice courts, pushing his body to develop the strength to fight in armor, to wield a broadsword. 

He wonders to what purpose it all was, if what Vere truly needed from him was a pretty face and a charming tongue. 

The charade goes on for about three years. Aleron has somehow, Laurent understands, determined that this is the point at which the potential rewards of carrying the scheme further no longer outweigh its risks. 

To Aleron’s credit, he does ultimately make good on his promise to let Laurent choose his own spouse. More or less. Laurent knows his father has only given Laurent this freedom with the understanding that Laurent is too responsible, too dutiful, to choose anyone Aleron would not have chosen himself. So choosing the blacksmith is right out, and most likely so is choosing any insufficiently wealthy and powerful nobleman.

Laurent takes a few days to consider the matter, but in the end, the choice is simple. Vere has strong ties already to the royal families of Kempt and Vask, by virtue of Aleron’s marriage and Auguste’s. There is the most to be gained by an alliance with Patras. Moreover, Torveld of Patras is brother to the Patran king, and therefore among the highest ranking of Laurent’s suitors. 

And, although Laurent does not say so when presenting his reasons to his father, Torveld has been among the most tolerable of Laurent’s suitors as well. Where so many were boorish and demanding, Torveld was gracious and kind. While he does not care much for books himself, he was interested in what Laurent had to say about them. More so than most, he seemed to understand that a conversation was a thing had by two people. 

Aleron approves readily--commends Laurent, saying he would have made the same choice himself--and opens negotiations with King Torgeir and Prince Torveld. 

Things go quickly after that--the conclusion of negotiation, the preparations for the wedding, the preparations for Laurent’s incipient move to Patras. It’s another course of events he had not foreseen in childhood: Aleron and Torgeir and Torveld conclude as part of the negotiations that Laurent will be the one to marry out and join his husband’s household. He and Torveld are of equal rank, and the Patrans had successfully argued that Laurent, as the younger man, would have an easier time starting a new life in a new country. To serve Vere, Laurent will leave it, will become part of a foreign court. 

As painful as it is in some ways, to part with the people and places he’s known since boyhood, a part of Laurent can’t help but feel relieved, a bit excited even. After years spent pretending to be someone he’s not, it will be good to go somewhere where he can start anew. 

V. The first day that Prince Auguste does not appear on the battlefield, the Akielons do not remark upon it. The allied forces have many commanders, and many different types of fighting forces: they can and do take advantage of their superior numbers to rest their soldiers. And the attack that day, mainly driven by Patran helots and Vaskian mounted archers, would have been difficult to strategically coordinate with the light cavalry of the Prince’s Guard anyhow. 

The second day Prince Auguste does not appear on the battlefield, the Akielons bring it up as a matter of idle speculation. An odd coincidence. It’s unusual for sure, but no one wants to suggest it means more than it does.

But then comes the third day with no appearance from Prince Auguste, and the fourth. By the fifth day of the Veretian prince’s absence, talk of it is all over the city. It’s not that Prince Auguste customarily leads his men into battle every day, for there have been times before when all was more or less quiet, when the allied armies sat behind their fortifications and the Akielons sat behind their city walls, and days or weeks went by without either side making a move. 

But this, this is not stalemate or detente. The allied forces have been sending forth soldiers en masse all week, trying to gain the last stretch of ground before the city’s outer watchtowers, and then the outer watchtowers themselves. Five days without Prince Auguste and his men, in the middle of a major offensive--such a thing has never happened before in all the years of the war. 

It isn’t merely Auguste’s own fighting prowess that matters. Nor is it that of the men he commands, though with all the world’s finest warriors gathered in one place, Auguste remains undefeated, and the Prince’s Guard is arguably the best trained and most fearsome force on the field. No, on top of all of that, Auguste’s many victories have made him a legend, a symbol. Armies riding into battle behind him are inspired to incredible bravery and unending perseverance. Armies standing in his way tremble in their boots. 

And so with Auguste absent, the allied forces attacks’ are that bit more hesitant, easier to turn back. With him absent, the Akielon lines are steadier. The attempt to reach the watchtowers falters. The allies lose ground. But with each day, uncertainty grows on the Akielon side--why has Prince Auguste gone, and when will he return? When will this newly-gained advantage be lost? 

By the seventh day, Prince Auguste’s absence is felt by the city of Ios like the weight of a lightning storm lingering in the air in the minutes before the first roll of thunder. It is the main subject of conversation when Theomedes meets with his generals that night. Rumors have been flying around the city for several days now--Auguste is sick, Auguste is injured, Auguste has somehow taken a mortal wound without the Akielons noticing and is already dead. Auguste is fine and the whole thing is just another devious Veretian trap. But now, one of the kyroi has learned from his scouts the rumors flying around the allied encampments: Auguste has had some sort of falling out with King Aleron, possibly with Torveld and the rest of the leadership as well, and is refusing to fight. What is more, sentries by the harbor have seen far more activity than usual around Auguste’s ships. At first, men had only come and gone from the ships under cover of darkness, but in the last day they have dropped their attempt at secrecy and worked during daylight hours as well. The signs suggest that Auguste is planning to sail home, and judging from the number of ships being prepared, take the entire Prince’s Guard with him. 

The news sends a ripple of disbelief through the room. Laurent fancies he can see the moment when each of the generals’ thoughts shift from polite attention, to surprise, to frantic calculations of how best to turn the situation to Akielos’s advantage. He doesn’t miss that several men have turned to him, hoping Laurent’s expression will give away some clue to how he feels about the news.

Your guess is good as mine, Laurent thinks. Throughout the interminable uncertainty of the past week, he has not known what to feel, besides a measure of relief for Auguste’s temporary safety. Each day without Auguste on the field is a day he doesn’t have to worry about his brother being killed in the war he started. But Laurent has never known what Auguste’s motivation was in fighting to begin with, so he cannot possibly know what his motivation is in leaving now. 

Theomedes’s response is measured. As good as the news is, he will not count on Auguste’s departure until his ships have vanished over the horizon. But he does not hesitate to make plans in response to the situation at hand. They have bought time to reinforce the outer watchtowers, and he will shift their defenses accordingly. The current disarray in the allied leadership provides an ideal distraction to prepare for another offensive. More pressingly, it also provides an opportunity to increase, temporarily at least, the smuggling of food and supplies into the city. 

