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Paschal almost spilled half of the very expensive wine in his cup, when his Highness, prince Laurent of Vere, barged into his tent. It was long past sunset already, most of the men whose loud voices filled the day from morning until night already deep asleep. A sudden rush of cold followed the prince´s entrance causing Paschal to shiver in his seat.
“Your Highness?” It sounded more questioning than he had anticipated. The last time the prince sought him out in person had to be years ago. Paschal supressed shivering again at those memories. The prince, who had pushed aside the entrance to the tent with his usual determination, now stood unmoving in the middle of the small room. “Has one of the men been injured?” Paschal asked matter-of-factly into the awkward silence. Had the Barbarian slave found a way to tear up his back again? If he had not known the prince better, Paschal would have thought the young man to be struggling for words. Finally, he spoke.
“No. I came for advice on a personal matter.” For a short moment he seemed to question how to continue. “I suspect that I have pulled a muscle during the training today. Are you in possession of a salve to soothe the pain? I can´t afford a lacking performance tomorrow.”
Paschal eyed the prince with as much disbelief as possible without risking a royal affront. He vividly remembered the time a sixteen-year old Laurent had refused his services after a horrendous hunting accident, despite of visibly having been in a great deal of physical pain. To every palace physicians´ dismay the prince had only become more dismissive in the following years, which made his unusual behaviour all the more suspicious to Paschal.
He stood up to search for a salve to reduce the swelling while explaining the typical treatment for an injury of equal nature. Compression, Ice if possible, Elevation and – of course - rest, which Paschal knew to be a senseless request for any type of soldier. Perhaps he should consider to scratch `rest` out of his medical vocabulary completely, at least for the time of their travel.
Paschal handed over the salve, not even bothering to ask if maybe he would be allowed to examine the muscle. He could imagine the princes answer clearly enough.
“Was there something else I could do for you, your Highness?”
The prince hesitated again. “I could make use of a tea helping with a sore throat” he admitted carefully. While Paschal prepared a cup of Chamomile tea, he watched the prince in his peripheral vision. Prince Laurent swept the room with his gaze as if he were evaluating its tidiness. Perhaps he did. Paschal observed the absent movement of one hand to his tightly laced-up throat.
“Your Highness if you are in pain, it would be better if I-“
“No.” Instantly the prince dropped his hand back to his side. He accepted the cup of tea, obviously preparing to leave as fast as possible. For the third time this evening the prince hesitated. Paschal waited patiently, not naïve enough anymore to expect a sudden change of heart.
“Paschal?” the prince asked. He sounded uncharacteristically reluctant.
“Yes, your Highness?” The prince did not turn to face him when he spoke. “Have you ever heard of an illness that causes the patient to cough up flowers?”
“I- What?” Paschal asked very eloquently. “Your Highness I must have misheard. Did you mean-“
“Forget it.” The voice of the prince cut him off. Back to his usual cold self, there was no room left for arguing. Without another word the prince left and disappeared in the darkness of night.
---
It began with a tingling in his throat. And - strictly spoken – a horrible strain in his lungs, but that Laurent considered a type of pain he was used to. Stiff muscles, constant headaches, a shortage of breath after escaping nightmares of memories usually buried in the depths of his mind.
All of those were aches he experienced quite commonly, hardships he knew how to deal with. Mainly by ignoring them against all better judgement. But a scratchy throat? The last time Laurent had been truly sick Auguste was still alive to wrap him in soft scarfs while simultaneously forcing him to drink inhume amounts of disgusting hot tea. He had suffered from a cough so bad the whole palace staff flinched in sympathy and avoided his rooms at all costs. But Auguste hadn`t cared.
Quickly Laurent pushed the bittersweet memory back to where it belonged. There was no time for wallowing in self-pity. He was not falling ill. He could not fall ill. He did not allow his body to fall ill.
But the scratching in his throat seemed unimpressed by Laurent´s internal workings. It did not go away after several cups of water. Not after slurping a whole ration of the questionable looking hot broth Lazar had produced for dinner. Not after several days of ignoring the urge to scratch open his throat until there was blood under his fingernails.
The pain stayed like an irritating constant background noise in his head that Laurent could not ignore, regardless of how much he tried.
