Chapter Text
Erasmus saw them first.
Kallias had known where to find their Prince. He and Aimeric came directly to the practice yard upon their return without stopping to wash or change clothes or rest from their journey. It was late morning, and far sooner than Erasmus had dared expect for his friends’ return. Kallias must not have spent a moment longer in Chastillion than he had had to – arriving, collecting Aimeric, and then leaving again immediately and travelling through the night without stopping.
He looked tired, but he looked proud, too. Victory shone from his eyes. His gaze sought out Erasmus first.
Prince Laurent called for them to halt their practice.
Kallias may have been tired, but it was Aimeric who looked well and truly wretched. Aimeric was too thin, his complexion sallow. His fine clothing was rumpled and stained, his hair lank and unwashed. His shoulders were hunched. He was practically cringing as their Prince approached.
Laurent stopped an arms’ length away, silent, expression unreadable. His eyes moved over the other boy, taking his measure, and every second that passed seemed to wear Aimeric away further. Kallias passed by them both as he moved to take his place with the others, clasping forearms with Aden and clapping Iphegin on the shoulder. He gave a nod to Ermis and Isander, the latter still a little bewildered, utterly lost in his oversized practice gear.
Kallias actually embraced Erasmus. It didn’t seem to have occurred to him how filthy they both were. The special attention made Erasmus warm.
“It took you long enough to send for me,” Aimeric shot out at last, chin jutting forward like a weapon. It seemed to take all the strength he had to draw himself up, to put a haughty expression on his face. His voice only trembled a little.
Laurent nodded. He looked untouchable – cold and indestructible, superior. He wasn’t a sweaty, filthy mess like the rest of them, even though he had been working just as hard as the rest of them. He was developing into a beauty that poets would immortalize; he seemed to glow.
But his voice was very soft when he said, “Aimeric, I am so very, very sorry.”
Aimeric’s expression crumpled. Then he broke. Laurent stepped forward to catch him when he collapsed into tears.
--
Rather than troupe the snotty, sobbing son of a Councilman through the palace foyer proper, Laurent instructed his boys to sneak him up to the Prince’s quarters through the servants’ halls.
“He can use my baths,” Laurent instructed. “Give him something to wear and some food. Don’t send for it – go down to the kitchens and fetch it yourselves. I want control of the narrative; his arrival will cause a stir once it’s known.”
Isander and Ermis were selected for the task, and Erasmus and Kallias went to see to the horses – and then to Kallias, himself. Aden and Iphegin were to remain with Laurent to finish out his morning exercises as usual. Laurent knew that his brother watched him, and ending early would draw even more attention to his activities than the brief interruption would have.
Erasmus was glad to go off with Kallias. His friend had only been gone a short time, but Erasmus had worried himself sick every moment he was away. When Laurent had escaped Chastillon with Larius, they had all known that there was a chance his rescue could fail – but learning of Larius’s execution had still been a blow. Now, any separation of the group made Erasmus’s belly into a cold pit of dread.
“How is your back?” Kallias asked. Erasmus had only days ago began to join the others again at practice. He was still going slowly, struggling to rebuild what little strength he’s had before the lash. The physician Laurent liked, Paschal, had seen to his recovery, giving him creams and ointments and all manner of other treatments, so that the scars would not worry him. Now his only concern was his continued ability to serve his Prince. Since Erasmus was still physically weak, he had chosen to make himself useful by taking charge of Isander, who was as utterly bewildered by his new role and life as the rest of them had been, once.
“I haven’t fainted yet,” Erasmus answered, and earned a frown from his friend.
“I don’t like using your ability to remain conscious as a manner for measuring success,” Kallias said. He was tired from his journey, but he insisted on making Erasmus sit on a haybale and merely keep him company as he saw to the horses himself. He refused to let him do anything to actually assist.
“Will Aimeric bring testimony against Laurent’s uncle?” Erasmus asked. He knew that Kallias had planned to find out. He was disappointed when his friend shook his head.
“He isn’t ready,” Kallias said. He was frustrated.
