Chapter Text

i.

When he’s thirteen Laurent runs away to a monastery in Acquitart. The country, if it can be called that, holds little in the ways of wealth, importance, or size—in fact it holds little more than the monastery itself—but none of that matters to Laurent. Acquitart is considered holy ground. Any invasion by the much larger kingdom of Vere that surrounds it would be blasphemy, and even his uncle, the Regent, is not above God.

Monastery life isn’t so bad once Laurent adapts. With his sharp mind he takes to Latin quickly and finds he enjoys the relative quiet of holy life, interspersed here and there with a chant or a prayer. And though it would be a lie to say that Laurent believes in God, he doesn’t mind immersing himself in the gospel. It’s comforting to think that if there is a heaven Auguste is there watching over him.

It’s more comforting to think of an all powerful being striking his uncle down and tossing him into an eternal hellfire—even if that means Laurent burns too.

His brown monk’s robes are scratchy and ragged compared to his previous wardrobe of silk and brocade, hem dragging along in the dirt as he goes about his daily tasks. Father Herode has offered to get him something nicer, but he prefers it this way. After all, beauty corrupts. 

Laurent still dreams of gentle fingers stroking his hair and his uncle’s voice saying on a sigh, "Oh Laurent, if only you weren’t such a lovely boy."

At twenty years old Laurent has put his past to rest. He knows he will stay in this monastery for the rest of his life. He knows it’s the only place safe.

Until it isn’t.

The men come from the South.

The hysterical monk who’s seen them claims they are devils here to carry out divine punishment on the wicked. The warning bell tolls. Monks scramble around in a panic. The majority of them stay with Father Herode as he leads them in prayer and tells them to trust in God.

God has never done Laurent any favors.

He hides in the chapel, keeping with him only the book of John. The barbarians may take everything else but they can’t have this; books are not made for savage hands. Crouched behind the altar, Laurent waits. Distantly he hears the cries of his brothers being slaughtered, hears the sound of weapons hacking through flesh and bone, hears their pleas to an indifferent God. Laurent does not cry, Auguste wouldn’t cry—but, then again, Auguste wouldn’t hide.

Finally, inevitably, the door swings open and there’s heavy footsteps, two pairs. The language they speak is something vaguely familiar, Akielon perhaps.

“... maybe there’s some kind of spell on these treasures?”

“Or maybe they think their God will protect them.”

“This is their God?” Laurent knows they must be looking at the cross on the wall that depicts Jesus Christ, sacrificed for the sins of man. They laugh. “What good is he to them? He is dead.”

Laurent’s thighs ache from staying in the same position so long, muscles trembling with it. He shifts his weight minutely and the creak of his sandals on the dirt floor is audible. Laurent holds very still and hopes the sound of their laughter covered the noise.

It didn’t.

A large hand, broad and dark-skinned, grabs his arm and yanks him from his hiding place. Laurent is thrown to the ground then met with a knife beneath his chin. Adrenaline surges and he blurts ‘wait!’ in Akielon. It's been years since he’s been taught by the palace instructors and his accent is thick, unsuited for such a harsh language. Still, the giant barbarian pulls the knife away. He holds it loosely at his side, fingers curled casually around the hilt, ready to kill at a moments notice.

The Akielon’s dark eyes trace over his face. With the hand not holding the knife he brushes his knuckles against Laurent’s pale cheek, then moves to rub the gilt tips of Laurent’s hair between his fingertips. It’s then Laurent realizes he’s made a terrible mistake; he should have just let himself be killed. What happens now will be far worse.

“You speak our language?” The barbarian asks. Laurent purses his lips, clutching the book of John like a shield, and doesn’t respond. Laurent prides himself on impeccable self control, but he doesn’t manage to stifle a gasp as the brute lifts him and shoves him effortlessly back against the wall. He’s tall enough to loom over Laurent. The knife is beneath his chin once more, tipping it up so that Laurent has no choice but to meet his eyes.

“How?” the man asks.

“There are missionaries that visit far away places to spread the word of God. One of them taught me,” Laurent lies. He tries to keep his voice steady and fails. Those dark eyes study him closely, lingering on his lips, then falling lower.

“What is that?” he asks, stepping back and gesturing to the book still clutched in Laurent’s hands. Laurent blinks. These savages are even more backwards than he’d initially thought.

“It’s a book,” he says slowly, as if speaking to a child. The barbarian snatches it from his hands and shakes it open. Laurent resists the urge to grab it back, glowering at how roughly the over-sized heathen handles the pages. Eyes rove over the carefully inked sentences and, apparently, find nothing of value because he tosses the book back to Laurent.

“All these treasures yet you chose to save this,” he says, an amused twist to his lips. He has a dimple in his left cheek. Laurent is saved from replying by another large heathen stalking into the chapel. He resembles the one standing in front of him but looks older, with facial hair and a hungry expression. His eyes land squarely on Laurent.

“Why have you not killed this one, brother? Shall I do it for you?”

He makes to step forward but the brute in front of Laurent immediately him shoves back.

“He’s worth more alive to sell as a slave."

For a minute they both stare at each other with barely suppressed violence, then the bearded one turns and takes his sword to the wooden cross on the wall, hacking it to pieces. Violence slaked, he shoulders past the other Akielon in the room who’s been watching both exchanges warily from near the door. He also looks a few years older than the animal—Laurent hesitates to call him, or any of them, a man—who’d pulled him from behind the altar, and he regards Laurent with something like exasperation.

“Another blond, Damen, really?”

The brute—Damen—just grins and grabs Laurent’s wrist tight enough to bruise, hauling him outside like another piece of stolen treasure.

He lets Laurent keep the book.