Chapter Text
It’s difficult being a second son.
Were Suguru the first in line to inherit the throne, he would have taken on all of the privileges and responsibilities that came with being a crown prince. If he was the third in line, he could disappear easily into anonymity, wasting away the family money while holding no real responsibility. Instead, Suguru had the misfortune of being born a second son into a dynasty that was already crumpling from a one hundred year war. He wasn’t far enough away from the throne to shirk his duty to his family but he wasn’t ever important enough to be more than a footnote in history. Most likely, the rest of his life plays out in the shadow of his brother but the spotlight shines on him just enough to force him into competency.
“An agreement,” Suguru says flatly. His amber eyes narrow at his father, the tone of his voice teetering on a knife’s edge between caution and disrespect. “You came to an agreement.”
The sound of war is typically loud and all consuming but for now, the outside of the tent is quiet. His armor is splattered with blood, dulling the gold emblem of a lion on his chestplate. Suguru is used to the commotion, he thrives in the type of chaos that he can cut through with his blade. Dialogue and scheming is saved for people who are meant to be rulers.
The chessboard of negotiation is not where Suguru likes to play. He understands enough of it, he would probably even be rather good at it if he ever decided to put his mind to it. Suguru hates dealing with people who obscure their intentions behind pretty words and trade treaties. There’s no meaning to the scratchings of ink on parchment — not the same way that there’s meaning in the visceral, corporal sense of war.
The silence that falls between him and his father is unnerving. Suguru’s voice sounds too loud to his own ears and his armor rustles and clangs as he takes a seat.
“Are we going to talk about this like men or are you going to pout like a child?” comes his father’s sharp riposte.
Despite Suguru’s status on both the royal hierarchy on the account of the king being his father, he huffs audibly at that while pouring wine for the both of them. He hands a glass to his father first, avoiding his eyes. “When I was a child, you told me that we don’t negotiate with our enemies.”
“And when you were a child, you were not ready to understand more.”
It’s a trait that runs in the Geto family — cold, frosty fury hidden behind genteel smiles and polite words. The ice in his father’s eyes hides the roaring fire behind them. Suguru learned from an early age that it’s best to hide weakness and defeat behind indignation and a show of strength.
“Do you know what it means to rule?”
“I pray that I will never have to,” Suguru says drily, “Long live the king.”
His father ignores that, taking a slow sip of deep, red wine. It’s the kind of cheap wine that gets dragged along on campaigns, it’s the kind of wine that stains one’s lips like red blood. His father’s disappointment is an invisible, palpable sensation that Suguru is all too familiar with and it seeps into every corner of the room, sinking into the furniture. This time, he’s not sure if that disappointment is angled at him as it usually is or if this time, it runs deeper than that.
There is nothing as bitter as voluntarily surrendering to the force of war that has besieged your country for as long as your lifetime. Suguru’s knuckles turn white with the way he grips his wine glass. He can practically feel it in the air when his father is winding himself up for a long lecture. He reads it in the way the king’s stern eyes narrow and the way he puffs up his chest, like a man trying to convince himself of his own self importance. Suguru and his brother used to joke about their father’s lectures — you could see them coming like a storm on the horizon and you better take shelter before you’re caught in the torrential downpour of paternal disappointment.
“To rule is to balance the obligation of duty. To rule is to set aside your own passions, your own desires, your own sense of love,” the king says. Suguru barely manages not to roll his eyes. Sometimes he hates being right. “To be king is to set aside your own heart, to yield to the inexorable pull of duty and loyalty to your kingdom and to the crown that has passed down from my father and his father before him. You understand then, Suguru.”
His father’s deep, gravelly tone makes him feel like shrinking into his seat. Even at his age, his father has a way of bringing his mind back to the days of cowering in a corner while he dressed Suguru down and left him with tears in his eyes. He hates the lectures, he hates his father’s holier-than-thou attitude that he lords over his own family. Suguru can’t believe that his father thinks that now is the appropriate time to be taking a subtle jab at Suguru’s sense of honor.
“Understand?” he grits his teeth, “How am I to understand how a father can sell his own son to Aotia?”
“Suguru,” his father’s eyes flash in warning, “Do not debase yourself like that. I did not sell you.”
“What words would you use to describe it, then? By day’s end, I am supposed to leave this tent, not as the commander of my own troops, but as an over-glorified babysitter for our enemy’s prince? One commander traded for — what, ten years of peace? New trade routes? We are on the losing side of this deal.”
“That is correct.”
“Then why— ?”
“Because learning to rule includes learning when to cut off a finger to save the hand,” he says, rubbing at his temples, “Do you think I wish for this? Were there any other way forward, do you think I would willingly send away our strongest warrior, our best general, and our only hope for winning this war?”
There’s a point where Suguru wonders why he’s even arguing, as if he has any choice or say in the matter. If he were next in line to inherit the throne, though, things would be different. His father could never afford to send away a crown prince but a second son? That’s a loss that he can afford.
At first, it didn’t make sense to him why the Aotian army would desire one of their own enemies amongst their ranks, especially to guard their precious prince. Without Suguru, though, his army falls apart. Every war effort in the past ten years has been spearheaded by the Taman Kingdom’s prodigal commander who had spearheaded the reclamation of the southern border at the age of fourteen. Without Suguru, the Taman Kingdom loses its fangs.
Besides, he’s much easier to kill when he’s standing all alone in the heart of enemy territory with every sword in the province trained on him. He doesn’t need a cage to be captured.
Suguru closes his eyes. He just wants to go home. “I can kill him,” he says, “I can kill them all from the inside, starting with that spoiled brat they have for a prince.”
“You won’t,” says his father definitively, “We don’t have a choice, Suguru. If they were to retaliate, our kingdom would crumple. Our people are tired, they can’t fight anymore. If we hadn’t surrendered here today, what do you think would have happened? Do you think they would have packed up and gone home, satisfied with their victory? Or do you think they would have continued marching north until there was nothing left to conquer?”
The feeling of being backed into a corner tastes like despair sitting heavy on his tongue. It weighs down his words and his thoughts, draining the fight from his already battle-sore muscles. Suguru knows that there’s no use in arguing with his father when his mind has already been set.
This is what’s best, then, for our people. He tries to tell himself that this is how a second son fulfills his commitment and his duty to the crown. He tries not to think about the fact that he has already sold away his youth as a soldier, as a weapon, while the rest of his family hides behind castle walls and urges him to keep moving forward.
Suguru mentally grasps at straws. Where is the meaning to this, where is the honor in meaningless sacrifice?
When he doesn’t say anything, his father rolls out the parchment with neat words inscribing the provisional conditions for the next ten years. Suguru is to serve as the prince’s guard, only to be released upon death of the Aotian crown prince. Taman is to unconditionally surrender its borders and Aotia will allow the country to retain its political independence in name while Taman will forfeit its economic control and trade routes to Aotia.
This will cripple us, Suguru thinks. For a country that thrives off its fertile lands and the richness of its fabric trade, they will be left with nothing after the vultures pick the corpse dry. In return, Aotia will guard and defend Taman as one of its colonies and swear to do no harm.
It’s a horrible trade deal but with the pithy state of Taman’s army, he knows that they’re playing for survival.
The paper awaits witnesses and signatures. The words swim before his eyes. He can’t focus, he can’t think.
“Do I ever get to return home?” Suguru asks softly.