The men took notice of his sour mood but did not question it further then remarking on how unbelievable it was to them that his verbal abrasions could still grow more vicious than the previous day. (Did they really think he could not hear them? Some men’s stupidity baffled Laurent time and time again.)
Only the Barbarian turned out to be an annoyingly good observer. “You drink a lot of water tonight,” he remarked that first night during their customary meeting when Laurent ordered for the pitcher to be refilled yet again.
“You seem even more stiff today than usual” he continued later while disrobing him.
“Are you sure you do not want to send for Paschal?” he asked the next day when Laurent ordered for him to bring the bowl of Lazar´s soup to his tent.
“Why should I?” he answered, daring the slave to point out his shallow breathing or pale face or heavy swallowing or whatever else made him fixate Laurent with that troubled look as if he was a broken piece of furniture. But to Laurent´s surprise the slave recognised the sharp dismissal in his voice for what it was. He did not address Laurent´s physical state again.
Only the look in his eyes remained. An expression Laurent could not find a word for except perhaps … worry? No, that could not be. He felt heat rise in his cheeks when he lifted his gaze to find the Barbarian still looking at him with that frowning face, somehow completely unaware of having been caught. Laurent quickly busied himself with the paperwork in front of him.
Several days later his condition had not improved. It had worsened if he was being honest. Swallowing became more and more of an ordeal with every passing day. The pressure in his lungs remained and despite of his denial he had begun to cough. Somehow Laurent had managed to not be heard by anyone yet, only giving in to the urge when he worked alone in his tent.
On the evening of the following day he found the first petals.
They appeared during a particularly heavy coughing fit he allowed himself after having found a moment of solace in the dense forest surrounding their camp. He no longer consciously paid mind to the stuffiness in his throat and did not regard the sudden weight on his tongue as something overly unusual until he attempted to spit out what was bothering him.
Three delicate white flower petals slowly sailed towards the ground.
Laurent blinked. The petals were still there. He tried to remember what he had eaten for dinner but could not come up with an ingredient of his meal that could possibly have petals similar to those laying to his feet.
Laurent groaned. His throat ached. His head and chest throbbed. He had not found sleep in what felt like weeks. Hallucinations were the last thing he was in need of right now.
In the course of the following days Laurent came to several brilliant conclusions. The first one being that the petals were in fact not an illusion produced by his own overly tired mind. It exceeded every ounce of imagination and humour in Laurent´s body, but after the third time the airy white petals spilled from his mouth he had to acknowledge that somehow he seemed to turn into a living flowerbed.
This quite unsettling realisation additionally to the never-ending amount of pain did not improve his mood in the slightest. Somehow, he knew that he was acting irrationally angry, down-right cruel even and that no one profited from a leader not in control of himself. But apparently, he had to be an even more awful person than he thought he was, considering that none of his men seemed to notice anything different about his behaviour.
The slave continued to observe him as if he would drop dead any minute, but Laurent did not dwell in fantasies. He could not afford for anyone to know how weak he was. Since the tender age of 14 Laurent had grown up while learning how to hide away his pain. He reminded himself of whose fault that was. He told himself that in theory nothing of this situation was new to him.
Except for the flowers, whose existence he stubbornly ignored as much as possible. Sparsely but consisting they spilled from his mouth, as easy as lies did from the lips of Veretian courtiers.
Sometimes he managed to directly swallow them back down unnoticed. Additionally, he learned how to inconspicuously keep them squashed under his tongue until he was alone.
A mouth of petals carelessly thrown out after another sleepless night.
He sought Paschal´s advice when the throbbing in his throat finally became too painful and ignored the man’s searching looks afterwards.
A small blossom spit out after the fight against the Vaskian men.
Any advances from the slave trying to confront him about his physical condition cut off with ice-cold determination. Laurent comforted himself with the thought that an aching throat and a few flowers could hardly be considered the biggest problems he had ever faced.
He had everything under control.
Until he had not. Until Ravenel.