“He has time,” Erasmus said, after a moment. “The Prince won’t try his brother to see it again until he has everything he needs. You know one more voice alone wouldn’t be enough.”
“No,” Kallias agreed. “It wouldn’t.”
--
Nothing in the world was as it should have been.
Auguste was not certain it would ever be again.
The journey from Marlas to Arles had seemed like it would never end. Even when Auguste had made the same trip years ago after the war, turning his back and allowing the Akielons to carry his brother away, a prize of war – even then, Auguste had never felt half so exhausted, half so defeated, half so helpless.
Auguste had brought a shadow back with him to Arles.
You should have thought about that back in Acquitart.
If you do this, you will lose me.
Why don’t you ever believe me?
“I should have burned those beasts in their tents before I ever let them take you,” Auguste said.
Roslin’s rooms had the best view of the training grounds. When she had fallen ill, Auguste had come here frequently – to sit with her, to hold her hand, to talk to he, and to watch her belly grow more and more round with his son.
Now, Auguste only came up here to watch his brother, and to drink.
To watch his brother, to drink, and to regret.
Somehow, Auguste had convinced himself that all he needed to do was get Laurent home, and then things between them would naturally begin to heal. Somehow, he had thought that if he could only correct that first, huge mistake – if he could only rescue Laurent from the barbarians who had stolen him away – then, somehow, he would get his brother back.
But, it had been nearly a month now since their return, and nothing had changed. All of the sacrifices Auguste had made for him had come to nothing. None of them meant a thing to Laurent.
After the war, Laurent had resented the fact that Auguste was putting the needs of Vere before him. Now – now, when Auguste was finally broken, when Auguste had sacrificed his Kingdom’s very soul simply for the chance to spend a single year with his brother – Laurent was still unsatisfied.
“Is this what Father was dealing with, then? Is there no fucking pleasing you?”
Drinking was supposed to numb Auguste’s bitterness, but it didn’t help as much or as quickly as it used to. He knew that he was a little drunk, but he didn’t care. Only Roslin was there to witness his lack of grace, and what was it Laurent had called her? A corpse that’s forgotten to stop breathing? Charming.
Auguste snorted, and he lifted his glass back up to his lips.
He had dragged a chair to the window. His decanter rested on the sill. From here, the view was nearly perfect. He could see Laurent and his little troupe of slaves down below in the training yard – little figured dressed in blue, playing with swords like men. Guion’s boy, Aimeric, had joined them within a week of their arrival; Auguste pitied his Councilman for the fact one of his sons had fallen to the Prince’s madness. It would be some time before Guion would be able to leave Fortaine again, despite the necessity of getting his son in line. Guion had left Aimeric with Uncle so that he could study Courtly manners under him as he recovered from his injuries – a priceless opportunity Laurent had stolen from him.
At least it brought Auguste some measure of relief to see Laurent dressing and conducting himself as a Veretian again. He didn’t put up a fight anymore when the barber came to trim his hair at the end of every week. He had quickly picked up on the nuances of courtly high fashion that had changed since his departure, turning heads wherever he went, and when he dutifully attended official functions, he did so with all the wit and charm his childhood tutors could have ever wanted. He was, in a word, perfect.
Unless Auguste was nearby, or a member of the Council. Unless one noticed the lack of sweetness or sincerity behind his brother’s dazzling smile, the chill in those blue eyes. Laurent’s behavior was absolutely perfect, but it was insincere and empty. He obeyed Auguste like an empty husk. He spoke to him with the detachment one reserved for strangers.
Distant. Laurent was distant. Auguste longed to see his spark, his fire. He missed the days when his brilliant little brother had terrorized the court with his little games of intrigue – when he’d disappeared for hours to ride horseback when he was supposed to be taking tea with the Council’s wives – when he’d run into banquets late, moments before Father sent men to fetch him, with mud on his boots and his clothing peppered with animal hair. Auguste missed the way he would argue with Father about some reform or another, proving his point with at least a dozen books he’d pulled while researching the subject.
