Chapter Text
The heir to the Akielon throne was as imposing as a god.
The barbarian prince stood tall as a war horse and broad as the hull of a ship, handsome with a square jaw and a strong nose, dark curls thick and unruly. He wore a white ceremonial chiton that complimented his rich tan, warmth captured beneath the surface of his skin. The hem was finely embroidered with an interlocking pattern of red and gold, the drape of his short cape purposeful, drawing attention to the ample width of his shoulders and the golden lion’s head pinned at his chest.
If he weren’t breathing steadily, one might have thought he was carved from stone like the ancient Akielon statues erected in the gardens surrounding the palace. His very presence commanded reverence–yet when he smiled it was like the break of dawn, blindingly bright, with the deep cleft of a dimple.
Oh, how Prince Laurent of Vere hated him.
He hated Akielos and the capital city. He hated the heat and the humid air and the incessant buzzing of insects. He hated the laurel wreath pinned in his hair, the bronze leaves catching and pulling at the fine strands. He hated the ceremonial veil draped over his face that was not to be removed until the warrior prince led him to the baths, where he would strip him naked and wash him to make him new in the eyes of the Akielon gods.
He hated Auguste for giving him to their enemy, he hated the Akielon gods and their nonsensical rituals, and he hated the anxiety pressing down on his chest, clamped around his lungs and making it hard to breathe between the thick smoke from the many burning incense sticks and the old perfume clinging to the veil.
Still, Laurent despised his intended, the Crown Prince Damianos, most of all.
They were to be wed in three days hence, after a long tiring procession of Akielon rituals meant to adhere their union to the gods. Admittedly, the praying temple was a work of art, simply constructed with towering columns and wide open verandas, doorways and windows hung with thin flowing curtains dyed in oranges, reds, and yellows in favor of the horizon.
Laurent was grateful for the fresh air, a light breeze drifting in off the ocean. The idea of calling Damianos Husband was making him feel ill.
“You are lovely,” Damianos said, his voice low, private. It seemed meant for Laurent’s ears alone, the Akielon high priestess drifting across the dais as she sang of damsels and ancient heroes, an epic ballad that might have interested him if he weren’t certain he was presently considered the damsel.
Damianos complimented him as if it should mean something, as if Laurent didn’t know he was beautiful. He knew very well–it was simply inconsequential. The prince’s thumb moved across the back of Laurent’s hand in a gentle stroke, what he assumed was meant to be a comforting gesture. Instead, it made his skin crawl.
If the attendants had not discovered and hastily removed the dagger he’d secretly tucked into the laces of his jacket that morning, he might have cut it off.
It would be rather difficult for the Akielon heir to lead an army against him in retaliation with only one hand, he thought with a smirk. Auguste might have skewered Laurent himself for the slight against the alliance, but at least it would make him feel better.
“How sharp your eyesight is that you can see through this veil,” Laurent said, unimpressed.
He thinly resisted the urge to yank his hand away, having considered the optics. The Akielon nobility and the Kyroi were gathered; they would not take kindly to Laurent’s disgust toward their future King. It was best to keep all petty personal feelings to himself, tucked down deep where only he could see. He swallowed tightly, and let Auguste’s presence in the crowd soothe him, reminding him of his purpose.
His marriage to Damianos would secure peace and prosperity in Vere for generations to come. The Akielons were formidable allies, with a large navy and legions of men who lived to die by the sword. The best were considered divine warriors, scores settled on the double edge of a blade, forts taken by red banners as if swept over by the sea. With Akielos at his side, Auguste would accomplish great things.
Laurent told himself this, and released the sudden clench of his jaw, exhaling hard enough to ripple the veil.
The Crown Prince’s expression did not dip in the slightest at Laurent’s flippancy. His dark eyes remained transfixed on him, where they had stayed since they knelt before each other on the temple dais, joining hands to receive the gods’ blessing. His gaze had only moved once, to take the rest of him in; the length of his neck, elegant in the high Veretian collar, pale and austere against the tight blue laces, the silver buttons embellished with glimmering starbursts that ran down the center of his chest, and finally, the cinch of his waist beneath his jacket, doublet pulled taut over his figure.
He was dressed modestly, covered from head to toe despite the heat because he was not yet ready to let go of home, but as the prince had looked at him he’d felt stripped to his bare skin.
Laurent wondered what the Akielon saw now, through the lace veil. Surely nothing but the thin shadows of his nose and mouth, the sweep of his lashes as he blinked. He was no longer the sniveling boy who’d risked a smoking battlefield riddled with his dead countrymen to hug his brother. He knew he would not cry now.
As if in answer to Laurent’s thoughts, the prince said, “It has not been so long that I could forget your face.”
He spoke casually of the day their union was arranged, voice even, unrepentant, as if it were distant from him. At Marlas, Laurent lost his father to an arrow, and then very nearly lost his brother to Prince Damianos in single combat. The heirs circled each other on the remnants of the battlefield, striking at each other again and again, dodging or spinning or knocking each other to the dirt. Laurent’s heart lurched with each heavy swing, Jord holding him back with an arm constricted around his chest, fingers pressing into his shoulder in warning.