“You are buying us time,” says his father, which was as close to a committal answer as he was going to get. “We need to rebuild and gather our strength. When the time is right to come home, you will know.”
Suguru has to stop himself from scoffing. That was a lot of fancy words in a row to basically tell him that there was no plan to bring him home. His father was retreating with his tail tucked in between his legs. By the time his father had the time to lick his wounds, the Taman kingdom would already be reduced to a pitiful shadow of its former self. In ten years time, there would be no home to return to.
He wants to swing a sword, he wants to yell out in frustration and sink his blade into flesh. Instead, he pushes his seat back and stands up, towering over the king. “If this is my duty, I will go,” he says, “I will go prepare my belongings.”
At sunset, the kings of Aotia and Taman convene by the dingy, makeshift desk in the middle of the two camps. With the ink still drying, Suguru watches as his life is signed away.
—
It’s surreal, almost dreamlike to mount his horse and walk away from the men he’s trained with for the past decade of his life. His father barely spares him a second glance and Suguru isn’t going to turn around, hoping that his father will wish him farewell. He knows he won’t.
Suguru staggers behind, purposefully lingering as he fiddles with his tack, adjusting the stirrup leathers. They’re fraying at the edges, worn down from carrying Suguru’s weight across hundreds of miles. He doesn’t want to go. The moment he turns his horse and commits to a course away from home is the second he accepts his new fate.
Suguru doesn’t know what new life awaits him but what he does know is that he’s walking away from the gentle, rolling meadows and verdant forests that he calls home. He doesn’t know the next time he’ll walk up the three hundred looming steps to the front of the castle or the throne room with its elaborate stained glass windows casting a rainbow of colors on the floor in the afternoon light. Suguru will miss how summer looks, glimmering across the surface of the lake and he will miss the warm tones of fall that fill the crowded street corridors during the mid-autumn festivals.
His horse paws at the ground with impatience, snorting harshly through its nose.
Suguru closes his eyes. He tells himself that this is the meaning of duty — it’s sacrifice in the name of his forefathers that came before him. Ever since he could hold a sword, his tutors had impressed upon him the importance of his kingdom before his life. It’s easy to conceptualize that when he recites passages from books to his father at dinner but it’s another thing to actually live by these tenets.
But Suguru is a dutiful son so he nudges his horse forward into a trot until he’s riding near the front of the Aotian army formation. It’s at least a three day ride as an optimistic estimate and that’s without taking into account the cumbersome wagons and the rows of soldiers marching behind them. He wonders how his own men are doing and who has been elected interim leader in his place.
Well, that doesn’t matter much now, considering the once proud Taman army has been splintered, shattered into a former shadow of its old self. Once, it had been widely known as the military powerhouse in their corner of the world before the Gojo family had risen to power and turned the kingdom Aotia into a veritable machine of war.
He knows his men must be staggering back home, defeated. Women and children would line the streets of the capital at Ilios, waiting for their father, brother, or son who wasn’t coming home. The matter is out of his hands now and he can only hope that his father and brother will be able to pick up the pieces without him. For now, Suguru turns his eyes toward the horizon as he marches forth into a strange new world.
—
They arrive in the capital of Aotia four days later. Along the path to his new home, Suguru had stayed to himself, far away enough from the rest of the army to avoid unnecessary conversation but close enough for their ever wary guard to keep an eye on him lest he attempt to run back home. It’s foolish, how they tried to hide the fact that he was watched under lock and key. Suguru was many things but above all, he was a man of his word and he wasn’t a coward who was going to flee the second he thought nobody was looking. It was borderline offensive how they monitored him warily, even when he stepped aside to take a piss in the woods. Honestly, how far did they really expect him to run with a full set of armor anyway?
The capital city of Hanamura is a far different beast from Ilios. Ilios was built with warmth, courting the brightness of the sun with its grand columns, red domed roofs, and sun kissed interiors. Hanamura was built cold and aloof, with smooth white stone walls that reached toward the sky and plunged into the sea, challenging the heavens with hubris.
Suguru has never seen the ocean before. Taman is landlocked and though it is full with the beauty of lakes and rivers, the sheer vastness of the ocean is different. When they first mount the steady ascent up the hill to the main gates, Suguru can’t take his eyes off the view to the west. Blue stretches as far as the eye can see until it’s going, going, gone. He thinks that he could sit and stare at the magnetic push and pull of the waves until the moon rose.
The capital city of Hanamura is undoubtedly the crown jewel of the Gojo Clan. It’s been their fortress and stronghold since before the days of the Aotian empire. Everywhere he looks, he sees blue. Suguru already misses the red banners and flags of the Geto family that hang from every window and fly upon every flag post, proudly displaying the mark of the lion. Here, blue tapestries adorn every shop front and household. The Gojo family symbol of a dragon is imprinted upon the very architecture of Hanamura, etched into stone and fountains and metal.
The bulk of the city lies in the shadow of the palace. Suguru is sure that’s on purpose. If a citizen wishes to look upon the home of their king, they have to crane their necks up and turn their eyes toward an ostentatious display of wealth and power. The city itself is built to keep the people in their rightful place — tucked away in the underbelly of royalty.
At first glance, the palace at Hanamura looks wholly indefensible. Then he realizes it was probably built in mind with the natural protection afforded by the uncrossable mountains surrounding Aotia’s borders.
Suguru thinks about the logistics of laying siege to a place like this and he knows it would be a nightmare. The walls are unscalable with no distinguishable footholds and the place is so damn ugly to begin with he can’t even imagine dumping years worth of resources into attempting to take the capital from them. They can keep it for all he’s concerned. He wants nothing to do with the cold marble flooring and white marble statues of men he doesn’t know.
The double doors swing open into a grand, circular chamber. That seemed to be the theme of everything in this castle. Grandiose. A throne sits at the middle with a circle of smaller but just as ornate chairs fanning out around it.
Prince Gojo Satoru sits at the center of it all, the very picture of spoiled, languid disinterest. The seven men and women that occupy the other seats are discussing the implications of the fall of Taman, his kingdom, while Gojo sinks even further down into his seat, very clearly on the verge of falling asleep in the middle of this meeting.
Eight pairs of eyes turn to look at the intrusion and Suguru gulps, taking in a steadying breath. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he would one day be standing in the Council room of Aotia.
There’s a mixture of emotions on display upon the faces of the crowd — some look at him with unabashed curiosity while others stare at him, as if they were hoping for a hole in the ground to appear and swallow him whole. There was a very real chance that Suguru had cut down some of their sons, brothers, cousins, and uncles without even knowing it. He staunchly refuses to feel bad about it. Such is the price of war.
Suguru tries his best to not make direct eye contact with any one of the Council members in particular but there’s the inexorable, immutable gravitational pull of a pair of clear blue eyes.
He tries to escape it, tries to look away. The few Tamanian people who have laid eyes on the Gojo prince have said that the depths of his eyes seemed limitless. It’s as if those eyes contain the secrets of infinity itself, with the way they gleam and outshine anything else in the room. They remind him of the ocean — vast, endless, and far too easy to get lost in. With the way the blue shimmers like the sea reflecting a sea of light, he thinks that he’s never seen anything like this. They’re the set of eyes that make everyone else look mundane, ordinary compared to the captivating swirl of royal blue.
Then, he realizes with a start that those very same eyes are staring right back at him.
Gojo sits up straighter in his chair at Suguru’s arrival. He looks and moves much too cat-like for Suguru’s comfort with the way that he sprawls all over his throne. The prince’s attention fixates on Suguru, eyeing him in the same way a barn cat does when it readies itself to pounce on a mouse.