Theomedes had, some time ago, placed Laurent in charge of provisioning, so he remains in conversation with the king for some time after the rest of the meeting has ended. When Laurent finally leaves, Damen is waiting for him in the hall. He lifts Laurent off his feet and whirls him around before setting him on his feet again and kissing him soundly. When Laurent takes a step back to look at him, Damen is beaming. 

“You looked happy,” Laurent remarks. It’s the least of it, really--he doesn’t remember the last time he’s seen Damen look so light. 

“I am happy,” Damen says, leaning forward to kiss Laurent again. Laurent lets him, but afterwards he grabs Damen’s hand and starts walking, businesslike, down the corridor, lest Damen attempt to distract him from conversation entirely. 

“Because of Auguste,” Laurent says. “You think he’ll really leave, then?”

“I think he doesn’t make decisions lightly. I think when he makes up his mind, he’ll follow through. Your stories and his behavior on the field here all suggest that. And I don’t think it’s some kind of Veretian ploy, not if Auguste is leading it--you’ve always said he’s useless at that sort of thing.”

Damen is right, Laurent decides. It’s hard to imagine Auguste taking lead role in a complex deception, and it’s just as hard to imagine him wavering, having made up his mind. 

“I will be good to know he is home and safe,” Laurent says.

“Yes,” Damen says, pausing to stand still a moment and cup Laurent’s cheek in his free hand. “I know how you worry for him,” and Laurent thinks again how grateful he is that Damen has never tried to speak of Auguste or Aleron as simply enemy soldiers with him. 

“But that’s not all that’s got you bouncing off the walls like a child at yuletide,” Laurent says, starting down the corridor again. 

“No, I--don’t you see it, my love? This could be the beginning for us. Of peace, of freedom, of all those dreams we talked about--” and now Damen is the one in the lead, nearly skipping down the hall, half dragging Laurent along behind him. 

They reach a garden and Damen steers them to a bench. “They’ll be less effective without Auguste for sure,” Laurent says. “We’ll have a chance. But. . .” He’s not sure how to finish the thought. How to tell Damen that when he considers the future, he’s afraid to have too much optimism, as though imagining the things he hopes for makes them even more vanishingly out of reach. 

“But it’s not just Auguste. Their alliance must be cracking. Will Kempt fight for Vere for your mother’s sake if Auguste renounces the Veretian cause? Will your father put up with Torveld when Torveld inevitably takes out his anger at Auguste’s departure on your father? Not to mention, each setback they face on the field must be putting their alliance under further stress.” He looks down at their still-intertwined fingers. “A couple more weeks and we’ll be hearing about another army leaving. A few weeks after that and they’ll all be leaving.”

The images come to Laurent’s mind, unbidden but nearly real enough to taste: The last fleet of warships sailing out of the harbor, merchant vessels and fishing boats taking their place. The encampments around the city replaced with fields of grain. He and Damen in Isthima, or Lentos, or anywhere really but free to just be , spending time together without the endless backdrop of war and death. 

If Damen is willing to venture that measure of optimism, Laurent trusts him enough to risk it too. “And what will we do, the day that the ships leave?” he says.

*    *    *

The attack comes the next day at dawn, the allied armies taking to the field and driving forward to retake all the ground they’d lost in the past week.  

Laurent watches it all from his position atop the tower. He knows he shouldn’t--he’s meant to be meeting with the quartermasters in a few hours, and he has notes to review--but as the war draws on he’s found himself drawn here more and more. He spends hours looking down at the battlefield outside the city walls, the ebb and flow of armies. When Laurent was a child, he’d loved to spend the evenings playing chess with his brother, or with his father on the occasions Aleron had found the time. Watching from the tower now is that childhood memory come to life and filtered through the lens of nightmare, the soldiers on the chessboard terrifyingly real and Laurent powerless to control the outcome. 

So he sees the Akielon troops wheeling into place to meet the offensive. Sees the moment the allied lines come into sight, hears the cry from the walls of Ios as all see the banner of their commander--gold starburst on midnight blue. 

From here, he cannot really make out individual figures, cannot see which of the men in the front line is his brother. He sees only the glint of sun on silver mail, the moving line of blue-cloaked horsemen. Sees them smash through the shield walls of the foremost of the Akielon defenses and keep advancing, unslowing. He wonders for a moment if Auguste’s absence had been a trap after all. Much as the Akielon troops had been cautioned not to let their guard down, his presence seems to have even more power to intimidate than usual. 

Auguste’s presence seems to have more of an effect than usual on his own men and those of the alliance as well. They ride behind him with unstoppable momentum, with tireless fury. Laurent thinks of the placidity of a river behind a dam, how when the dam breaks the river escapes in a torrent far swifter and more deadly than its natural course. He wonders what the past week has been like for the Prince’s Guard and the other soldiers of the allied armies. 

The Akielon forces begin to recover as the impact of the surprise fades. Laurent sees as the defenses strengthen, lines of red holding longer against the tide of blue. He sees as a contingent of reinforcements riding out from the city to join the defenses. Their banner is gold on scarlet, and it’s a moment before the wind carries it enough for Laurent to identify it fully. The lion passant of the crown prince of Akielos, not the lion rampant of the Akielon throne. Kastor’s men. 

The reinforcements steady the Akielon lines and push forward into the allied lines. The allied lines break, in two places behind the Patran general, one place among the Vaskian archers, and one place in the Prince’s Guard. The battlefield, organized from Laurent’s vantage into neat color-coded lines a moment ago, veers towards melee. Laurent follows the starburst standard’s progress and the lion standard’s. They are very close now, nearly on top of each other from this angle. Standard-bearers are never meant to be more than a few yards from their commander, so the two princes must be near each other as well. 

And then Laurent’s heart skips a beat as Auguste’s standard falls. Personal standards are brought down for two reasons: death of the commander they represent, and death or incapacitation of the standard bearer. In the case of the latter, the custom is for the nearest soldier regardless of rank to take up the banner, so that it may be down for as little time as possible. Laurent waits half a moment for another of Auguste’s men to pick up the banner. Waits another moment. 