Neither nation's prince relented nor ceased, not until exhaustion won out, and their duel pulled a draw, for they were evenly matched. They fell apart, gasping for breath, and Laurent broke from Jord’s grip to throw himself down and over Auguste. He was young and foolish, mottled by grief, and he did not want his brother to die too.
The display of affection was most inappropriate, but it seemed to change something for Damianos. As Auguste’s arm came around him to return the embrace, the Akielon heir threw down his sword and boldly declared, “There is another way.”
Thus, the war ended, and Laurent was promised to a warrior prince.
At last of marrying age, Vere’s only hope in securing an alliance with the barbarians across the border, Laurent said through his gritted teeth, “I am glad you find me pleasing.”
Damianos’s mouth ticked with the slightest lopsided grin. He did not believe him.
The high priestess motioned for the slave boy who waited at the entrance to come forward as she finished her song, the temple ringing with echoes of applause and stomping feet. Behind him, the boy led a horse through the pews by the reins. The hall quieted immediately, seeming to hold its breath, flames doused until only the dais they knelt on was lit by candles and the last remnants of the sun.
Unease took Laurent as the slave walked the horse to them. She was a beautiful speckled mare with a braided mane, white flowers sweetly tucked between the plaits. She knickered happily at the attention, hooves clomping heavily across stone. His heart dropped when the high priestess pulled a long blade from the folds of her chiton, the hilt laid with glittering jewels and encrusted with a casing of melted gold.
The slave directed the horse to stand over a basin carved into the temple floor, stepping back and bowing his head. With dread, Laurent realized it was not a basin so much as a slaughtering trough; it was a faint red, scrubbed clean of blood and viscera so many times the stone itself seemed to have rusted beneath it.
The high priestess gently placed her palm between the horse’s eyes, bowing her head as the rest of the Akielons in the temple, including the King and the Crown Prince, followed suit. Her lips moved quickly, silently, but Laurent thought she was praying, then thanking the animal. The horse’s tail swished at the affection.
Then, the high priestess raised the blade, the silver of it gleaming in the firelight.
Horrified, Laurent cried, “Don’t!” before she could plunge it into the horse’s neck, before he could remember himself. It was only Damianos’s hands that kept him from rising and fleeing this barbaric place on the mare’s speckled back.
His eyes dashed to the Akielon King, whose fingers were curled with irritation on the arms of his throne, lips pursed in disapproval. It had taken much to sway him towards an alliance with Vere, and in the end he only did so for his son’s sake. In the crowd, Auguste had bowed his head, understanding, but unable to offer any assistance.
This was between Laurent and Akielos now. He was the waypoint of two newly joined nations.
Laurent burned with embarrassment at his transgression, but he turned to his intended, squeezed his hand, and whispered, “Please.”
Damianos regarded him calmly, rather thoughtfully for a brute, even as the Akielon nobles and Kyroi whispered amongst themselves. He did not seem the slightest bit upset that Laurent had interrupted what was surely an ancient custom. “It is a sacrifice,” the Crown Prince explained quietly, “so that the gods may see fit to bless our marriage.”
The mare seemed to understand she was being talked about, and butted her nose against the high priestess’s hip with a long huff. Outside the temple, the sun lowered to the sea, orange, red, and yellow across the horizon.
“Damianos-Exalted,” the high priestess said lowly, as if in warning, “the gods will not wait.”
Damianos studied him for another pensive moment, and then squeezed his hand back once before his voice rang strong across the temple. “There has been enough bloodshed between our peoples. My Prince Consort wishes to take the horse for himself as a show of Akielos’s penance, and so she will belong to him for the rest of her days. Take her to my stables and have her fitted with a saddle worthy of royalty.”
The proprietary way Damianos said my Prince Consort, the fact that he… liked it, shook Laurent to the core, and he felt the prickle of a flush come over him, but he only let out a long sigh of relief rather than pressing palms to his burning cheeks. He was suddenly grateful for the veil.
When he hazarded a glance towards the crowd to make sure they weren’t going to come for him with torches and pitchforks, Auguste was hiding his amusement behind a hand, and the Akielons seemed to be debating the break in tradition. Some appeared furious, others intrigued. Perhaps if it were a sheep or a cow, he might have relented, but he had always had a soft spot for horses.
The high priestess looked to the King, who nodded once, stroking his beard in deep contemplation as he gazed at his son, and then she gestured for the slave to lead the mare away.
Overwhelmed, Laurent could not help but betray weakness. “Thank you,” he said, still clutching the Crown Prince’s hand. “Thank you, Damianos,” he said again, much softer.
Twice now, a barbarian had shown Vere mercy.
“Your relief will be short-lived, I’m sure,” Damianos said with the hint of a smile, but he did not take his hand away as Laurent held onto it for dear life, nails biting into his tan skin, knowing he’d defied custom, defied the Akielon King and worse–defied the will of the gods.