“So the rumors are true,” Gojo laughs but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, “I see that my general has not only won me a country but he’s brought back a new toy for me to play with.”
Suguru clenches his fists close to his side. He had heard rumors of the beautiful Aotian prince, of course, but he thinks that there is no beauty in this world that could make up for his well known horrible personality. The second Gojo opened his mouth, his words tarnished every positive thing Suguru could say about his snow white hair or his celestial eyes. He knows first impressions aren’t everything but he doesn’t really care. He’s a thousand miles away from home and he’s decided that he already hates Prince Gojo. It will be a certifiable miracle if he manages to make it through the next decade without being charged for the murder of the infamous Aotian prince.
The retinue accompanying Suguru venerates themselves in the presence of their prince. After a moment of hesitation, Suguru bows as well, averting his eyes, but he refrains from achieving the same depth to it as the others around him. After all, he’s still a prince, and he won’t let the others forget his station so easily, even if he is far from home and his kingdom is hanging on by a thread.
Gojo doesn’t say anything to the soldiers on either side of Suguru. He waves them away with a dismissive gesture, which strikes Suguru as unnecessarily rude. Even his father would have at least verbally dismissed him. Under Gojo’s gaze, he feels like every part of him is being scanned and he wonders if those eyes can see through flesh and into his soul. But that’s ridiculous so he tosses that thought away. Gojo gestures at the open seat next to him and Suguru’s stomach drops. “Take a seat, you’re my guest,” he says easily.
Just because he doesn’t have handcuffs on and he doesn’t have an armed guard breathing down his neck at every step, he doesn’t particularly feel like a guest. Suguru sits anyway, his back stiff and straight.
Gojo leans over and whispers conspiratorially, “Sorry in advance, these old geezers are boring as hell. I’ll wake you up if you fall asleep though.”
Suguru clenches his fists even tighter, the tops of his knuckles turning white. He doesn’t want Gojo so close to him. He doesn’t want him acting like they’re friends of an equal station, like they’ve met at a gala, instead of meeting as princes on opposite sides of a war. Suguru ignores him and figures he can write it off as him attentively listening to the proceedings of the Council rather than intentional rudeness toward the prince.
Evidently disappointed that he couldn’t get a rise out of Suguru, Gojo sighs loudly and reaches over his head, stretching. His long, spindly limbs sprawl each and every way in the throne, his arms dangling over the side of the chair. He yawns widely and Suguru notices that not even a single Council member looks his way. They must be used to this because they continue their meeting without skipping a beat, ignoring their prince’s lack of contributions.
The Council returns to the matter at hand. To his immediate left is a man with long black hair pulled up in a high ponytail. He’s quieter than some of the other members, lying in wait for his next opportunity to verbally pounce upon an opportunity. There’s a woman with silver-white hair twisted neatly in a braid. Another two people with silver-white hair, though he’s not sure of their genders. One has two buns on either side of their head with the rest of their hair fanning messily out while the other wears their hair in a short bob cut with their bangs cut across in a rigid, straight line.
One of the Council members in particular catches his attention. He can’t come up with any sort of satisfactory explanation as for why his attention drifts over to him but it’s the same feeling that Prince Gojo radiates. Maybe it’s power, authority, and the secure knowledge of knowing that no one in this room can touch you.
He sits in the chair directly opposite of Gojo with void dark eyes that match his hair. He has black lines drawn onto his face on his forehead, his cheeks, and underneath his mouth. Suguru’s curiosity is naturally piqued by him. Comparing this competent, well-spoken man to the petulant prince makes him wonder who’s really running the show here.
“The trade routes— “
“Should be open but we need to increase the tariffs. Our victory should be reflected in our economy.”
“And pass down those costs to the rest of our citizens? They are already afraid and unwilling to travel anywhere outside of the confines of the cities.”
“We wouldn’t be passing that on to our citizens, we need to increase the taxes on the border villages and our new territories. They need to know they are a part of the Aotian empire now— “
“And what have we learned about poking the hornet’s nest so soon? Have you already forgotten about how quickly rebellion is incited?”
“Then we quell it. They’re more than welcome to try again. Our people are not the only ones who tire of one hundred years of war.”
The back and forth goes on between the seven Council members. He feels like he should be taking notes, chiming in, asserting his own position. This is what he would be doing if he were in his own court. But he’s not and the reality of it stings when his eyes travel over to Gojo who is evidently treating the whole thing as little more than an interruption to his afternoon activities, as if he has a million other things that would be a better use of his time. Evidently, the Gojo prince is merely a pretty figurehead to parade in front of the crowds. Suguru’s father would never allow him to behave like this.
“Ugh,” grumbles Gojo, “Don’t these people ever get tired of arguing in circles about the same thing every day?”
“Maybe they could come to quicker decisions if their prince ever intervened,” Suguru suggests snidely.
“Y’know, you’re ruder than I thought you would be.”
“Really?” Suguru asks, trying to make it as evident as possible that he couldn't care less about Gojo’s opinion.
Gojo rests his head on his hands, evidently tuning out the rest of the conversation. He whispers but in such a small room, his words still travel obnoxiously loud. “So, I heard that you’re my own personal guard.”
“Apparently so,” Suguru says drily, his lips pressing into a thin line.
“So then that means you have to do whatever I tell you to do,” Gojo drawls, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a tell-tale sign of mischief.
Suguru feels a mounting sense of dread growing within the pit of his stomach. Whatever the request is about to be, he can all but guarantee that Gojo is about to ask him to do something incredibly stupid.
He doesn’t have time for this — for entertaining school boy antics when they should both be grown men with responsibilities and jobs that they should be carrying out. This childishness frustrates him more than he thought it would. Suguru thought that maybe playing prince’s guard to a prince that wasn’t ever in real danger would be an easy assignment but he hadn’t taken into account how aggravating Gojo might actually be in the flesh.
“That appears to be the case, yes,” Suguru says slowly, resenting every syllable that rolls off his tongue.
“Well then, what do you say about a little field trip then?” says Gojo, his eyes brightening as he stands up. As he does so, he accidentally kicks the side of the throne, the sound of it echoing loudly through the chamber.
The Council pauses to stare at the both of them and Suguru seriously considers finding the nearest shovel so that he can bury himself in a premature grave to avoid the embarrassment. At Gojo’s dismissive gesture, they turn away again, averting their eyes to the scene.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really,” says Gojo as he saunters off with a carefree smile tossed over his shoulder as he waits expectantly for Suguru.
Suguru winces as he pushes his chair back and it scrapes across the floor with a grating sound. He wearily follows Gojo back out the double doors.
It’s cold in the halls of Hanamura. It’s all of the stone and open windows that let in too much of the ocean air. It’s a relief in the midst of summer but the impersonal palette of white, gray, and black feels unnerving rather than majestic to Suguru.
Gojo prattles on mindlessly about some of the busts and statues they pass. Suguru attempts to form a mental map of the castle as they walk through. He notes the guards posted at the ends of hallways, in front of certain doors. It’s a well guarded palace and the steel of their swords is sharp and well-kept.
Gojo leads them through a seemingly endless labyrinth of criss-crossing pathways and corridors that all look the same. The palace doesn’t teem with life the same way it does in Ilios, with chattering servants and visitors who come to petition the king. It’s sterile and unfriendly, seemingly pushing away the outside world as if an invisible barrier separated the denizens of the palace from the eyes of those who could not afford to imagine such luxuries.
