Chapter Text
Dusk fell like a lavender haze over the battle encampment, carrying with it a heavy veil of silence. Ambros stood outside of his tent, breathing deeply as the Southern breeze ruffled his hair and carried the scent of roasting meat across the camp. Steely-eyed, he watched the few straggling soldiers maneuver between the tents, a few carrying water or weapons with them. Most men had secluded themselves for the evening, resting, grieving, perhaps in prayer with gratitude, perhaps in prayer with derision. In the distance, he could see a forest of barren trees, ringing the battlefield like a skeletal gate, shielding the camp from the biting wind.
It all felt so incongruous with the tales of victory that Ambros had grown up hearing. He remembered those winter evenings from childhood, frost spreading across his glass window but unable to touch him as a fire crackled in the corner and his father tucked him into a warm envelope of fur-lined blankets. The king would send him to sleep with stories of war, though in hindsight they were sanitized for a child’s ear. There was an old story of a victory at Fort Ponesia, a battle his father had fought when he was younger than Ambros was now. The king would tell him of the raucous drinking songs that had continued through the night, the thrill of triumph that buoyed the soldiers’ spirits, even as they rode home while nursing hangovers the next day.
But this was the end of a war, not a battle. Wesknown’s troops had emerged victorious, but it was difficult to celebrate when their losses were so staggering, when they would burn so many funeral shrouds come morning.
Knowing he was delaying the inevitable, Ambros shed his coat, needing the chill of the winter breeze to ground him, before making his way through the tents. He nodded to the men he came across, acknowledging them as equals, even if it was a practice he wouldn’t be able to maintain in court. There was something about fighting alongside them that made it difficult to view soldiers as inferiors.
He arrived at a tent that was mostly unremarkable. It was made of the same gray tarps as the others, located centrally, leaning somewhat precariously. The guards stationed outside, still holding their weapons, gave the only indication that it was important.
“Your Majesty,” the first guard greeted him, as they both bowed. “He is waiting inside.”
“Good,” Ambros responded, ducking into the tent. The floor was bare dirt beneath him, the tent furnished sparsely, containing only a bare cot with no blankets and a heavy post driven deep into the ground.
The only point of interest was the boy chained to the post, a bruised prince who stood next to the cot, tethered there by a chain around his wrists. He had been stripped of his armor, wearing only a torn shirt and mud-stained pants.
Ambros took a moment to evaluate him from a distance before he spoke bluntly, shifting into Qopit, a language that was native to neither of them, though he had been told it was all they had in common. “You’re smaller than I thought you would be, Marino.”
The boy wasn’t especially tiny, though he would be no physical match for Ambros, who towered over him. He was too thin, and Ambros couldn’t tell if his hollowed cheeks were a result of breeding or war. He wasn’t sure if there was a comfort to be taken in seeing that these months had not been kind to him either.
Bruises stretched over his pale face, leaving his eyes puffy. His hair was dark, but Ambros could see there was debris tangled in it. If he had been a boy from Wesknown, Ambros might have argued that he was too pretty to be kept in such a state. His eyes were almost too large for his face, and if he were a whore at the palace, they would have been lined with kohl, painted with something less painful than bruises. His lip would be painted red to contrast with the pale skin, not split in two places.
But Prince Marino was not from Wesknown, and there was little Ambros wanted to do other than hurt him. “Come to gloat?” The boy answered, slipping into Qopit easily. He jutted his sharp chin out, standing straight. Dark eyes narrowed at Ambros, though the bruising made him somewhat less fearsome. “I would have thought Wesknown’s valiant leader might choose to tend to his men after such a battle.”
Marino barely had time to finish the sentence before Ambros was stepping towards him, before he lifted his hand and slapped him hard, adding a sharp tinge of red to his bruised cheek. Marino flinched away before drawing himself back up again, settling back into the impudent demeanor he wore so well. The anger in his eyes was easy to see, and Ambros stayed close to him, not seeing a reason to back away.
Now, Marino was forced to tilt his chin up to watch his captor, rather than in some display of haughtiness. He was silent for now, and Ambros could only guess he felt some sort of humiliation at being slapped. The King was not about to pay him the respect of hitting him like a man, having slapped the Resetian prince with his open hand like a mouthy child. Ambros was already dreaming up other ways to humiliate him, already looking forward to the process of putting him in his place.
“If I were you,” Ambros said, speaking coldly, every word measured. “I would try to endear myself to my new master.”
“I don’t believe you,” Marino answered, bold again, though Ambros was sure it was all bluster. “I don’t think you would do that if you were me.”
Ambros had to admit, privately, that he was right. He had never been one to avoid a fight. He took a moment to respond, still assessing and reassessing Marino. “They told me that it’s traditional in Resetian for the second-born prince to serve in the military, while the first is trained to rule, and the third is sent abroad to be trained in diplomacy.”
Marino was the third-born son. Ambros knew he should never have been here at the war front. He had met his older brothers, having negotiated with the eldest, the King, having fought across from the second. But there were rumors about Marino, about all the trouble he could cause…
Marino scoffed, but there was a fear behind it, and something about the brief waver in his voice made Ambros want to taste him. “Is this not diplomacy?” Marino asked, holding his hands up. “I am not sure what experience abroad I could have that is more enriching than defending my people from invaders.”