Time seems to slow. No one is picking up the banner, not after several minutes pass, and it’s been too long, even accounting for the possible need for Auguste’s men to fight past Kastor’s to reach it, and if no one is picking up the banner, then that means-- that means--

And then the shouting reaches Laurent, a tumultuous outpouring of triumph from every Akielon throat. It begins in the distance on the battlefield and carries past the watchtowers and through the city. It crashes over Laurent like an ocean wave. And in a sickening moment of vertigo, he understands that Auguste is dead. 

*    *    *

Laurent spends the afternoon in his rooms. No one disturbs him. 

He gives orders to have his meals brought to him there, then picks at them when they arrive. Outside, he is dimly aware of preparations underway for a celebratory banquet. He remembers Damen’s words from the night before. More people will be thinking like that tonight, he knows. He wonders, aimlessly, how the rest of the battle went. How much territory the Akielons were able to reclaim. He imagines how Kastor must be swaggering around now, crown prince and war hero and maybe even the savior of the city. He’s vaguely aware of how annoyed he’d be at the prospect of everyone hero-worshipping Kastor if he didn’t currently feel like a puppet with the strings cut and the stuffing taken out. 

He wants, more than almost anything, to go to Damen. He thinks with bitterness what his father would think of that: Laurent running to his lover for comfort, when running to Damen was what started this war to begin with. He knows the Akielon court will whisper about his divided loyalties, perhaps begin to whisper about Damen as well. It’s hard to care about either concern in comparison to his need to bury his face in Damen’s shoulder, feel Damen’s arms around his back. 

There’s a part of Laurent that still insists that it can’t be true,  a small voice insisting that this is all some sort of mistake. A part that’s frantically analysing everything he knows of Kastor’s fighting ability and of Auguste’s. He’s sparred with both of them, many times. And it’s a complicated sort of calculus, but--Auguste is far better than Laurent. Laurent is slightly better than Kastor. Kastor can’t have killed Auguste, because Kastor just isn’t good enough. 

He clings to that voice, even as it gets fainter and fainter. He clings to the small bubble of denial it affords. Or not denial, exactly--denial would mean believing in a world in which Auguste is alive, and he doesn’t really, not any more. But neither can he really believe in a world in which Auguste is dead. 

That’s the other reason he can’t go to Damen for comfort. Asking for comfort means admitting that Auguste is dead. 

As the afternoon light wanes to dusk, there’s a knock at Laurent’s door. “The prince is here to see you,” the guard says, and the door opens, and Laurent turns to go collapse into Damen’s arms. 

Only it’s Kastor walking into his room instead. Laurent takes a step backwards, stone-faced. 

“I know you don’t want to talk to me,” Kastor says.

Laurent makes no response. He is not capable, in this moment, of any control less than total restraint. Speak to Kastor, and Laurent will, likely as not, eviscerate him with insults calculated to destroy. Acknowledge Kastor at all, and he will likely as not find himself across the room plunging a knife to Kastor’s ribs. 

“I just thought you ought to hear from me directly, and as soon as possible. . . it wasn’t your brother I killed. I thought it was--it was a warrior in his armor, on his horse--but after the fight, I pulled off the helmet and. It was a woman. Dark hair. Lots of freckles.”

Katya. That--makes no sense at all, and Laurent’s brain is suddenly fighting free of the fog in order to try to understand what’s happened. Laurent’s heart is suddenly there again, beating frantically against his chest. 

“I should have noticed sooner that she was shorter than your brother, but she was on a horse, and in the midst of battle--well. I just thought you should know.” And Kastor nods at him awkwardly and walks out of the room.

And Laurent sits there in the dark, and remembers Katya laughing with Auguste as they raced each other on horseback across the fields. Remembers giving Katya a tour of the palace when she was newly-arrived in Arles and he was a child, wanting desperately for her to like him. Remembers sitting with Katya after his engagement to Torveld had been announced, confiding his fears of life alone in a foreign court to her. He mourns her, even as a wild, disbelieving upwelling of joy rises through a greater part of him. Auguste is alive. He hates himself for that joy even as he feels himself brought to life with it. 

Later, he will make himself mourn properly, for the woman who was always kind to him. For his brother, who has lost his wife, for Katya and Auguste’s children, whose mother will never come home. Later, he will have to face his own role in Katya’s death, to decide how much guilt is his portion to bear. Later, he will have to decide who Kastor is to him, now that he has killed Laurent’s sister-in-law and proven himself willing to kill his brother. 

But for now, buoyed by the news that one more day has passed and Auguste has not died in battle, Laurent floats. 

VI. Bazal is not the new beginning Laurent had hoped for. He soon learns that the respect Torveld had shown him back in Arles, his seemingly genuine interest in hearing what Laurent had to say, hadn’t meant that Torveld saw Laurent as more than a trophy to be claimed. It merely meant that Torveld was a more skilled hunter. 

Now that Laurent is a treasure Torveld possesses, rather than a treasure Torveld is seeking, his manner changes. He grows colder, distant, more demanding. Laurent isn’t meant to be Torveld’s partner, it becomes clear. He’s not meant to have a role in the running of Torveld’s household or the affairs of the court. He’s meant to attend banquets and parties, to dazzle the court, and then he’s meant to return quietly to his and Torveld’s rooms. 

On days when Laurent is inclined to look at things with a touch of humor, it reminds him of being eight years old again, dressed up and paraded in front of his parents’ guests, perhaps asked to recite a poem or to answer a trite question or two before he was expected to sit silently and let the grown-ups talk about the things that mattered. On days when he isn’t, he longs to burn it all down. 

When he can, he takes solace in hours spent along in the library or riding across the grasslands that surround the palace. But though Torveld has nothing in particular he’d like Laurent to be doing while he, Torveld, is occupied with his duties as prince, he resents any time Laurent is not immediately available should Torveld want his company. He’d far rather Laurent spent his afternoons sitting idle in their rooms than pursue his own interests. 