They meander down the steps and out the back past the gardens. Even the gardens are lined with rows of perfectly manicured white roses. The dusty path they take outward clings to Gojo’s pristine robes but it doesn’t seem to bother him. The further out they get from the towering walls, the more the tension in his shoulders seems to drop.
Suguru can hear the sounds of a working stable before they round the corner to the sight of farmhands hard at work, tossing hay over the fence to the horses in the pasture and carefully grooming the few steeds standing in the aisle way of the stable.
“Why are we here?” asks Suguru.
Gojo rolls his eyes, “Because I’d rather be anywhere else rather than stuck in that room.”
That doesn’t really answer the question but Suguru doesn’t press the matter further and instead, he follows Gojo as he walks into the stables.
“Where did they stable your horse?” asks Gojo.
Suguru shrugs. “One of your men took him from me when we got here. Out in the pasture maybe?”
“You didn’t check?”
“No, why would I? Someone else will take care of it.”
“And I’m the one they call spoiled,” Gojo mutters under his breath. He reaches through the stall doors, clucking at the tall, black mare. Her ears prick and she ambles over, nudging Gojo’s hand with her soft and fuzzy nose, clearly investigating her master’s pockets for the hint of a treat. “Well, the summer solstice hunt is tomorrow. I know that my mare isn’t going to be the fastest one in the field but she’s braver than the last one at least.”
He considers telling Gojo that he had not remembered that the summer solstice was tomorrow because he was too busy burying his friends on the battlefield. It’s hard to think about the more frivolous things in life such as hunts and dances and the better qualities of his horse.
Suguru doesn’t even bother naming his horses anymore — they fall too quickly to a spear for him to be able to get attached. He supposes that Prince Gojo has been allowed to live a life where he can afford to name his horses and give her carrots after a leisurely hack around the castle grounds.
The mare’s black coat gleams under the sun, the color as rich as midnight. She’s avoided sun-bleaching because she isn’t ridden hard every day on a military campaign. She looks well attended to and she’s probably never gone a second in her life without a groom overseeing her care. Suguru’s own horses scrabble over rocks and in the lean seasons of winter, he can trace every one of their ribs with his hand. Their coats grow long to protect themselves and they’ve learned to scavenge for forage.
It feels as if every new, minute detail about Gojo that arises simply piles onto his growing mountain of resentment. Under different circumstances, he might have more patience but he hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in over a week and he’s sure he won’t sleep soundly when he’s deep in the heart of his enemy’s capital.
Maybe it’s not entirely fair but Gojo is standing in front of him, the epitome of a boy who has grown up in an ivory tower far away from the front lines. It must all seem abstract to him and he most likely sees it as something vague that he discusses with his Council. When he has his Council detailing the battle plans and his foot soldiers fighting the battles, why should he give a second thought to the hundred years of warfare that his country has waged?
Gojo seems lost in thought, spending an absurd amount of time running his hands down the back of his horse’s legs, checking for swelling. He inspects her hooves and picks shavings methodically out of her tail.
Suguru leans against a nearby wall and asks, “You aren’t worried about being alone out here with me?”
Gojo pauses and he smirks right back at Suguru, “Why? You attracted to me or something? If you wanted to get me alone, all you had to do was ask.”
Suguru resists the urge to smack him upside the head. The Prince of Aotia was well known to have a difficult personality but the rumors had apparently failed to mention that he could be a horrible flirt too. Though, he supposes that if he was as ethereal as Gojo was, he’d probably take advantage of that too.
Still, he scowls at him instead and says, “Absolutely not. It’s just that the thought crossed my mind that if I was alone with the prince of my nation’s sworn enemy, I might personally take advantage of that situation. It seems like we are rather far away from the main grounds.”
Gojo pauses in his movements, his shoulders squaring. Suguru waits with bated breath — Gojo is unarmed right now whereas Suguru’s hand rests on the hilt of his sword, poised to draw. His eyes flicker upward.
The stable backs up into a forest and if he kills him quick enough, maybe he can take Gojo’s mare on a wayward adventure until he can shake the manhunt and return home. It’s a foolish notion, he knows this and it’s a fantasy that’s unlikely to play out even if he does manage to behead the prince right now. But then what? He remembers his father’s words said to him, low across the table. Aotia would just retaliate and Taman would be definitively beaten down into the ground.
He doesn’t even know why he provokes Gojo like this. Maybe it’s just a way to poke and prod at him, to see if there’s anything else beneath the vapid surface.
Gojo’s cerulean blue eyes flicker downward to Suguru’s hand on his sword. Then, they travel back up to his face. Suguru really, really hates the way that it feels like Gojo has eyes that can see right through them. Slowly, Gojo rises up to his feet. The movement is deliberate, purposeful, and he makes certain to utilize the slight height difference between the two of them to his advantage. Gojo isn’t much taller than him but it’s just enough so that he can just barely look down on him.
Suguru expects retaliation or anger but instead Gojo just laughs at him, crossing his arms across his chest. Suguru stares back at him, befuddled.
“Your first day out here and you’re threatening me?”
“It depends on how you look at it.”
Gojo laughs again and Suguru bristles at the sound. To be mocked is much worse than to be met with anger.
“No, I’m not particularly worried about that,” Gojo says easily, giving his horse a pat on the neck. “I think that you’re too smart to not know how that ends. Don’t misunderstand me. Of course, I don’t trust you. I just trust that I would be able to kill you faster than you would be able to kill me.”
Suguru can’t help but scoff aloud at that. Prince Gojo who at the age of 24 has failed to lead his first military campaign? The very same Prince that people rarely see outside of the castle walls and the only Gojo Prince that has failed to live up to the legacy of those that came before him. He knew that some people spoke about giving him the benefit of doubt. Maybe he was just a late bloomer that was going to come around one day.
But Gojo is on the cusp of ascending to kinghood and with his spindly and lanky build, he looks like he’s never picked up and swung a sword in his life. The local loose dog would pose a bigger threat to Suguru than Gojo would.
“You must be joking,” says Suguru. Pride is an unattractive vice but Suguru doesn’t think he harbors unnecessary pride. He thinks that he holds a healthy amount of self confidence in himself and his abilities and he knows that his reputation precedes him. There isn’t a chance in the world that Gojo doesn’t know that battle lines shatter and break at Suguru’s sword, that men scatter at the sight of Suguru barreling forth with the wrath and fire of a comet.
And yet, Gojo shrugs and says, “Nah, I just think I’d win.” He pauses for a moment and then takes a step closer, crowding into Suguru’s personal space. Suguru reflexively takes a step back only to find himself trapped between Gojo and the stone wall behind him. He grits his teeth as Gojo leers at him, “If you would like, I’m willing to test it out, though.”
Suguru shoves Gojo away from him and begrudgingly notes that he’s harder to move than he first appeared. “You know, most people don’t like it when you get so close to them.”
“Well, luckily for me, not many people can tell me what to do,” Gojo says cheerily with a blinding white smile.
He despises it when people have too much pride and confidence with nothing to show for it. It would be one thing if Gojo had proven his strength and swordsmanship on the field but anything he says is baseless and a paper thin excuse to try and rile Suguru up. He won’t fall for it. He’s better than that and he won’t be goaded into a useless argument that will spin around and around in circles. Suguru gathers his bearings and takes a deep breath. “We should head back soon.”