---
The warmth of Damen´s body next to him felt unfamiliar yet more comfortable than the softest bedding of silk and down ever could. With his face buried against Damen´s neck Laurent relished in a comfort he had never known before. His mind remained unable to comprehend what he had done tonight. Who he had done it with. How different it had been from anything he ever could have imagined. The memories of lips and hands tracing the lines of his body, that first overwhelming push inside he had anticipated for so much longer than he cared to admit, the need to explore, to react, to cause a reaction himself. Damen´s gentleness had taken him by surprise in comparison to his giant powerful stature. In comparison to Damen´s giant everything, the ache in his lower body reminded him.
He could not deny that he had never felt what he did right now wrapped in Damen´s arms. All of it, all of this, simply was too good to be true. Even though half of Laurent´s mind had been occupied with not spilling any flowers into Damen´s mouth every time they kissed.
After the first round he had pushed Damen´s attempt at a last kiss away. The moment Laurent reached the bathroom he grabbed the nearest empty cup and a handful of pinkish petals spiralled down on the wooden surface. More than the last time. But tonight, he could not bring himself to care. He put down the cup, grabbed a cloth to towel down and stepped back into the bedroom with an enthusiasm he did not recognise from himself.
---
Even with Laurent´s body nestled into his arms, the physical contact a constant reminder of what he had been gifted, Damen could not believe what had happened. That he would not wake up on his slave pallet any moment now to realise that all of this had been nothing but a wonderful longing dream.
Unlike the beautiful man next to him Damen did not dare to close his eyes. How he could have lived without this until now was beyond him. He could not lose this again. He could not have this for only one night.
Laurent moved in this arm. A sudden stiffening of muscles as he tried to stifle what must have been a coughing fit. Dame frowned. He gently pushed a strand of golden hair out of Laurent´s face.
Damen was not dumb. Laurent might not be the spoiled untrained princeling Damen had first belied him to be, but it was undeniable that his health had suffered in the last month. Damen had noticed his breath growing more laboured with every passing day of physical exertion. And what both of them had -gloriously- done only minutes ago definitely fell in that same category as well.
Worry flooded Damen´s mind. Had he overestimated Laurent´s endurance?
“How are you feeling?” he asked softly. He knew how deeply Laurent disliked to be reminded of the boundaries of his physical performance. But he had to know.
Laurent groaned in response. “Fucked-out?” he suggested sleepily, the crude choice of words making Damen laugh against his will. Still.
“I did not mean that. I meant…” gently he traced his fingertips across Laurent´s throat. How much he would love to kiss it again. If only Laurent did not seem to hurt so much in that exact place.
Laurent had gone stiff again. “Don´t.” He spoke quiet but the threatening tone of his voice could not be overheard. Don´t touch me there. Don´t ask any more questions.
“Is it Asthma?”
In response Laurent groaned again, now unmistakably annoyed.
“Shortage of breath, coughing, pressure in your chest?” Damen listed the symptoms an Akielon physician had once warned him to look out for in his men. The arrogance of youth often caused men to push themselves to a performance similar to those of their fellow soldiers even if the physique of their body would not allow them to uphold it. A dead soldier was of less use than a physical limited soldier.
“There is no shame in recognising your bodies limits,” Damen continued “it is never wise to ignore your bodies signs of unwellness. You can hardly win a fight when you are constantly fighting yourself.” When had he started to sound like one of his very own teachers he had despised while growing up?
“You expect me to listen to a man who insisted on being fine the day after his whole back was whipped to pieces?”
Memories of pain flooded Damen´s mind without mercy. He had to close his eyes to forcefully push them down again, away from this moment, Laurent´s warm body pressed to his side. Snakes were always most vicious when cornered.
“Did you know that in Akielos Asthma is known as the flower illness?” he murmured absently in a last attempt to not simply let the matter rest.
“Why?” Laurent had stiffened again. He sounded wide awake now. Damen blinked in surprise. Then he began to talk.
“Based on an old Artesian myth,” he recounted, “Akielons used to believe that every human life depends on our ability to give and receive love as much as on our ability to fight. It was said that if a person had to suffer from a life devoid of being loved for a long enough time, their own love they were not able to give away would begin to accumulate inside their very own body manifested in the form of a beautiful flower, the Hanahaki. Its name stems from an old language long forgotten. The Hanahaki would grow inside the Unloveds chest always striving to break out of the body that holds it captive. Those people in whose chest such a flower began to bloom, were said to bleed or breath out its flower petals as a way of releasing the love inside their body to the outside world. In several renditions of the tale it was stated that an Hanahaki will only begin to grow when an unloved person has found their way to finally love somebody. However, if their love is not met with reciprocated feelings and the unloved gets rejected again, the flower will keep on growing until its roots tear apart the poor mans chest and crush his heart into two. Consumed by love with no place to go, not requited by anyone.”