“You know,” Ambros lifted his hand, delighting in the way Marino flinched away from him, his body betraying his fear. He didn’t slap him, this time, just flicking his dark hair out of his eyes, touching him because he could, because there was nothing Marino could do other than tremble and try to puff out his chest. It was enough to keep Ambros from being too angry at the accusation of invasion, boldly delivered as though they weren’t a mere mile from a Wesknown village, as though this land hadn’t housed Ambros’s people for generations. It was admirable, almost, the way the prince could commit to the lie. “I actually think I might enjoy diplomacy more if every diplomatic negotiation I attended involved a scrawny brat tied to a post. What a novel idea,” he mused, drawing his hand away from Marino’s face.
“I’m still deciding what to do with you,” Ambros continued, turning to sit on the cot. “They told me that you came to the warfront because you’re a skilled strategist. Do you want to know what I think?” He let the question linger, but Marino didn’t answer, just continuing to glare at him.
“I think you came to the war front because you have a death wish. It’s written all over your face, in the way you speak. I have half a mind to slit your throat right here in the tent, but I think you might prefer that outcome. I think you might prefer to run from the consequences of your actions.”
Marino was still stony and silent, and Ambros had to command him. “Speak, little brat. Tell me why you came to the war front.”
Marino finally answered, speaking in a voice that was firm, steady. “I came to the war front because my people needed me here, and I am duty bound to protect them.”
“Duty bound? And how far does that duty extend? What will you do now to protect them?”
Marino took a moment to respond, and Ambros couldn’t help thinking he was rather slow, given his reputation. “You already know what you want me to do to protect them, don’t you?” He asked Ambros. “And now you’re toying with me. I do not want to die, but I won’t beg for my life either. Tell me what you want.”
The corner of Ambros’s mouth twitched, betraying his smirk. “Kneel in front of me,” he commanded.
At the command, Marino turned his face to look away from Ambros, and the King could see the way his Adam's apple bobbed, the tension in his neck, shoulders, and jaw. This was killing him, and at first Ambros thought he wouldn’t obey. Then, Marino looked back at him, and he ever so slowly got onto his knees. He was close enough that Ambros could reach out and touch his face, and there was something beautiful in how his lithe body lowered itself to the dirt. His eyes were stunning from the angle, looking up at him, waiting for his next words.
“I am about to make you two offers, and neither is up for negotiation,” Ambros said, taking his time with his words, letting Marino feel the submission of the position seep into his bones.
“In the first offer, my soldiers continue to march South, into Resetian, and your people will pay for your crimes, for the crimes of your family. Your army is in no shape to stop us. I will force your people into slavery and parcel out their land to my soldiers. They deserve a reward for their bravery. When I arrive at the capitol, I will take the palace, but I won’t hurt your brothers. No, I’ll banish them overseas, and I’ll let you walk out of this camp right now. You’ll be unarmed, of course, but my men won’t hurt you. You can run from it all. You will learn to live with yourself, I am sure.” He spoke with practiced cruelty, watching as Marino kept his gaze under control.
“Generous, no?” He asked, and the jab caused Marino to lose his cold composure for a moment, a flicker of something shining through, an emotion that was too cold to be anger, too dry to be fear.
“What is your second offer?” He asked, falling back behind the alabaster mask.
Ambros reached out to touch his face, running his fingers along his jaw, lifting his chin, letting his thumb press against his lip, against the split in the skin. “In my second offer,” he said. “You are the only person I hurt. My men are tired, and I am willing to take them home.”
This was more true than Marino knew. Ambros could command them South, and he was sure there would be an appetite for revenge. But, he also knew that his men were exhausted. He knew the people of Resetian couldn’t be held responsible for the crimes of their rulers. There didn’t need to be any more bloodshed.
“You will kill me?” Marino said, a resignation in his eyes, tension leaving his shoulders as his words slipped past Ambros’s thumb.
“No,” Ambros said. “Worse. I will marry you.”
Marino was confused, his eyebrows furrowing, looking up at him. “You hate me, and yet you would give me a position of power in Wesknown?”
“Do not mistake my offer,” Ambros answered. “You won’t have any power in this. You won’t be a father to my heirs. You will not sit on a throne or contribute to council meetings. I am going to break you, Marino.”
“And this offer is contingent on my breaking? It won’t be easy.” Marino’s words held a hint of bite, and Ambros felt positive the boy would rip his throat out if he thought he could get away with it.
“I think I will gag you when we arrive,” Ambros said, unintimidated, only more excited at the prospect of conquering him. “See if you can still look me in the eyes when you’re drooling around it. You will kneel by my throne, and if you won’t be docile, I have ways to deal with that. I bet it will feel wonderful to fuck you until you cry.”
Marino’s lip wobbled, but he didn’t pull away from Ambros. “What do you get out of this?”
“This has been a long war, and breaking the boy who has caused me so much trouble must be cathartic. Though as far as the politics goes… they told me you were a strategist. Is it not obvious?”
To Ambros it was. His people had lost fathers, sons, and brothers in a bloody and needless war, one that was driven by the Resetian’s greed. Someone needed to pay, and he knew there would be satisfaction in watching their King force the Resetian prince into submission. He would humiliate Marino, and in this humiliation, he planned to send a message: Look at what happens to those who challenge Wesknown. Look at what happens to those who defy me.