“To do what? Read a book, take a bath, and call it an early night?”
Suguru is confused — that sounds like a perfectly good night to him.
“Ugh,” Gojo says at the look on Suguru’s face. “I knew you were going to be no fun.”
“I didn’t come here to be ‘fun’.”
“Whatever you say,” he says dismissively, “Go back to your quarters then and change into something more comfortable. Something casual. I’ll meet you in the Great Hall at sundown.”
“Why?”
“It’s a surprise,” Gojo says in an exaggerated mysterious voice, wiggling his fingers in Suguru’s face. Suguru smacks Gojo’s hand away.
It isn’t as if Suguru has any choice but to comply. Any more days like this and he thinks he’s going to begin feeling like a dog tethered to the end of its chain, yanking against its post fruitlessly. He’s built to fight and to lead. He’s not built for babysitting and wasting his time like this. Suguru needs to go train, he needs to go do something useful. Instead, he marches dutifully back to the castle in relative silence with the prince before parting ways and finding solace in his small, simple quarters.
It’s barren but utilitarian, with a small bed pushed against a window that overlooks the ocean. Across from the bed is a simple wooden desk and chair. He can close the gap between his bed and the desk with four steps and he’s not even sure if he’ll fit on the bed without his feet dangling off over the end of it.
He looks out the window, noting the position of the sun in the sky. Suguru should be able to squeeze in a brief nap for an hour or so before he’s due to meet Gojo downstairs.
Suguru undresses and throws himself onto his bed as quickly as he can. The mattress is lumpy and uncomfortable but here, he can lock the door and give himself the illusion of privacy and of shutting himself away from the rest of the world that awaits him out there. He closes his eyes and allows himself to briefly rest.
—
Suguru is never going to admit that he gets lost on the way to the Great Hall but the endless hallways twist and turn, snaking into each other. It doesn’t help that his room is as far from central as it could possibly be. He understands — the room has just enough that it isn’t considered a complete insult to someone of his standing but he’s tucked far enough away in the castle that it’s clear to him that Suguru will never be wanted here. That’s fine by him.
He isn’t sure what he’s expecting when he does spot a familiar face at the base of the stairs
“You’re late,” says Gojo.
Without his commanding navy blue royal wear, Gojo looks significantly younger. He’s dressed in a simple black shirt with accompanying white pants. He pulls his hooded black cloak up, covering his stark white hair.
“I never would have imagined you to own clothes this…”
“Plain?”
“Yes,” says Suguru, feeling off-kilter. Even without a crown and even without the regalia, everything about Gojo still screams royalty. There’s a strange dichotomy that exists between his icy blue eyes and the simple clothing. His outfit made him look almost approachable but those eyes were anything but common. That stare was built to command. It was built to rule. Too bad it belonged to someone wholly unfit to do either of those things. He doesn’t know what it is about seeing Gojo in plain clothes that makes his words stick to the roof of his mouth but he averts his eyes quickly.
“Can’t stand wearing that fancy bullshit all day. The fabric’s too itchy,” says Gojo, shooting him a curious look.
Suguru straightens his back. “Are we going somewhere?”
“Yes, obviously we’re going somewhere,” says Gojo. Instead of heading out the main doors, he leads them through a set of corridors to another exit off to the side. It’s clear that there was a reason this exit was not often used. The path out of the palace is steep and overgrown with every step sending a cascade of pebbles and rocks skidding down the side.
Suguru doesn’t bother asking where they’re going. It’s not like Gojo will tell him, anyway. “Why does that even exist?”
Gojo shrugs and says, “Dunno. Maybe it’s the entrance for the mountain goats.”
Suguru finds that a little funny. He makes a conscious choice not to laugh.
The time to reach the center of the city is shorter than Suguru expects it to be. Gojo tugs his hood up a little higher, concealing his hair. The crowd subsumes him and Suguru has to duck and weave through civilians to keep up with Gojo’s long stride. As the sun finishes its descent, the lanterns lining the street begin to glow upon cobblestone streets. The streets are full of the chatter of the crowd streaming past them.
Even with the sun gone, the air is still warm but it’s a gentle, pleasant kind of heat that encourages people to stay out a little later and enjoy the fresh air. From nearby, he can hear the crash of the waves upon rocks. Suguru absent-mindedly wonders if people are ever scared of the ocean — if they’re ever scared of being swallowed up whole by this nebulous force of nature. When he looks beyond the edge of the city, it’s pitch black. He imagines that being lost in the ocean would feel a lot like being stranded in the cosmos but without any stars to guide you home.
He manages to eventually catch up to Gojo and tugs on his sleeve, hissing, “You walk too fast.”
“You’re just slow,” Gojo retorts.
The warm glow of the city is a welcome surprise after seeing the dull, hollow palace. Gojo walks these streets like he’s done it a million times and Suguru finds himself sympathizing with him. If he had a choice between being kept away in an ivory tower rather than gravitating toward this sort of vibrancy, he knows what he would choose.
Gojo ducks into a brightly lit establishment and Suguru follows. He’s met inside with the uniquely overstimulating cacophony of a room full of people all talking over one another. Somebody tries to walk behind him and nearly spills their pitcher of beer on him. When no apology follows, Suguru is tempted to kick the stranger in the shins but he’s assuming that Gojo doesn’t want any extra attention right now.
It’s a tavern— the kind that’s raucous and dirty and it’s exactly the kind of place that weary soldiers call home. There’s a unique camaraderie that can only be found across dirt cheap drinks and unbridled, off key singing. Suguru has always tried to refrain from the worst of it but even he will admit that there is a certain type of friendship that forms while stumbling home and sloppily drunk.
Suguru pauses and looks quickly over at Gojo. No, there’s no possible way that Gojo dragged him all the way here in some kind of bizarre, misguided attempt to befriend him right? For his own sanity, Suguru chooses to believe that Gojo has other business here because the thought of having to drag Gojo out of here past closing back to the palace — it’s not how he particularly wants to spend his evening.
Gojo saunters back to Suguru with two dingy, metal cups. One is full of beer and the other with water. He sincerely hopes that these have at least been washed. Gojo doesn’t seem to care though as he squishes himself in between the wall and Suguru to sit on the chair next to him.
“Cheers!” Gojo says cheekily, clinking his cup against Suguru’s even when the other doesn’t reciprocate the motion.
“Why are we out here?” Suguru asks warily. “Do you do this often?”
“Drink?” Gojo frowns, “No, I don't like the way it makes me feel. If you would like, though, I figured we could celebrate the occasion of your arrival though.”
“Oh, I assure you that this is not an event particularly worth celebrating.”
Gojo makes a small tsk sound before pushing the cup of beer over to Suguru anyways. His eyes flit around the tavern, taking in the myriad of scenes before him.
“I do come here quite often, though,” says Gojo, “Don’t you know that this is always the best place for gossip? And it’s always the best place to pretend that you’re completely unknown.”
Suguru furrows his brows. The prince never quite struck him as someone who would purposefully want to be unknown. He was notoriously mysterious, constantly hidden away from the public by both his family and the Council but Suguru always assumed that it was to hide the Gojo family’s greatest incompetence away from those who might exploit it.
The Gojo he sees before him is an absolute disaster of contradictions. He moves through life like he wants all eyes on him but then he evades every pointed question headed in his direction, obscuring his real thoughts. He carries himself in a way that begs for a crown on his head and his voice holds the gravitas of authority. Then he opens his mouth and his words carry all the childish banter of a kid who hasn’t been taught their table manners. Suguru just can’t quite wrap his mind around him.