Laurent stayed quiet when Damen had finished talking. Perhaps he finally had fallen asleep. Damen could not remember the last time he had told someone a good night tale. Even if this had not been supposed to be one. “Goodnight” he whispered. Damen softly pressed his lips on Laurent´s cheek before laying his own head down on the soft pillows and welcoming the numbness of sleep.
The moment Damen´s lips touched his cheek a wholly new kind of pain exploded somewhere deep inside Laurent´s chest. The bud of a flower slowly beginning to open, sending a new wave of pain through his body with every agonising passing second. Roots digging deeper and deeper into places they were not supposed to be. Laurent felt a petal shaped lump in the back of his throat but could not find the strength to swallow it down again.
How could he have fallen in love with Damen of all people?
But what did I matter. Honourable and principled as Damen was, he surely did not love him back.
And he never would.
I wonder if he dreams of surrender on a bed of white flowers.
---
“Hello lover.”
Laurent would never understand how even covered in blood, stinking of death and violence, the Barbarian still manged to look attractive.
“Charcy is won.” Of course it was. Just like Laurent had suspected stuck in that dirty cell.
“I thought it would be.” He could see the barely restrained rage in Damianos eyes.
“Your men think you’re a coward. Nikandros thinks that you deceived us. That you sent us to Charcy, and left us there to die by your uncle’s sword.”
“And is that what you think?” said Laurent.
“No.” Damen said, “Nikandros doesn’t know you.”
„And you do.“ Laurent forced himself to stay still when the Barbarian approached him. Close and closer until he stretched out his hand and clasped Laurent´s injured shoulder. Pain shot through Laurent´s body when he felt the newly bandaged wound starting to bleed again.
When had he become so easy to see through? Perhaps, Laurent thought, Damianos was not the only fool in this tent, still believing that Laurent had not recognised who he was. How surprised he looked when Laurent revealed the truth. How unconcealed hurt and denial danced across his face as this ordeal of a negotiation continued.
“Do you want to play this game against me? I will take you apart.”
Laurent would do anything to prevent Damianos from ever finding out the whole truth. Finding out about the flowers. There was no justification for whatever it was that he felt towards the very man who killed his brother.
Delpha for a traitor´s life. Both of them knew what a paltry agreement it was.
By the time he dismissed Damianos and the guards in front of his tent the pain in his shoulder paled next to the breath-taking throbbing in his lungs. He stepped towards the small wooden table in the corner to search for a cup of water. After three steps the world went black. Laurent went to his knees and began to cough for such a long time, he was sure he could never breath again. Petals upon petals spilled from his lips, no longer of white but a deeply red. Blood.
His ribcage thrummed as if it would burst open any moment, roots breaking through skin and flesh. He coughed and coughed until he no longer knew where up was and where down. Finally, his mind went numb.
When Laurent woke up again, he was laying on the floor. His throat felt as if it was on fire. Something wet was trickling down his chin. When he tried to wipe it away, the back of his hand came back dripping with red. Petals. There were still petals in his mouth. Laurent traced their mushed shape with his tongue until he encountered another object, sharp and stinging.
With great effort Laurent pushed himself up on his knees and spit out the remaining flower parts. He watched the fall of a handful of red coloured dots towards the ground before trying to examine his prickly harasser. Torn off and bloodied but still sharp. A thorn.
It was in that exact moment that Laurent fully realised that he was dying.
Surprisingly, the acceptance of his fate improved Laurent´s condition like nothing else had been able to in the last months. Even though the throbbing pain stayed the same it was as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders, he had not been aware of he was carrying.
There were several political aims whose accomplishing needed to be ensured. But after that he would be free. His uncle would be beaten. Damianos could be King again. That was what Laurent owed to him.