Auguste writes Laurent every week without fail. Reading his brother’s letters is invariably the highest point of Laurent’s week. Writing his reply is often the lowest. Auguste’s letters are full of cheerful anecdotes and good-natured speculation about the latest court intrigues. Laurent hears about the antics of his young niece, the prospects of the hunting dogs Auguste is training with his friend Berenger, the minor scandals Berenger’s new pet apparently prides in causing. Complaints that Katya, pregnant again, has become both perpetually grouchy and repulsed by the smell of fruit, and for all of Auguste’s supposed annoyance, Laurent can hear the fondness in Auguste’s voice through the words on the page. 

Laurent, meanwhile, finds that he has little to tell Auguste about in return. He thinks with bitterness of the things he could write him about, and will not: Dear brother, went to another inane banquet tonight. Feigned interest while a man expounded to me at length the difficulties of translating kennings from Kemptian poetry into any other language. I’m not convinced he even knows Kemptian. Dear brother, today I tried to start a conversation with my husband about horse breeding, only for him to tell me I spent far too much time in the stables and had best take care lest I start smelling of horses next and change the subject. Dear brother, I still have no friends at court here, for no one dares have more than the most superficial conversations with me for fear of offending Torveld.  

He does his best to find interesting new details of the Patran landscape and culture and cuisine to tell Auguste about, and hopes his brother will not notice how seldom Laurent talks about his own life. But Auguste must at least suspect something is wrong, because his letters are full of encouragement as well. Remember, little brother , Auguste writes,  happiness isn’t something you find, it’s something you build.  

And Laurent does try to build a better life for himself. He steals away time for it whenever he can. His lack of serious responsibilities at court give him ample time for independent study, and he begins to toy with the idea of pursuing serious, focused work as a translator or scholar. The quiet satisfaction of an afternoon spent writing literary analysis is perhaps too lonely to be considered happiness per se, but it’s something nonetheless. 

When Laurent is feeling particularly morose, he seeks out reports on the new Veretian-Patran alliance’s effects. When he’s reading about easier trade routes, more secure ports, economic growth, it’s easier to believe he hasn’t wasted his life. He reminds himself, too, that he was making the best of limited options; that any other marriage could well have been worse; that had he chosen another suitor his father may well have overruled him and arranged his marriage to Torveld anyway. 

*     *     *

Laurent thinks little of it when he learns of a Akielon delegation coming to spend a month at court, led by the crown prince of Akielos himself. He is, by this point, deeply familiar with receiving illustrious foreign guests. He cannot help but be a little excited, however, that the delegation hails from Akielos. Due to countless border wars, Vere and Akielos have not been on good terms for centuries; no Akielon officials have made a diplomatic visit to Arles in living memory.  Perhaps there will be someone among the delegates with whom Laurent can discuss Akielon literature and culture. It will be something to write Auguste about, at least. 

The anticipation of perhaps meeting Akielon scholars is nearly enough to make up for the hours Laurent must spend in carefully perfecting his appearance for their arrival. He silently recites half-remembered pieces of Isagoras’s poems while he soaks in the baths, while servants perfume his hair and weave it into intricate braids and fasten it with jeweled pins, while they finesse the laces of his Veretian-style jacket and the golden clasps of his Patran-style coat. Ordinarily, the servants would paint his face in the subtle style of the Patran nobility as well, but in Akielos as in Vere no reputable noble wears paint, so Laurent can gratefully skip this step. 

He feels, as ever, faintly ridiculous when, perfumed and bejeweled and adorned, he walks with Torveld into the hall to greet their guests. Laurent has been paraded in front of visiting dignitaries what feels like a thousand times. The motions are as familiar as swallowing after taking a sip of water; he suspects he could recite graceful words of welcome just as easily sleeping as awake. It means he is free to let his mind wander as he and Torveld and Prince Damianos make their way through the appropriate ceremonial greetings. 

He notes with interest the delegates clothes and bearing. All are dressed richly but simply, with little visible distinction between the prince’s clothes, the officials’, and the servants’. But the differences in rank are nonetheless apparent in the way the Akielons stand, their obvious deference towards those of higher status. 

He is wondering if this is simply how Akielons behave while traveling, or if they project status through equally austere means at court in Ios when Prince Damianos steps forwards to kiss his hand. Laurent doesn’t miss the way Damianos lets his lips linger on his hand a moment too long, the lopsided smile on Damianos’s face that veers far too close to a flirtatious smirk. He fights to keep his polite smile from slipping into a look of distaste. 

That night at the banquet, Prince Damianos asks Torveld question after question about his time on campaign, and Torveld is only too pleased to regale him with stories. Laurent, more or less ignored, idly listens to the various conversations around him in hopes of hearing something of interest. It is at the reception afterwards when Damianos turns his attention to Laurent. “Of course, delighted as I am to be in the company of so renowned a general as Prince Torveld, I am equally honored to finally have the opportunity to make your acquaintance, Prince Laurent.”

“And I, yours,” Laurent is replying--they have been through this before, at the ceremony earlier--but the words scarcely leave his lips before Damianos is continuing. He tells Laurent that while the discord between their countries has regrettably heretofore prevented their meeting, he has long heard stories of Laurent’s beauty and grace, stories which have surely by now spread beyond the borders of the known world. How the reality of Laurent’s beauty, to Damianos’s amazement, had exceeded even the most improbable stories. How it is little wonder that suitors came from all over the continent, willing to give anything to win Laurent’s hand.

“How I wish I could have seen it,” he says, “for what an awesome sight it must have been. The banners of a thousand provinces and kingdoms, generals and princes falling at your feet. How I wish I could have been there, to serenade you, to sigh and swoon at your every word, to court you as you deserve.”

“And so you think that, having spent the better part of a half-decade beset by insipid suitors plying me with uninspired flattery, I now wish to relive the experience with you after my marriage?” Laurent says.

“Your husband is charming, your highness,” Damen tells Torveld, who stands some feet away in conversation with the Akielon ambassador. 

Laurent gifts both men with his most artificial smile and walks away. 

It is going to be a long month. 

VII. Kastor and Damen are fighting. 

Laurent can hear them from where he sits in the next room. At first, it was a hint of tension in the murmur of their conversation, but their voices have gotten louder and louder, and now Laurent can hear nearabouts every word. 