“Why would someone like you care for gossip?” he asks.
Gojo swiftly finishes the rest of his drink, letting his cup clatter back onto the table. He considers the question for a moment before he responds, “Well, last I checked, my dad’s still dead and I turn 25 this December. It seems to me that I’m supposed to be king soon and knowing about your citizens’ perspectives is rather important, don’t you think?”
“You have people that can do that for you,” Suguru points out, “No king is going to risk their neck coming out to a place like this when someone can just report back to you. Besides, is this not what your Council is for as well? To advise you?”
Gojo barks out a humorless laugh, his smile not meeting his eyes. The table next to him suddenly erupts into a round of cheering when their friend arrives and the crowd grows bigger, forcing Gojo closer into Suguru’s personal space. Suguru can feel his entire body tense up when Gojo’s arm brushes against his.
“Advise me?” he asks, almost bitterly, “Sure, that’s one way of looking at it.”
The way he says it teeters on the line of petulant and anger but before Suguru can get a better read on his expression, Gojo quickly wipes it away. Maybe if Gojo listened to the advice of people who were older and wiser than him, he might be better prepared for his eventual ascension. Suguru knows that if he were in Gojo’s position, he would be spending as much time as he could absorbing knowledge instead of gallivanting with villagers in his spare time.
Gojo absent-mindedly swirls the liquid in his cup around, droplets of water splashing onto the table. The table looks like it's seen better days. This whole place has probably seen better days.
“You know, it’s not about doing it the easy way, asking someone to report back to me. Honestly, half of the reason I come here is for the fun of it. You’ve seen the castle. Wouldn’t you want to get away from it too?”
“No,” says Suguru. It’s a lie.
Gojo sticks his tongue out childishly at Suguru. “Gah, you really are as boring as you look.”
Suguru thinks responsible is a better word to describe him rather than boring but he’s not in the mood to argue semantics right now.
“Fine, whatever,” says Gojo as he steps away from him and he playfully swipes at Suguru’s untouched drink, taking a gulp. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before grabbing his empty cup “I’m going to get whatever non-alcoholic swill they can cook up and then I intend to go do something entertaining. You can go ahead and sulk in the corner and be dour or— whatever it is you do in your spare time.”
“What are you talking about? I’m not dour— “ Suguru can’t even finish the sentence before Gojo disappears into the crowd again.
He crosses his arms and lets out a long sigh, leaning his back against the stone wall. If his wayward prince wanted to go and risk the chance of his identity being exposed, that was his problem. Well, Suguru supposes that it is actually, technically his problem as well but he’s sure that his duty to protect the prince’s life does not extend to babysitting him.
Suguru has to admit that Gojo may be right around one thing — a tavern is the easiest place in the world to become unknown and lost in the crowd. The group of rowdy strangers next to him is most likely of high birth, judging by the pristine leather of their shoes and fine fabric of their shirts. And next to them, there appears to be some farmers here after a hard day of honest work, their wives laughing amongst themselves. Nobody will give him a second glance here. It is a little strange to be in a room where nobody knows his face.
There’s a peculiar source of peace and quiet that is only found within the center of chaos. The world continues to spin around him and Suguru can block it all out and disappear into the recesses of his own mind.
It hasn’t even been a week and Suguru longs for home in such a way that it’s beginning to feel like a physical pain in his chest. Maybe it’s pathetic for the way that he yearns to return, like a child desperate to find his mother’s embrace again. He thinks about what his family and his soldiers would be doing right now.
His mother and father are married by name but not bound by love. That didn't matter much to him. He was raised mostly by his tutors and sword masters instead. Still, he supposes that over time, they had grown to at least tolerate each other and they might be finishing the last of their dinner right now or taking a stroll through the palace grounds. His two little sisters would probably be in their room playing with their nursemaids, waving around wooden block figures and laughing themselves silly.
His own brother held all the brains in the family whereas Suguru was gifted with swordsmanship and battle acuity. Sometimes he gets jealous, though, of the way his brother can navigate long texts, treaties, and trade deals with grace and ease. It’s one of the rare times Suguru is glad that he's not the crown prince — he's seen what kingship is like and there's more paperwork than one might think.
Jealousy — it's an ugly feeling and he had grown up being taught that it was a sin. But he thinks to be jealous is to be human and it’s baked into humanity's very nature to yearn for more. The lights flicker in the tavern and Suguru stares down into his empty cup. The public gossip in Taman suggested that Suguru should be next in line because of his proficiency in the battlefield but Suguru has never actually coveted his brother’s position. Is he jealous of Satoru?
That could explain the anxious, unsettled churning in his stomach when Gojo is near. He doesn't like how the young prince makes him feel and it makes perfect, logical sense that Suguru would be jealous of the pompous and luxurious lifestyle that he lives. Everything about Gojo’s life has been untouched by the war.
Without a sword thrust into his hand, would Suguru have grown up to be kinder? Would Suguru find it easier to smile and laugh and joke the same way Gojo does if he had never donned a suit of armor? With such an arrogant attitude like his, he thinks that Gojo doesn't deserve everything that's been handed to him on a silver platter.
Suguru sits in his corner and finishes the rest of his drink quickly. He orders another two and by the time he's finished with those, he figures it's been some time since he’s last laid eyes on his charge. A burdensome sense of responsibility compels him to at least turn the corner to check for him.
The crowd has thinned out considerably — the common folk probably have to call it an early night to be in the fields by dawn. The claustrophobia of wading through a sea of people fades and he quickly identifies Gojo by his freakishly long limbs and the sound of his laughter echoing in a room.
He still has his hood up but there's strands of white hair peeking out now. He watches as Gojo’s hood shifts around, dislodged by his larger than life gestures as he talks and laughs. The little crowd gathered around him is enraptured.
Whatever card game he’s suckered these poor people into playing, it’s clear that he’s winning by a large margin. The stakes are low, with only a pittance of money on the table, but it’s clear that Gojo likes winning just for the thrill of the game.
Someone accuses him of cheating and he puts his hands up in surrender but his devious smile suggests that if that stranger gives him any more trouble, he would be more than willing to take the issue outside. Nobody seems to be particularly thrilled by him but nobody seems to be able to escape from his orbital field either. Suguru is beginning to become very well acquainted with that feeling.
“Hey, Suguru!” Gojo waves him over.
“It’s Geto.”
“Geez, last name basis it is then,” Gojo grumbles. He shakes his little pouch and it’s full of coins jangling around. That amount might be able to buy him a loaf of bread from the market. Maybe two if he's lucky. “See this? I'm a winner!”
“Congratulations,” says Suguru in the most deadpan voice he can muster.
Gojo waves goodbye to his new acquaintances and Suguru readjusts his hood for him on reflex to make sure his white hair stays hidden.
When they step back out onto the street, the blast of cold air clears the mugginess from his brain. Suguru hadn’t realized just how stuffy it had gotten in there and the night time breeze is a welcome relief.
He turns to Gojo and asks, “What were you doing?”
Gojo dangles his pouch of meager winnings in front of Suguru’s face. “Getting rich, obviously. And you can get anyone to talk over a beer and some cards.”
“Looking for any information in particular?”
Gojo hesitates for just a split second before he shakes his head, “Nah. Tonight was just for fun.”
