Chapter Text
Arles, the past
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Laurent hadn’t slept, the night before. He’d been told they were to leave at dawn, which for his father usually meant about an hour after, and so he was there at the window watching when the first golden rays of light began to pierce the horizon, and when he heard the tell-tale creak of his door opening, he was on his feet in an instant, guilty, caught, ready to fly back to bed, until he realized –
There was an awkward, silent moment of understanding that always passed when siblings caught one another in a moment of mischief. Laurent, out of bed, fully dressed for travel, fully disobedient to his father’s command to get a full night’s sleep before the journey ahead – Auguste, in stocking feet, his boots tucked under one arm, sneaking into his brother’s bedroom at the break of dawn. They stared at one another in a frozen moment of unsurety.
Laurent was the first to break the silence – the smile that spread across his face was bright as the coming dawn. “Auguste!” he hissed. “They’ve started lining up the men! Look! It’s Durand’s Formation!”
“It’s always Durand’s Formation,” Auguste said. “You know it’s Father’s favorite.” He still let Laurent take his hand, still let him pull him to the window to watch for a few minutes as the soldiers practiced their parade lines. On the peripherals of the courtyard, servants were loading supply carts and readying horses. There was nowhere one could set one’s eyes without finding a dizzying array of activity. “The advance was having some trouble with the formation in the third column,” Auguste confessed. His hand came up to rest, idly, on the back of his brother’s neck as they watched. “One of the younger men struggles to tell his left foot from his right, and it throws the whole line off. Can you spot it? I nearly sent you down to explain it to him.” He gave his neck a squeeze. Laurent swatted his hand away.
“We’re fighting Akielons,” Laurent answered haughtily. “The finer points of Durand’s Formation will be lost on them, anyway. You should have told father to have them concentrate on practicing Philip’s Phalanx, instead.”
“Shall I have you take my place in the war tent?” Auguste’s hand came up again. When Laurent tried to avoid it, Auguste went for his hair, instead. “We’re fighting Akielons,” Auguste said, as they scuffled. He dropped his boots, and a measure of cloth he had been carrying, in order to catch and hold Laurent and forcefully mess his hair. The hold was similar to the Akielon wrestling holds Laurent had found in a book a few weeks prior. Auguste and his men had gone wild trying to figure out how to emulate the careful sketches of the nude wrestlers ever since, marching around the training yards with their chests puffed up, yelling gibberish they thought sounded like Akielon at one another in challenge – then tearing their shirts off and throwing themselves at one another. It was a fad game all of Auguste’s young men indulged in as they prepared for war – and Laurent had enjoyed watching it unfold. He enjoyed it much less when the moves were used against his person. “You’re shining my armor and brushing my horses. My little servant.”
Laurent struggled tremendously, but he was no match for his brother’s strength. “I’m not your servant, you pig-haired oaf!” he grunted, indignant, red-faced with the strain of trying to free himself but, in the way of adoring little brothers the world over, also pleased with the attention. “I am your page!”
“No one will have a cuter servant!” Auguste declared. He raised his voice, taking on a kingly timbre, as if making the pronouncement to a crowd. Then he licked his lips, and with a wet smack, laid a hard kiss to his brother’s forehead. Only then did he loosen his hold enough to give Laurent the illusion of managing to slip free on his own.
“I hate you,” Laurent declared without heat. He made a dramatic show of wiping the crown prince’s slobber from his forehead, then wiping his hand on his pants. “You’re worse than a dog. What did you bring me, then?”
“Spoiled. Who says I brought you anything?” Auguste retrieved his boots and the measure of blue cloth, and he went to sit on Laurent’s bed. Laurent wore the kind of expression of extreme suspicion only a teenager can truly master as he watched the care with which his brother spread the cloth across his lap, smoothing away wrinkles and picking at bits of lint, real or imagined.
“I say you did, because you did, and I demand you show it to me.” Laurent’s frown was thoughtful, his forehead creased. He approached and reached out a hand, pinching a corner of the fabric between his fingers.
Auguste pretended to be surprised. “Oh?” he said. “This old thing? You wouldn’t like it. It isn’t a book.”
“I can see,” Laurent said, “That it isn’t a book.”
“Go on, then, and take it. Presumptuous brat. You are simply the very worst. I’m dying to see it on you, and I can’t wait another minute.”
Laurent frowned at his brother a little longer, and then he took the cloth, unfolding it slowly, as if it were something holy, after the care Auguste had taken with it. His brother watched him with excitement and pride.
It was a tabard, in Prince’s Blue. Auguste’s starburst was emblazoned across the chest in gold thread.
“For the smartest, cutest, most talented page in the army,” Auguste said.