It’s been an afternoon and a night since Auguste’s supposed death. By now, everybody in Ios knows that he is still alive. There are a number of stories circulating, and they vary in the details of exactly what happened: whether the entire thing was a product of the chaos of war or an elaborate Veretian trap, who Kastor actually killed--Auguste’s wife or his lover or the commander-in-chief of the Vaskian army. But the stories all agree on the core details: Auguste is alive, and Auguste is grieving, and Auguste is absolutely furious.

An hour ago at dawn, a new piece of information came. It was delivered by a Veretian messenger to Akielon sentries, then passed from sentry to message-runner, from message-runner to guard captain to steward. By the time the steward brought the message to King Theomedes and his sons, word had spread throughout the city. Auguste is waiting for Kastor. He will face him on the field in single combat at noon that day, or await him at a date and time of Kastor’s choosing. 

There is more at stake than grief and fury and pride. In Katya’s charge, and in Auguste’s frenzied charge that followed, the allies have retaken all the ground they lost the week before, and are once again at the outer watchtowers. 

This is the subject of Kastor and Damen’s argument now: Kastor is dead set on accepting the summons, and Damen is just as determined that he must not. 

“Because you’re not a gladiator, you’re the heir to the throne!” Damen says. “You’re crown prince, you have responsibilities to your people as a leader, as a general, as a politician--all that matters more than your prowess as a swordsman!” It’s not the first time he’s made this argument.

“Oh, and you’re one to talk about the responsibilities of a crown prince, Damianos,” Kastor says. “Tell me, was it your responsibilities as a leader you were fulfilling when you ran away with the prince of Patras’s husband, or your responsibilities as a general, or as a politician? Or were you perhaps thinking of your prowess as a swordsman?”

“Kastor. . .”

“All those years, hearing how lucky we were that the queen finally conceived, that we had perfect baby Damianos to take over a role I was only barely acceptable for, and then you go and pull a stupid stunt like that.”

“Maybe you’re right, Kastor,” Damen says. His voice is softer now, anger quenched. “Maybe you always should have been the heir. You’ve done a masterful job leading our people as crown prince over these years of war.” And quieter still, so Laurent only half hears, Damen says, “I’m proud of you.”

“And no one will remember any of that. Don’t you get it? No one will give a rat’s ass about anything else I’ve ever done, if I don’t face Auguste now. I’ll be a laughingstock, the man who was happy enough to be lauded for defeating a false Auguste but was too much a coward to face the real one.”

“I knew it!” Damen says, voice rising again. “I knew it--this isn’t a calculated risk, whatever you told Father. This is about your pride.”

“It is a calculated risk, what in war isn’t a--”

“You’re the heir, you don’t get to put your life at risk for honor like that--”

“Okay! Okay, maybe it is about my pride. Does it matter?” That seems to surprise Damen into silence for a moment, and Kastor goes on. “We all know what a blow it would be to the alliance, losing Auguste. If I defeat him, does it matter what drove me to take to the field? The effect is the same.”

“It won’t be a fair fight,” Damen says. And this is the heart of the matter. Earlier, Laurent had told Damen his analysis of the day before. Neither Damen nor Kastor has ever fought Auguste directly, but Laurent has sparred with all three men enough to know that in a duel between the two of them, there is little doubt that Auguste will beat Kastor. And in his current mood, there is little doubt that if Auguste beats Kastor, he will kill him.

“What do you mean by that?” Kastor says, voice suddenly cold. “Are you warning me of Veretian treachery, or are you saying I will be outmatched?”

There is silence, and Laurent knows that Damen has erred. The surest way to drive Kastor to accept Auguste’s challenge would be to warn him that Auguste was too good a swordsman. That the warning comes from Damen and not from Laurent makes matters worse. And while Laurent had impressed upon Damen the urgency of stopping Kastor from accepting the challenge earlier, they had agreed it was necessary to try to convince him through other arguments. 

Laurent hears what might be the bitten-off beginning of the sentence as Damen tries and fails to find a way to recover. Then Kastor’s name, spoken softly.

The relative silence is broken, finally, by Kastor. “If I’m going to die,” he says, words precise but vibrating with anger, “let it be in defense of my kingdom. If I’m going to be killed in battle, let it be at the hands of the enemy’s greatest warrior.” 

“Kastor,” Damen says again, but the door is opening, and Kastor has stormed off. 

*    *    *

Laurent doesn’t watch the battle that day. He can no longer stand it.

Instead, he buries himself in work. Attends meeting after meeting with kyroi and officials and clerks, and when he finds himself alone in the empty places on his agenda, reworks plans and contingency plans for a thousand different circumstances. 

He hears later about what happened on the field that afternoon. How Kastor, riding at the front of the Akielon lines, had sought out Auguste on the field. How both princes had ordered their men to stand down, then dismounted and met each other on foot in the center.

Laurent didn’t see it, but he can imagine it, tension hanging in the air like a cord stretched to its limits as the two armies stand dead still and watch. Their might and momentum stilled like an ocean wave frozen to ice in the moment before it breaks. How loud the unnatural hush must have made the metallic clamor of the princes’ duel. 

He hears how at first, Auguste must have been holding back--he parried Kastor’s attacks, but his own attacks were slow enough for Kastor to counter with ease. And how Kastor had grown confident. 

How Kastor’s attacks had come faster, with more force behind them. How Auguste’s defense had remained unbroken, till the soldiers on the Akielon side had half-feared the gods had made him invulnerable. How when Auguste had started to attack in earnest, Kastor managed to keep pace for a time, attacks growing more wild. How at last Kastor managed to land a glancing strike to Auguste’s ribs. 

How moments later, Auguste with a particularly complex parry had disarmed Kastor. How Kastor had lunged for his sword, and stumbled, and how Auguste had stabbed him through the heart as he lay unarmed on the ground.  

He hears, too, what happened after the duel: the Veretian charge, the chaos of the Akielon retreat. The allies hold the outer watchtowers now. 

Soon enough, he and Damen and the generals and officials will have to put emotion aside and meet with Theomedes to discuss what they must do next to preserve their city. In the meantime, Damen has retreated, alone, to his rooms.

And Laurent is standing in the corridor in front of his rooms, wavering. He knows exactly what Damen must be feeling. He thinks of himself sitting in the twilight yesterday, the situation parallel and inverted like the flip side of a coin. And suppose Damen doesn’t want to see him? Suppose Damen is thinking What if, and wishing he’d never set eyes on Laurent? 