“You seem to have a lot of time in your schedule for…fun.”
“It’s one of the greatest perks of being royalty, is it not?”
“We grew up very differently.”
“Yeah, I can tell. I've met rocks with more personality than you.”
Suguru neither rises to the bait nor corrects Gojo — he may be royalty by blood but in the present situation, he’s lost his place in this world. If the world was different and the kingdoms were at peace for the past hundred years, maybe another version of Satoru and Suguru would meet on equal footing as princes. Maybe in that world, they could learn to be friends.
They return to the Great Hall which is empty save for the guards who still man it. If any of them are particularly surprised to see their Prince returning at midnight with someone he had just barely met that morning, none of them show it.
Suguru doesn't know how to play at being a Prince’s guard. He doesn't know how to act or what to say when Gojo lingers at the stairs. It looks like he wants to say something else but he never does.
“Do you need an escort to your room?” Suguru asks tentatively.
“No, I promise I won't get lost.”
“Alright.”
“I'll see you tomorrow then for the hunt. You can meet me in front of my quarters at sunrise.”
In the shadows of the night, Gojo’s eyes are illuminated by the silver of the moon. They gleam like stars and it strikes Suguru how unknowable the depths of his eyes appear. They're haunting in the way that they shine in the dark.
“Good night,” Gojo says quietly and he walks up the stairs, leaving Suguru alone in the cavernous room.
—
The day of the summer solstice dawns with bright sunlight and the hot, stifling air of a day with no breeze. This is the kind of day that Suguru is used to in Ilios with its location situated deep inland where the heat of midday could beat down upon their backs.
From a quick glance around at the field of men gathered in the courtyard of Hanamura, this kind of heat is atypical for them. Even he quickly misses the feeling of the light sea breeze coming in from the west and his long, black hair begins to stick with sweat to the back of his neck.
Suguru takes a moment to pull his hair into a neat bun. The hounds bay and pant, restlessly weaving in between their master’s legs. The horses stand with their heads hung low, tails swishing incessantly to chase the flies away. What an inauspicious day for a hunt.
He can’t imagine how oppressive the heat will become later as the sun moves across the sky. He knows days like this — he knows how it constricts the air around you and how it feels like you’re dragging your limbs through oil. At the very least, it seems like everyone has decided to forego their more formal regalia for the lightest, most simple hunting leathers they owned.
“Geto!” a voice calls.
Suguru looks over to see Gojo waving him over. His eyes gleam with the excitement of the chase and— perhaps the young prince isn’t as spindly as he looks. Now that he’s dressed in more form-fitting clothes, Suguru can see that he possesses broad, muscular shoulders and the defined chest of someone who trains regularly. His dark leather armor is set apart from the rest with the detailed insignia engraved in its chest plate. A dragon curls its way up his chest and onto his shoulder and Suguru notes that the craftsmanship is befitting of the prince’s station. The dragon is adorned with sapphire eyes that mirror those of its wearer.
“It’s a Gojo family heirloom,” he says.
Suguru realizes that he’s been caught staring and even though there should be nothing embarrassing about admiring a beautiful piece of armor, he can feel the burn of his cheeks. If anyone asks, he’ll blame it on the summer heat.
He pretends like he never heard Gojo’s comment and instead clears his throat, “Will I be joining you?”
Gojo raises an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t think you need much protection against…” Suguru peeks over his shoulder into the forest beyond, “...deer and boar.”
Gojo claps him on the shoulder with the warm, brotherly vibes of comrades in arms. Suguru pushes his hand away.
“Terrifying as they are, it’s not the fun little forest animals I’m wary of,” says Gojo, shifting his weight over to one leg.
He looks around them, putting on a dramatic show of making sure that nobody else is nearby before he leans in, whispering into Suguru’s ear. “Just between you and me, I don’t trust a single person here right now.”
Suguru recoils from Gojo’s closeness, trying to forget about how Gojo’s breath felt brushing past the skin of his neck. The— the sun must be making him forget himself. He turns away from him, determined to rebuke the prince if he tries to get any closer. “Isn’t that an issue? They’re your people.”
“They’re my father’s people,” Gojo corrects, “You haven’t met the rest of my guard yet.”
If they’re anything like Gojo, he’s not sure if he wants to. He keeps this opinion to himself. He briefly considers asking Gojo why he isn’t taking them instead of him but he changes his mind once he figures that Gojo is most likely just going to dance around the question instead of answering it. Either that or he’ll respond with an idiotic, inane answer that leaves Suguru wanting to exit the conversation as soon as possible.
“When do we head out?” he asks instead.
As if on cue, the hunt master blows its horn and the deep, mournful sound reverberates in the courtyard. In response, the hounds howl. There’s something about the sound of dogs and their echoing howls that remind Suguru of the dead of winter and trekking through knee-high snow. It’s incongruous with the cicadas that drone in the background and the bone dry heat of the day.
Suguru takes that as his cue to walk over to the post where his mount was tied. He loops the reins over its head and swings himself over. He thinks back to his visit to the stables yesterday and it’s with chagrin that he gives his gelding a pat on the neck. Suguru should probably give it a name eventually— this one has survived longer than six months, after all. It probably deserves some carrots too. His horse is a plain bay gelding and not one that would stand out in a crowd, compared to the way Gojo’s mare glistens with her shiny black coat and white star on her forehead.
A servant hands him a spear. The weight of a weapon feels familiar and heavy in his hands. He nudges his mount over to where Gojo is at the head of the hunt only to be met with the sight of barely controlled chaos.
Gojo’s mare looks to have the complete opposite demeanor under saddle as she did when Suguru met her in the stables. She appears to be fractious at best and downright dangerous at worst. Suguru can see the whites of her eyes and she’s already worked herself into an anxious frenzy with white sweat foaming and collecting at her shoulder and underneath the saddle girth. To his credit, Gojo appears to be an excellent rider as expected of someone who has no doubt had formal years of training under an instructor. Gojo’s mare spins and rears, her hooves nearly striking the head of the unfortunate soul closest to her and Suguru watches as Gojo grimaces but keeps his seat.
“Are you going to be alright?” Suguru asks. He hopes Gojo doesn’t mistake that as care for his well being.
He watches warily as the mare spooks and shies away from a shadow on the ground, scurrying sideways. He just isn’t fond of the idea of having to either deal with a loose horse or risk having his own gelding feeding off her energy and darting off into the woods.
The normally cheerful Gojo has turned completely around on his attitude. Gone is the boyish smile and the excitement in his blue eyes. Instead, it’s been replaced by an ugly, murderous temper that simmers below the surface. All because his horse was giving him a difficult day.
Suguru knows that look. It’s the same hard glare and tense set of his shoulders that he sees in his older brother and his father when they’re denied their way. It’s the kind of look that has Suguru walking on eggshells, knowing that whatever wrong move he dares to fumble through will lead to an explosive type of anger that makes him want to close his eyes and shut everything out. It’s the wrath of royalty when something doesn’t go their way.
How naive of Suguru to ever begin thinking otherwise — just because Gojo sometimes reached out a friendly hand or sought to engage Suguru in a night of drinking and a tour around town, it didn’t mean anything beyond novelty and amusement to him. Not all rumors are to be believed but every rumor has at least a kernel of truth in it. There’s a reason Prince Gojo has built a reputation over the years and across the kingdoms as the spoiled and needlessly arrogant Gojo heir. It’s a shame that he’s the last of the Gojo dynasty — an entire family’s legacy has trickled down to this as their eventual king.