Laurent played his role as the ice-cold King of Vere and he played it perfectly. If he noticed Damianos longing gaze on him, he ignored it. When the cold metal of the Iron cuff froze the blood inside his body up to his heart, he hid it. Laurent began to relish in every negative feeling as long as it was able to make him feel anything but the lightheaded carelessness his approaching death had inflicted on him. He rarely spilled flowers anymore, but if he did, they were deep red and plenty, glued together by viscous blood.
Laurent strictly forbid himself to dwell on the irony of his situation as he faced the Akielon day after day again.
It was not until the Okton that Laurent Laurent spit out a thorn again. How he had managed to perform this physical feast of strength at all remained a miracle to himself. He nearly choked on a cluster of petals in his throat during his duel with Damianos, who luckily did not notice in the rush of the fight.
When they found Jokaste Laurent swallowed the urge to let out a laugh so hysterical his men finally would have started to question their King´s mental wellbeing. Blonde, blue-eyed and cunning – a mirror image of Laurent in every aspect, with the added advantage of female curves whose lack on Laurent´s own body Damianos probably mourned greatly. When Damianos kissed him that night he was aware of what was happening, that to him Laurent was nothing but a treasured distraction from emotions buried inside a man´s heart too deep for too long. He did not doubt that Damianos appreciated him in a way a man appreciated a pretty body and a hard not won friend. But love was hardly a title this deserved.
Yet he did not attempt fighting the will to roll over on his stomach and let Damianos numb both of them of their pain for a little while longer. The thorns boring inside his chest heavily protested the pressure hosted upon them. If Laurent´s moans that night were filled with pain as much as with pleasure nobody took notice of it.
It was harder to hide the spilled petals during their travel towards the Kingsmeet but Laurent considered himself to be a quick adapter to hindering circumstances. The gentle attention Damen bestowed upon him made every suffering worth it, as much as Laurent struggled with mentally admitting this conclusion to be right. Damen, who still believed him to be in frail physical condition due to Asthma, made a point of relieving Laurent of tasks in need demonstration of physical strength. To the dismay of the Akielon soldiers who did not enjoy seeing their Exalted King reduced to mundane activities such as carrying luggage. Especially the Kyros called Nikandros eyed Laurent under the constant presence of distrust in his face. Whenever Laurent ordered Damen to fill up his cup again or send Damen to retrieve or carry something for him, the Kyros forehead crinkled in a way that made him look like he was experiencing severe stomach pain. Laurent very much enjoyed causing this certain expression on Nikandros´ face as often as possible.
Laurent knew that nothing of this was supposed to be permanent. But for the first time in weeks he felt bubbly joy rise up in his chest from time to time, a feeling he had long forgotten until Nesson-Ellay. As Laurent took comfort in Damen´s body lying to him in the inn´s bed, he wondered if Damen´s feelings towards him came close to the true kind of love, the one that was able to wilt even the most persisting flower growing in a man´s chest.
Laurent had known that sacrificing his live at the end of their journey was inevitable. Still, he mourned a life he would never be able to witness. “I would have courted you like you deserve,” Damianos had once said. I would have too, Lauren thought. Perhaps we could be lovers in another life.
Even after all these years of psychological torment and abuse his uncle´s cruelness still surprised him.
“He knelt for me.” Maybe Damen had always known deep down that Laurent was damaged and unworthy of his affection. But when Laurent lifted his head, it was not him Damen looked at with disgust. Damen charged at the regent with so much unconcealed rage in his body that for a moment Laurent almost believed he could win.
---
Laurent was not surprised to regain conscious in a cell, surrounded by more bloodied petals than he would have thought possible to fit inside his lungs. Breathing grew harder with every passing hour. Perhaps beheading was a death more merciful than slowly suffocating on flower petals. Laurent could not find a noteworthy amount of comfort in that thought.
When the guards came to walk him to the trial, he noticed how uncomfortable they were standing close to him. They probably had heard him cough up his lungs in the previous restless night and feared to be infected with the illness that had befallen him. Perhaps this was what had saved him from spending the night in more unpleasant company than just his own. Laurent knew that he would die today, convicted or not. But he would not give his uncle the satisfaction to see him begging on his knees one more time.