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Arles, the present
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Laurent knew that his life was at an end, one way or another. All of his care and planning, his cleverness, his plots, and the world had changed on him yet again, his uncle rewriting the rules to the game they played right in the middle of Laurent’s turn. It wasn’t the first time.
It was, however, the final time.
Laurent knew that he would never return to Arles. Even if he survived, he wasn’t going to win. Wasn’t going to rule. His life here was in its final moments, and he could not decide how he felt about it.
The courtyard of the palace at Arles would only seem crowded if one had not been there to see the send off they had received the day they set off for the battlefronts that ultimately led to Marlas. Back then, the sea of soldiers and bannermen, servants and horses had obscured the greenery. King’s Purple and Prince’s Blue had formed two neat, well-practiced lines, polished armor glittering in the sunlight. Auguste and Father and Uncle had all looked so impressive and heroic atop their horses, like walking legends, larger than life. Laurent wasn’t usually one for attention, but that day he had been so proud, so pleased to be included that he hadn’t been sure how he would ever manage. He wanted to be sure everyone saw him in his special tabard. He hadn’t been able to stop smiling. Outside the gates, so many citizens had gathered to see them off that he had already been able to hear their cheering.
In comparison, what was happening in the courtyard now was truly a pathetic showing. Calling it halfhearted would have been generous. Laurent’s Prince’s Guard was far diminished from the impressive force his brother had commanded. Auguste had taken only the best – the most talented, most handsome, most well-bred, most educated. It was a mark of pride and esteem to serve in his guard. Laurent’s men had talent, yes, and passion – most of them were probably even loyal. But Laurent took them where he could get them. He’d let any illiterate bastard-born whoreson serve him, so long as he had sufficient skill with a sword and was willing to choose Laurent over his uncle. There was no pride or prestige to serving in his guard. Laurent’s mongrels, the Regent’s men liked to call them. And now he had Govart to captain them, and Auguste’s own fucking murderer to serve at Laurent’s side. Fucking Damianos of fucking Akielos, the fabled princekiller himself, in proper Prince’s blue, with a starburst bright upon his chest, serving as Laurent’s personal manservant. It was all so beautiful. So perfectly fucking excellent.
Laurent wondered why everyone wasn’t laughing.
Dawn was just cresting the tops of the palace towers, lighting them ablaze, when Laurent realized that Nicaise had come out to the courtyard. The boy looked so fragile, ephemeral, so painfully young and beautiful without his usual paints and silks and jewels, without his elaborate embroidered robes and extravagant shoes. He hadn’t even brushed his hair.
There were dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept. Laurent could tell he had been crying.
Laurent had not known the ease and comfort of proper physical affection in years, and so it was surprising how powerful, how overwhelming the urge suddenly became to grab the boy and crush him to his chest. It was something Auguste would have done – Auguste was always boisterous, never restrained in his affections. Laurent wanted to grab Nicaise, and he wanted to hug him until he felt something again – and then he wanted to drag him away, however he might kick and fight and scream, and tie him to his horse, and take him far away from here.
He didn’t do any of it. He knew Nicaise would bite.
“Come to see me off?” Laurent asked, a little too softly.
The boy’s eyes were hard and glittering, like chips of polished stone. He spat, “No.”
He had been avoiding Laurent – to punish him, mostly, for using one of their little games against him in a matter of politics. Maybe, too, out of some prior knowledge of what was coming, what Uncle had planned. It was always difficult to ascertain just how much Nicaise knew. Laurent had always thought the boy would warn him if anything truly dangerous were in the works – but perhaps he thought he had. Nicaise’s position was precarious, trapped as he was between the balance of two notorious tempers.
Abruptly, Nicaise moved – thrusting something at him. It took Laurent a moment to understand what it was.
“I don’t want it,” Nicaise said of the sapphire earring. It would have looked stunning on him – had looked stunning on him – except Laurent was far too aware of the degree of mortification and depravity with which Uncle would have required him to stoop in order to obtain such a prize. Laurent had planned to wear it as a trophy while doing something petty in direct defiance of his uncle, and then gift it back, purified. When Nicaise wore it again, Uncle could be reminded of Laurent’s little power play, instead of whatever it was he had done to Nicaise the day he had earned the gift. “It makes me think of you,” Nicaise said, accused, as if Laurent’s plan had worked in reverse. As if the thought of Laurent was hateful, sickening, nauseating.
Laurent wanted again to throw his arms around him. He found himself again thinking of his brother. Auguste had never known Nicaise, but that was what Auguste would have done, if Auguste were here. Laurent wanted to pepper Nicaise’s perfumed tangle of hair with kisses, to tell him that he did consider him his brother, however much Nicaise hated him at this moment. He wanted to fall to his knees and tell Nicaise that he was loved, even if it was only by someone like Laurent. He wanted to beg him to come along with them.