Laurent had been exasperating back then, and Father hadn’t known how to deal with him – hadn’t known how to relate to a child who hated swords, who was smarter and better read than himself and half the court before the age of ten.
And now he was –
Auguste drank, and when his glass was empty, he reached for the decanter. Glass clinked against glass in his unsteady hand. He spilled, a little.
The brother Auguste knew had hated sports, but this shadow Laurent was up with the sun every morning, dragging his little troupe of slaves with him out to the practice field to spar or shoot targets or run their poor horses through the various courses he must have bullied some of the soldiers into setting up. Laurent had not required that his boys cut their hair, but he had started to dress them in palace livery, and there was something obscene about it, this troupe of lowborn children in Prince’s Blues – an honor once reserved for only the most exclusive and well-trained of servants and highborn guards, all who had already previously more than proven their worth and loyalty to the crown.
“They’re too young, and too beautiful, and they draw too much attention,” Laurent had informed him, his voice chilly, when Auguste had challenged him on the decision. “I would not want anyone to mistake them as anything other than what they are.”
“And what is that?” Auguste had been fool enough to ask.
The distance in Laurent’s eyes had, for a moment, vanished – replaced by the hot flash of challenge when he answered, “Mine.”
Auguste drank.
Dressing his slaves in Prince’s Blue was merely the icing on the cake after pulling Guion’s boy from Chastillon. Guion sent Auguste and the Council angry letters at least twice a week, demanding his son’s return.
“Dear brother, I am afraid giving up my companion would constitute a breach of contract,” Laurent had said, too sweetly, blinking those guileless blue eyes at him. “Aimeric is my bosom friend. Should anyone try to take him from me, I am quite afraid I would be forced to return home. I think we would find my father-in-law in agreement.” Those sweet eyes had glittered at him, malicious. How Laurent’s gaze could hold both innocence and evil at once, Auguste was too stunned to comprehend. “Shall we ask him?”
Guion had barely arrived back in Fortaine before he had learned of the Prince’s interference with his son. It would be fall before he would be able to return, the business of running his lands taking unfortunate precedence. He was pressuring the Council to return his son to him, but even they knew that should they interfere, Laurent would wreak absolute havoc. They would not act without Auguste’s support – and Auguste should support them; it was Guion’s right to say where his son served, and a terrible gaff for Laurent to interfere – and Auguste knew indulging his brother’s bad behavior only set dangerous precedent, but –
But Theomedes really could demand Laurent’s return for breach of contract, if he agreed with the assessment that Aimeric was one of Laurent’s people.
Auguste drank.
Problems enough if Laurent’s behavior with his boys had been all that Auguste needed to worry about. In Chastillon, Auguste had dismissed all of the common-born men who had been serving as his brother’s guard. He could not trust that none of them had been involved in the plot against his uncle, lowborn men being easy to sway toward the wants of similar creatures. Auguste had dismissed them, as he had dismissed the kitchen staff, and he had thought no more of them since.
While investigating the affair, he had also recalled the highborn guards he had given his brother in Akielos, and as matters had progressed, he had simply kept them. Laurent didn’t need guards while he was in Arles under Auguste’s protection – and the gods knew there was now enough Akielon muscle standing around uselessly keeping him “safe.” Auguste intended to keep his brother locked up so tight in Vere that he couldn’t pass gas without Auguste knowing about it; Auguste would worry about re-forming the Prince’s Guard next year, when he had to send him back to Akielos – if he sent him back to Akielos. Auguste would scout out proper, well-bred boys for the new guard; surely the lowborn ones had had some influence on the turn his brother had taken. Auguste would not take the risk again. Exposing Laurent to such low people had clearly been a mistake, however much Auguste had respected their efforts during the war.
That had been the plan, anyway,
Except, beside the Akielon brutes who were always trailing Laurent’s every move, Auguste had begun to notice Veretian men in the blue of the Prince’s Guard. Some of them were the men Auguste had turned off – and others were Auguste’s friends – former friends – who had tendered their resignation from Auguste’s services the moment they reached Arles.