But yesterday, he was there. And yesterday, he had wanted nothing more than comfort from Damen. 

So he makes himself open the door and enter, wind his way across the room lighting candles as he goes. Damen is standing before the hearth staring at nothing, and when he sees Laurent he pulls him, wordlessly, into an embrace. Laurent rests his head against Damen’s chest and holds him tight. 

And they stand there, just like that, for as long as fate and the demands of war will let them. 

*    *    *

Auguste sits beside Katya’s bier, and thinks about how quickly a body goes from being a person to just a corpse. A thing. He wonders when the numbness that has replaced his rage will wear off. For now, his thoughts are of the unreality of it all. It’s hard to believe, sitting here, that the body on the bier is his wife. Because Katya is a person, is fundamentally alive. 

They’ve laid her out in her dress armor, spear and bow and quiver by her side. She will be buried as herself, as a mighty warrior, not in Auguste’s armor as a failed imitation of him. It had felt more real, when she had still been wearing his armor. He’d seen every dent in the metal, every blow that she’d taken that had been meant for him, and felt pierced to the core. 

At dusk, a guardsman arrives with a plate of food for him. It hits Auguste, then, that this is forever. Tomorrow, the sun will come up, and Katya will still be dead. And the day after. And the day after that. There will never be any undoing the damage yesterday has done. 

And then, because he cannot stop thinking, he thinks of another side of Torveld’s story. If Laurent ran away, could he have guessed that by doing so he risked bringing them all to this point? 

He gets up, paces the length of the tent. Picks up his cup, passes it from hand to hand, puts it down again. He supposes this is the purpose of funeral rituals--never in his life has he felt more in need of a well-established protocol to tell him what to do, for instructions dictated by tradition he can follow without thinking.

Except that Katya will not get a proper funeral, not in the traditions of her country or his. She will be attended in death by her husband, of course, but not by her mother or sisters or ladies, all of whom are thousands of miles away. She will have a hasty soldier’s burial, elevated in small part by virtue of her status, and her grave will have no marker likely to survive the tides of war. Her bones will lie in a foreign land. Her children will mourn at an empty tomb. 

He thinks then of Kastor, who had the blessing at least of dying on his own soil. Kastor, whose body still lies in the watchtower that is now firmly behind allied lines.

*    *    *

At dawn, the Akielon sentries will receive a handful of Veretian soldiers marching under a white flag of truce and bearing Crown Prince Kastor’s body, cleaned and prepared for burial.

Some days after that, Damianos will happen upon Prince Auguste kneeling on the shore in prayer, alone, with his back turned, within easy bowshot. He will stand there for a moment, considering. And then he will turn and walk away. 

VIII. Laurent leans on his elbows on a balcony overlooking Bazal. The banquet is long over and most of the guests departed. He should be able to spend a few quiet minutes alone now. 

The banquet and following party were acceptable enough, he supposes. Prince Damianos was polite and distantly formal. Perhaps his harsh words of the night before would be sufficient to ward the man away.

Except here is Damianos now, walking through the archway and onto the balcony. “Here to tell me I remind you of a bird in a gilded cage?” Laurent says.

“I’m here to apologize,” says Damianos. When he comes to the railing, he stands a decidedly not-flirtatious three feet from Laurent. “Last night I spoke without noticing or caring how my words were being received. It was boorish and unkind of me and I promise you, it won’t be repeated.”

It’s . . . not what Laurent is expecting. He hadn’t really been expecting an apology at all, much less one that doesn’t use Laurent’s looks as justification for Damianos’s poor behavior, and doesn’t direct the substance of the apology to Torveld.

“It was boorish and unkind,” he says, because a better-than-expected apology doesn’t mean Laurent is going to start going out of his way to be friendly now.

Damianos nods. “I wish I had not begun our acquaintance with such rudeness. If there is anything I can do to repay the slight, I hope you will consider me at your service.”

Laurent should absolutely not take him up on the offer. Laurent should nod, and say something noncommittal, and spend the rest of the month holding Damianos at as much of a distance as courtesy allows. He has no reason to think Damianos’s newfound manners and respect will last. 

But there is something Laurent wants, and he’s been finding it difficult to achieve it while remaining the charming and distant host. “Actually, I was wondering. . . are there any scholars among your delegation? Or courtiers who take an interest in Akielon literature and poetry?”

“Agenor and Kyros Dolon are both considered experts,” Damianos says with a smile, and oh gods his eyes are sparkling, Laurent is going to regret this. “I’d be happy to introduce you.”

True to his word, after dinner the next night Damianos introduces him to Agenor and Dolon. The men are pleased to hear of Laurent’s interest in their culture, and happy to withdraw from the main party to find a quiet spot on the terraces to discuss poetry. 

Introductions made, Laurent is expecting Damianos to say something--polite or cheeky, it’s too soon to say--and return to the rest of the party. Instead, he stays and joins the discussion as though it’s the most natural thing in the world to be spending the evening talking about ancient texts with a pair of old men. Agenor and Dolon, Laurent notes, don’t seem to find anything surprising about it. 

The four of them pass several hours discussing the different poetic forms popular in Akielos, how they developed over time, classic and subversive examples of each. Laurent had thought the conversation would be largely abstract, without the actual texts to use as reference, but it turns out that Agenor and Dolon and even Damianos can recite long segments of longer pieces and a number of shorter poems in their entirety. It’s apparent soon enough why Damianos had stayed: he seems to have a great deal of knowledge of Akielon epic poetry, and while he clearly is less familiar with lyric and elegiac poetry, he is nonetheless opinionated on those forms. Laurent leaves that night with a list of works that Agenon and Dolor--and occasionally Damianos--had insisted he absolutely must read, and a sense of contentment that’s surprising in its magnitude. He hasn’t spent so pleasant an evening in quite a long time.

The next day Damianos finds Laurent in the library, where he is stealing a few hours before the evening’s entertainments to start chipping away at one of the epics on his list. After they exchange greetings, Damianos asks Laurent for a moment of his time, then begins to ask a series of questions about how Veretians handle insurance for merchant collectives. “The northern seas are stormier than what we’re accustomed to in either Akielos or Patras, so I wondered if your countrymen had innovations we could learn from.” 