He couldn’t do any of that to him.
Stiffly, solemnly, Laurent accepted the earring, and he put it away. When he could trust himself not to do something which would only hurt and embarrass them both, he reached out to touch a knuckle to the boy’s chin.
“You look better without all the paint,” he said, which felt like a goodbye to the both of them.
Nicaise’s eyes glimmered wetly up at him. His mouth twisted, as if he had tasted something bitter. “Do you think a compliment will impress me?” he demanded. “It won’t. I get them all the time.”
Uncle was cruel with his compliments. He liked to use them to undercut confidence, to highlight indignity. That position suits you beautifully, Laurent, you arch your back like the most accomplished of whores. I’ve often thought that lovely mouth was created for cock. Now, swallow it, and give me a pretty smile.
Laurent said, softly, “I know you do.”
Nicaise drew a breath that sounded like a sob. His eyes moved over Laurent’s face like he was memorizing him.
“I remember the offer you made me,” he said. “Everything you said then was a lie. I knew it was. You’re leaving.”
The kindest thing, Laurent knew, would be to agree. That was what Nicaise was asking for. Agree with him. Tell him he had been toying with him, so that Nicaise was free to hate him, to greet news of his failure with a smile. To spend his days free of wondering where he should place his allegiance.
Laurent couldn’t do it.
“I’m coming back,” Laurent told him, and saying it was as if Laurent was making it into reality. As if, for the first time, it was occurring to him that he could. Laurent had taken it as a foregone conclusion that defeat was inevitable. He was resolved to fight, but aware of his chances of success. Realistic. It was far better, he thought, to accept reality as it stood, than to fool and embarrass himself. Pain had always been easier for him to take when he knew it was coming. Getting his hopes up for anything else just made everything worse. Experience had taught him that the hard way.
He hadn’t let himself consider the idea of winning.
He hadn’t thought about the fact he was leaving Nicaise.
“Is that what you think?” the boy demanded, bitter.
Nearby, Damianos of Akielos shifted, as if uncomfortable with this turn of conversation. Laurent was aware of him there, watching, listening, a silent intruder on this painfully personal exchange. Jord had had the grace to excuse himself. Anyone who wasn’t the fucking rightful king of Akielos would have done the same – even a slave or a servant, who might have been unsure about whether or not his presence would be needed, would retreat at least a few steps, to give his master the illusion of privacy. Would do his best to be unobtrusive, silent, invisible. Damianos of Akielos, who thought himself Laurent’s fucking equal, probably hadn’t even had the idea occur to him. A regular soldier in Kastor’s army. Bah. He was the worst liar in history.
Laurent ignored him.
“I’m coming back,” he insisted again, more firmly this time. He tried to make his words a promise, as if saying them might make them true. He would will them to be true.
Nicaise jerked away from his touch. “To keep me as a pet?” he challenged. He had learned the hard way to make certain he understood the rules before he agreed to a game. So had Laurent. “You’d like that,” he sneered. “To make me your servant?”
Laurent should not have been surprised that Nicaise was still angry at him, though it concerned him if the boy genuinely thought Laurent’s aim was to hurt or degrade him. Had he really misjudged the damage he would do to his trust this badly? Or was Nicaise so afraid to hope that it necessitated twisting Laurent’s motives?
He was afraid he already knew the answer.
Anger was, after all, easier than so many other things.
Come with me, he wanted to say, but he knew it would be a mistake. Even if he did, somehow, manage to smuggle his uncle’s bedboy out of Arles without raising alarms, it would put a target on Nicaise’s back. They had already spent too long speaking. If Laurent took Nicaise into whatever it was Uncle had waiting for Laurent at the border, it would be a death sentence.
There was nothing to it but to resolve that he must win, after all. He must return to Arles, for Nicaise.
“I would never ask you to do anything you found distasteful,” Laurent said, which was as close as he could come to saying stay out of trouble. When my uncle is taken care of, I will return to collect you. This will have an end.
Nicaise sneered, “Looking at you is distasteful.”
It was his way of saying he disagreed.
Laurent waited until he was certain he had absolute control of himself before he looked at Damianos.
“Sufficiently entertained?” he asked.
Either the man wasn’t stupid enough to answer, or Laurent wasn’t patient enough to wait for him to. Up at the palace, Uncle had emerged, looking like a peacock in full robes of state, rings on every finger, a coronet that looked scandalously close to Father’s crown bright upon his head.
Laurent went to say his goodbyes.