Laurent hadn’t mentioned it to him yet. Auguste was still pretending not to have noticed.
Auguste drank.
He needed to address it, but the thought of another fight made him ill. Historically, the Prince of Vere had always had the right to choose his own guard, once he was old enough – and Laurent, technically, was now old enough. But Laurent was not capable of recognizing how warped his judgement had become, nor how his poor decision-making was already impacting his future. He did not understand how much he needed Auguste to step in and fix things for him.
Auguste lifted his glass to his lips once more.
“It’s barely two hours past sunrise.”
Auguste had not heard the door open, but he was too familiar with his best friend’s scolding to be surprised that Sebastian had arrived to intrude on his reverie.
“He’s using an Akielon grip,” Auguste answered, lifting his free hand to motion to his friend to join him at the window as he drank. “Our Father must be spinning in his grave if he can see him holding a sword like that. It is a wonder we aren’t being haunted.”
“Haven’t you always wanted Laurent to find the passion for swordsmanship? It’s good to see him keeping active. He seems happy while he is out there.”
Auguste flinched. Sebastian was not trying to be cruel, he knew, but it was a thoughtless thing to say. Reluctantly, he turned away from the window.
“Laurent is safe for the first time in two years,” Auguste said. “I expect it will take time for him to adjust, to accept the comfort of the familiar. We will bring him back to himself.” Auguste had believed it when he had made his cursed deal with the King of Akielos. It took considerably more effort for him to make himself believe it now. There was a taint in Laurent that needed extracting before true healing could begin.
“When you were his age, you were difficult, too,” Sebastian said. He smiled with Auguste scoffed. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how the gentleman you gave your favor to at tourney always happened to have the prettiest sisters.”
“Gods, if only that – can you imagine? Laurent riding at tourney?”
“Maybe if he continues to dedicate himself, he will find some interest there, too. You should hold one for him, just to see. You might bond over it.”
Auguste made a noncommittal noise. Laurent didn’t deserve celebrating – not while he was acting like an insufferable little monster.
“How did you find me?” Auguste asked, instead.
Sebastian’s smile was wry. “Do you think that anyone has failed to notice how often you hide up here? Don’t worry; most find your devotion to your poor bride endearing. It’s a bit unorthodox, but you are hardly the first man to fall for your wife. It’s acceptable to enjoy a woman when you have married her. You – “ the derisive noise Auguste made silenced his friend from continuing.
“She’s a commoner,” Auguste said. He had been fond enough of her before the accident, he supposed. Fond, as one might be of a sweet-tempered hunting dog who took well with training. She was carrying his son, after all – filling her purpose with no drama – and she had been diligently applying herself to the acquisition of courtly manners. Her company had not been intrusive or unpleasant. But now she was – a burden, a failure, an incomplete decision. It was foolish to resent her failure as a companion when her condition was hardly her fault, but it was uncomfortable to have to think about her.
Auguste lifted his glass to his lips, and he turned back to the window. It was quiet for a while. Sebastiann was Auguste’s best friend, but even he could not rightly make comment on the Queen Consort’s glaring lack of proper breeding – nor on the fact that, once the child came, Auguste would have to face the looming decision of whether to attempt to continue to breed her or risk her death with the physician’s antidote.
“Laurent is not throwing a tantrum, you know,” Sebastian said after a while. His voice had gone quiet. He had joined Auguste at the window, his eyes on the boys training down below.
“Don’t be a fool; of course he is throwing a tantrum.” Auguste drank, deeply. Drank until the glass was empty. He reached for the decanter for a refill, but it, too, was empty. He shoved them both at Sebastian so he could fetch more. His eyes didn’t leave the window. “I’ve spoiled him. He isn’t used to not getting his way.” Auguste’s words were only slightly slow and slurred. The alcohol must have been weak; he wasn’t feeling it at all. It was not even helping. “He thinks that if he pouts for long enough, I will buy him a pony and a dozen new slaves.”
“I don’t think he does, Auguste,” Sebastian said. He set the glass and decanter down, and left without refilling Auguste’s drink.