It’s not a topic Laurent is a particular expert in, but it turns out he does have enough ideas to more or less solve the issue that had apparently been a sticking point in the diplomatic talks earlier. He’s less prepared for the way Damianos seems to be hanging onto his every word, not just watching him but listening. And when Damianos turns to him with one of his sunny smiles and thanks him for his help, Laurent is definitely not prepared for Damianos to ask him, “Why haven’t you been at the meetings this week? We could use your insight.” 

There isn’t really anything to say to that, especially not when talking to one of Torveld’s guests, so Laurent instead says something polite and meaningless with a tone that implies total confidence he’s answering the question. Damianos isn’t quite fooled, but he lets the matter drop, and Laurent might be imagining the hint of a frown that lingers on his face afterwards. 

But awkwardness aside, Laurent leaves the library feeling oddly light. It takes him a moment to realize it, but he is happy, happier even than he was talking about poetry the night before. He’s missed being useful more than he realized. 

After that, Laurent finds himself spending more and more time with Prince Damianos. At dinners, they fall into easy conversation every night. On the many hunting expeditions Torveld has planned, Laurent discovers that Damianos can very nearly keep up with him on horseback, and the two of them keep finding that they have outpaced the main group and broken off on their own.

It’s hardly remarkable: one of Laurent’s few duties as Torveld’s husband is charming his guests, after all. And Damianos is the guest of honor, so of course Laurent pays him more attention than he does the other delegates, whether that’s letting Damianos draw him into long conversations at dinner every night or into wild galivants through the forest each hunting trip. Of course Laurent begins to use what he knows of Damianos’s interests to start long conversations with him of his own accord. Gives in to the temptation to set off at a gallop, knowing Damianos will speed up to follow him.

Laurent continues discussing poetry with Damianos, Agenor and Dolon in the evenings as well. Their circle expands a little, as word gets around and a few more Patran and Akielon courtiers join. Torveld attends for an evening or two early on, says very little, then never returns. And fine, this isn’t part of Laurent being an exemplary host. In fact, this is Laurent being a moderately negligent host--he shouldn’t be disappearing from the festivities early nearly every night to talk about poetry in seclusion with a handful of people. He definitely shouldn’t be encouraging the guest of honor to do the same. But it’s such a small thing, such a minor lapse in duty that brings him so much pleasure, and surely he can have just this one thing for himself.  

This is what Laurent tells himself, until the day he can no longer pretend not to realize he’s spending too much time noticing how broad Damianos’s shoulders are, how his curls flop in his eyes. Oh no . But it doesn’t matter, not really. Damianos is a guest, here for a few weeks more and then returning to his home hundreds of miles away. Laurent will keep his feelings to himself, thank you very much, and in time they will fade and in the meanwhile he will get on with his life. 

“You know, you never gave me a straight answer as to why you’re not involved in the negotiations,” Damianos says one evening as they leave the poetry circle. “It doesn’t strike me as a lack of interest, or of ability.”

Laurent shrugs. “Torveld married me because I’m the most beautiful man in the world. He doesn’t care about my perspective on economics.”
“Then he’s a fool,” Damianos says. Then, looking at Laurent’s expression: “I apologize for the rudeness, but we Akielons aren’t much for dissembling.”

Laurent isn’t shocked at the bluntness of Damianos’s words, but the bluntness of his own. And he feels a curious stirring of emotion at the little frown on Damianos’s face. Damianos’s expression seems to say, ‘I would fight for you if only you would let me.’

There is one sunny afternoon, when having found themselves once again separated from the main hunting party, Laurent and Damen drop the pretense at continuing with the hunt. Laurent is never sure, afterwards, whose idea it is. It’s Laurent who says, “I know a nice spot around here.” It’s Damen who, when they ride into the clearing Laurent has led them to, suggests they rest their horses for a while.

They dismount and lie on the blanket of moss growing by the creek, hands a hair’s breadth apart. Laurent asks Damen to tell him more about the annual boat races in Ios, but finds himself losing the thread of the conversation again and again. He wants to run his fingers through Damen’s hair maybe more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. 

After that, they’re not content to simply spend time together at the edges of parties and banquets and hunts. They seek out opportunities to run off alone together, meeting in tucked-away corners of the library in the breaks between diplomatic meetings or slipping away from parties early to meet in the gardens. They talk about poetry or statecraft or their youths, and sometimes, in the quiet of a long day, they let the conversation drop and sit in comfortable silence. 

No one ever remarks on their frequent, suspiciously simultaneous absences. Still, Laurent knows they’re hardly bothering to be subtle. What they’re doing is reckless and selfish and Laurent finds that he can’t actually make himself care. Every moment spent with Damen is something precious. And with the remaining days of Damen’s visit waning, he can’t bear to limit himself to seeing him only at the official festivities. He’ll steal whatever moments he can. 

Enjoying Damen’s presence but knowing his time in Bazal is limited and swiftly drawing to a close is like the feeling of the days of fine weather that sometimes follow the autumnal equinox in Arles: the summer-like warmth not quite enough to make one forget that the days are growing shorter and winter is coming on. 

Oh shit, Laurent thinks. I’m falling in love with him .

After the formal goodbyes the night before Damen is due to leave for Ios, they meet in the gardens one last time. It’s late: neither Damen nor Laurent could exactly slip away from Damen’s farewell party, so they’d waited for the party to draw to a close. Laurent stares up at the clouds drifting across the stars, conscious of Damen’s warmth by his side, and tries not to imagine a world beyond that night.

It seems Damen feels the same way. Other than their mutual unspoken reluctance to part ways and go to sleep, there is no sign that this night is different than any other night of the last couple weeks. As has become their habit, they talk of everything and nothing, rambling and jumping subjects unpredictably. 

Then Damen asks, “If you could have been anyone, any status or occupation, who would you be?”

It’s uncomfortable for Laurent how unexpected the question is. He’s reminded of a childhood tutor who had been inclined to ask him multiplication problems at the most improbable of times. It’s more uncomfortable to realize he doesn’t know the answer. He considers it a moment.

“Someone ordinary, I suppose. Wealthy enough I could afford books and education, but not so wealthy and connected my decisions had outsized weight beyond my household. And with some sort of useful occupation.” He looks at Damen, trying to see on his face in the darkness whether he is surprised. “What about you?”