Gojo’s eyes flash in warning and Suguru says nothing. The heat is making his head hurt and the cicadas are just getting louder. The sky looks too bright and he wants nothing more than to get this over with. Which royal idiot thought that sending out a platoon of short-tempered, armed men in the middle of summer was a good idea? He thinks some traditions need to be tempered in favor of practicality.
The hounds and the hunt master set off while the rest follow. The thundering of hooves and the wild barking of the dogs accompanies a mad rush out of the courtyard, into the field, and through the forest. The wind whips through Suguru’s hair and despite the circumstances, even he can admit that there’s nothing better than the exhilaration of a good hunt. It’s not even really about tracking and chasing the animal — it’s always been about the joy of weaving through the trees and leaping across streams and over fences, the excitement of unbridled adrenaline. It’s an easy way to play at chasing the high of war without the blood on the battlefield. Maybe this is why it’s always been a sport popular amongst kings.
He looks over to his side and it appears that Gojo’s horse has settled at speed. Well, “settled” is the wrong word for it. More like it’s harder for her to misbehave when she’s caught in the thrill of running.
It’s easy to lose track of time when caught up in the stream of horses, dogs, and men. It’s a delicate dance to keep oneself apart from the swinging spear of the person next to you while changing direction at the drop of a dime. The hunt master blows his horn once, twice. Now, the hunt truly begins.
During the summer, it’s customary to hunt boar. It’s a large and just dangerous enough quarry to add to the thrill of it and it serves well to provide an inflated sense of accomplishment to those unaccomplished and unacquainted with real blood sport. It isn’t Suguru’s place to flush out the prey but he follows anyway in pursuit.
Gojo’s horse screams out, a horrible blood curling mixture between a shriek and a nicker. Suguru’s head whips to the side and his eyes widen. His mare stumbles and thrashes her head and it looks like the dastardly combination of the stifling heat, her anxious rebellion against her rider, and the weariness of the hunt are wearing her down.
Gojo doesn't hesitate though and he must see something that Suguru doesn't because he digs his heels into his horse’s side, silver spurs jabbing into her gut. Despite her current state she runs faster, faster as Gojo spurs her again until they've pulled ahead of the hunt master.
Together, horse and rider look like a flash of black and white as they race through the forest. Suguru can hear the labored breathing of Gojo’s horse as her hooves strike the hard ground, her chest heaving as her legs scramble.
Suguru wants to say something, wants to stop it. On the other side of him, another rider pulls up from behind. He recognizes this man from the Council by catching a brief glance at his face. Sharp, devilish eyes and black hair that stood up every which way. His grin is shark-like as he picks up speed, hot on Gojo’s trail. Smart — Suguru realizes that this man has the experience to conserve his steed’s energy until the quarry has been spotted.
Suguru reins his horse in, reluctant to get in between the man and Gojo.
As if his sense of perception was sharper than everyone else’s, Gojo whips his head around when he senses the Council member behind him. Without hesitating, Gojo kicks his mare harder, his spurs leaving a bloodied trail on her flank. He raises his arm, spear looming over head and he throws it with a grace and precision that impresses even Suguru.
Even while tracking the motion of the spear mid-air, Suguru knows instinctively that Gojo has found his mark. The steel head of the spear gouges the boar and the boar screams and flails, choking on its own blood as it collapses into a bush.
Gojo’s mare heaves a labored breath and she falls to her knees, her sides covered in sweat and blood. The prince flings himself away from his horse, landing neatly on the ground next to her as she falls on her side, her panicked eyes wide and glassy.
By the time Suguru catches up to him, Gojo pulls a hunting knife down and kneels, slitting the throat of the boar in a quick, practiced motion. If he thought that Gojo looked homicidal before, the prince now wore the cold, emotionless expression of someone who would raze an entire village without second thought. His expression hardens before shuttering off completely into an eerily blank face. Then, Gojo turns his attention to his dying horse and with a slash of his knife, he ends her life.
Suguru is no stranger to death.
He has had to do the same thing for his own animals — a last gift of mercy after everything they've done for him. This is different, though.
Gojo looms tall over the two motionless bodies.
Somewhere along the way, Suguru’s hair had fallen out of its bun and now it hangs down, messily falling into his face.
Suguru yanks his horse to a hard stop in front of him. “You ran your horse to death,” he spits out. “And for what? All to beat someone to the chase? For this?”
He gestures to the boar in front of him, its beady black eyes staring blankly up at the sky. Suguru struggles to catch his breath and he wipes away his sweat from his face with the back of his hand. He should be immune to this, he shouldn't care, it's really none of his business after all. But there's something so fundamentally wrong about the life of a loyal companion wasted over a summer solstice’s hunt that didn't matter at all.
The Council member that nearly beat Gojo to the chase trots up lazily, now that the hunt is over.
“The little prince has always been competitive,” he says to Suguru with a tone of voice that sounds like a parent patiently teaching their toddler something new.
Gojo doesn't say anything for a moment. He just stands there motionless, his ocean blue eyes staring at nothing in particular. For someone who has just ridden hard through uneven terrain on an uncooperative mount, he looks unphased. But Suguru knows. He had seen the rage that lay beneath that blank, impassive look.
He stands up and brushes the dirt off his knees. Gojo’s voice is tight when he says, “Councilman Sukuna.”
“You've beaten me at my favorite game, boy, you should be proud.”
Suguru looks between the two of them. Gojo glares daggers at this — Councilman Sukuna and he just stands there, smirking in response. He expects Gojo to say something, to assert his position as the crown prince and heir to the throne. The Council was there to hold the throne for their prince until he turned 25; it wasn’t there to lord over its future king. Suguru can't imagine letting such an insult slide.
Gojo looks at the immobile corpse of his horse. The same horse that they had visited yesterday. The same horse that Suguru saw nuzzle Gojo’s hand and playfully nip at his white strands of hair. He expects Gojo to at least have an ounce of remorse or maybe even grief.
Instead, Gojo laughs, even though there's nothing amusing about the situation. He turns his attention back to both Sukuna and Suguru.
“Ah, well, it’s just a horse, right?” Gojo says with a shrug.
Suguru marvels at how Gojo’s skin deep beauty can mask such a wretched, scornful soul underneath. He was pampered, coddled, and the kind of person that needed to step on others to feel strong. Suguru can't imagine following the kind of prince that was willing to be so callous as to work his poor animal to death for the sake of such a petty prize.
He can imagine how the rumors will spread back at the castle. That prince Gojo and his nasty temper who will turn around just as quick to lure you in with a bright smile and those siren blue eyes of his.
In the afternoon lighting that filters between the canopy of leaves, Gojo’s white hair lights up like a halo. There's a raw, twisted irony to the image. An image like this belongs in cathedrals, enshrined in stained glass above the altar. An angel cast out from the heavens, exiled from home.
“What's the matter, Geto? You look like you've seen a ghost,” Gojo sneers, “Don't worry. I'm rich, remember? I can always just buy a new one. If you let me steal your ride back, I’ll get you one too”
“You can walk,” Suguru responds icily.
He expects some kind of retribution or at least the promise of punishment when they return but Gojo says nothing when Suguru turns his back. As the rest of Gojo’s entourage streams into the clearing, Suguru walks away.
Gojo doesn't try to stop him.
He almost wants to tell him that from the moment he woke up, he knew. It was a bad day for a hunt.