“I’d be an explorer, like the heroes of legend. Fighting storms, finding new lands, chasing the horizon.”

“You’d have to visit me when you were in port. I could write books about your adventures.”

“Surely I could convince you to come along for at least a few of them?” 

“Well hang on just a minute, I’m meant to be a respectable tradesman, I can’t just go gallivanting off with some foolhardy voyager,” Laurent says with a chuckle. He sighs. “I suppose we’re both the men our countries need us to be.”

“I don’t think that’s quite how that works,” Damen says. “I can’t be a great prince or king without first being the best and truest possible version of myself. Sure, it means I can’t be a voyager, but Akielos doesn’t need me to be any man other than the one I am.”

“It limits what you can do but not who you should be, you mean,” Laurent says. 

“Something like that,” Damen says. 

“It’s not that simple,” Laurent says.

“I worry about leaving you here, you know,” Damen says. And then, perhaps sensing that was too serious a thing to say, adds, “Just say the word and I’ll steal you away with me.” He says it with a bit of his cocky smile, but even in the half-light Laurent can see that his sentiments are genuine.

And Laurent struggles to breathe past the wave of longing that floods his chest then. “I’ll be fine,” he says.

“Very well,” Damen says, getting to his feet. Laurent stands as well. He doesn’t know what to do. Damianos is leaving and he’ll never see him again and Laurent doesn’t know what to do.. 

Damen, too, seems at least a little conscious of the awkwardness. He smiles a little, takes Laurent’s hand. It’s the first time they’ve touched since Damen had been introduced to him a month ago, and Laurent is suddenly very aware of that as Damen raises Laurent’s hand to his lips. 

“Goodbye, Laurent,” Damen says.

Then Damen cups Laurent’s cheek in his hand, and Laurent leans into the touch, closes his eyes. Damen kisses him gently, just a brief brush of his lips against Laurent’s, and by the time Laurent opens his eyes to look at him, Damen has dropped his hand and is walking away. 

IX. Not much longer, now, Laurent thinks, looking over a sheath of reports. In the last few weeks, the allies have used their foothold at the outer watchtowers to take the next two sets, and they are at the city walls now. All of Ios holds its breath, and everyone from beggar to king must be thinking those same words too, even if no one quite dares say them. Not much longer now. Not much time left.

Then comes the night when the city wakes to find the invaders have made it inside the walls. Laurent awakens to the sound of drums, of screams, the smell of fires in the distance. Damen is gone, already summoned to a panicked meeting with the king. 

Would I do this again, knowing what would come of it? Laurent thinks, as he watches the place he’d chosen as home descend into chaos. Would I do this again?

It’s not long before Damen returns. “I’m riding out with the palace guard in a quarter hour,” he says. “Just as soon as the off-duty men can be armored and mounted. We’re going to try to hold them off long enough to get as many civilians out of the city as we can. Will you come with me?”

Theomedes has never asked Laurent to take to the field before, and Damen has never suggested it, though both men know Laurent has the training and skill. What began as mistrust on Theomedes’s part became, at some point, kindness. Neither man had wanted to ask Laurent to take up arms against his family. 

But now, this is not war but a fight for survival. And Laurent will defend them, the people who welcomed him and were doomed for it. 

“Of course,” he says. 

And so he races in Damen’s footsteps to the armory, then to the stables. The chaos around him fades as he focuses on Damen, on not being separated from him amidst the confusion. 

Then there is a moment of curious stillness, after the men are armed and mounted, after Damen has given them their orders, after the guards bellowed their war cry in defiance. The gates are open, the city is before them. 

Laurent and Damen will ride out side-by-side to face the armies. Together, as they were always meant to be. As they always will be, now.

X. Laurent wakes in the dim light of the time shortly before dawn. That’s the first thing he realizes--the time. The Akielon delegation was meant to leave that morning with the tide, an hour before sunrise. He wonders if they are already gone and tries to ignore how the thought makes his heart ache. 

The second thing he realizes is what woke him up: a soft, rhythmic pling sound. Someone is flinging pebbles against his window. 

He gets up, throws on a robe, and walks over to look. He isn’t actually surprised to see that it’s Damen, standing on the terrace a few feet below his window with a fistful of gravel. “Come to say goodbye?” Laurent says, and he thinks he’s mostly managed to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He’s already said goodbye to Damen twice now, formally before the court and then again in private late last night. It’s not fair to ask him to do it again. He’s not sure he can stand it. 

“The opposite,” Damen says. “Laurent, the things I said last night--I was serious. Come away with me. Stay with me forever.”

“You know I can’t,” Laurent says. It feels like plunging his heart into icy water.

“I know you’ve spent your whole life doing what other people told you was your duty. Isn’t it time you steal a little happiness for yourself?”

“And you’re not at all worried about the consequences, staying as guest to Torveld of Patras only to steal his husband away?” Laurent says. 

Damen’s face lights up with mischief and hope. “We’ve got an hour, perhaps, before anyone wakes to find you gone. It’s twenty minutes walk to my ship, and then we can put to sea in another quarter hour. By the time anyone even thinks to send the guards after us we’ll be long gone.” 

Except it won’t just be the guards after them, Laurent knows. Losing Laurent would mean abject humiliation for Torveld, and for King Torgeir by proxy. They’ll send the entire Patran army after them if that’s what it takes. And they’ll have the Veretian army after them as well, for the kidnapping of a Veretian-born prince is not something Aleron can ignore and maintain Vere’s international standing, and a kidnapping it must be, for Vere cannot claim that Laurent went with Damen willingly and remain on friendly terms with Patras. Laurent’s mother’s family may well succeed in drawing Kempt into the conflict through the same argument. Hell, even Vask might get involved: the Vaskians are allies of both Vere and Patras, and kidnappings are enough of a problem on the steppes that the government responds to them with demonstrative severity.

In the wake of Laurent’s silence, Damen takes a step closer, lets his face grow serious.  He says, “Consequences be damned. I’d suffer anything if I could keep you by my side.”

Happiness is something you build, Laurent thinks. 

“Come with me?” Damen asks again. 

Laurent takes his hand.