---
Kastor fought with the force of a man who had not spend the last night of his life on the hard floor of a dirty cell without food and water, but he was no match for Laurent´s utter desperation. Kastor wanted to stay alive. Laurent solely fought to kill. He didn´t care about what damage he had to take. Saving Damen was the only thing that mattered now. He still had not fully comprehended that Damen was here, that he had come, for Laurent. Of all the people Laurent could have fallen in love with, he had chosen an idiot.
Laurent knew that his time was counted yet he ignored the darkness that began to spread at the corners of his field of vision just like the dizziness in his mind. The feint was a last desperate attempt to regain control of the situation. And it worked.
Kastor´s body met the floor with a loud thump. Laurent´s sword clattered down right next to it. The world was turning.
“Laurent!” Damen´s voice broke through the fog in his mind. He stumbled over to where Damen was desperately pulling on the chain Laurent had tied him to. Laurent sunk to his knees. There was so much blood. He pressed his hands on Damen´s wound and tried not to pass out by sheer willpower alone until someone would find them. There was blood now filling up Laurent´s mouth as well. Damen´s eyes widened almost comically when he spit it out. It did not lessen the lump in his throat that made breathing so incredible hard. Laurent was tired. His heart was pulsing in painful throbs. The fight with the older Akielon had taken the last bit of strength remaining in his body. Damen, who was keen on bleeding out it seemed, struggled against his grip. “Laurent you are-“
Laurent clamped a hand over his mouth. There was something he needed to say before talking became entirely impossible. “I love you, you fool.” He rasped out with as much fondness as possible. Now do me the favour and stay alive, would you? Damianos stilled. A coughing fit forced Laurent to take his hand away from Damen´s mouth. Damen grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him downwards to bring their faces further together.
“I love you too,” Damen said, voice full of despair, “please don´t leave me. I can´t lose you too.”
Laurent´s body gave out. He heard Damen groan when he collapsed on top of him and his name being shouted over and over. The pressure inside his chest swell on until it became nearly unbearable. Laurent pushed himself off Damen so forcefully he heard his head hit the cold stone floor with a painful sound. Not a second too late before Laurent began to nearly cough up his internal organs once again. The petals in his throat had loosened, spilling from his lips in masses. Thorns and roots shrinked and shrivelled in his chest, leaving a dull ache where they had torn into his flesh for weeks.
It took what felt like ages before Laurent was able to gasp for air again. The first deep breath inside his lungs, a luxury not afforded to him for way too long. He was surrounded a piles and piles of brown petals, leaves and thorns, wilted now and dried out. Finally, Laurent lifted his head. Damen stared at him bewildered, mouth open in disbelief. He looked at Laurent´s face, down to the flowers at his feet, up at his face again.
“Laurent? I- are you-“
“Shhhhh,” Laurent hissed while pushing himself towards Damianos and pulling his head in a soft embrace. “Stop talking now, would you?”
Damen blinked. “I thought you- I hit my head, I must have-“
Laurent scolded him again but felt fondness dwelling up inside of him. Damen loved him. The brush of their bloodied lips could hardly be called a kiss, but it felt as passionate as the reunion of two lovers separated for too long. Damen loved him. A love confession. Laurent of all people should have known how much power words held. Damen loved him.
“How lucky we are that you brought a physician with you,” Laurent murmured. Damen stifled a laugh.
“I killed your brother.”
“I know.” An understanding passed between them now that hadn´t been there before. Both of them left with no family but each other now.
Laurent said, “Our men have the gates and the halls. Ios is yours.”
“And you,” said Damen. “With your uncle gone, there won’t be resistance. You have Vere.”
Laurent felt himself go still, and the moment seemed to draw out, the space between them private in the hushed baths. He had imagined the moment of triumph over his uncle countless times. But never had he believed to actually achieve it. Especially not like this.
“And the centre. We both hold the centre,” Laurent said. And then: “It was one kingdom, once.”
Laurent avoided Damen´s gaze when he said it, the fear of rejection still fresh in his mind. It was a long moment before he lifted his eyes to Damen’s waiting ones. He had understood what Laurent had really asked.
“Yes,”said Damen, voice full of an emotion Laurent had never heard from him in such an extent.
Laurent felt his own face lighten up. “No, don’t move,” he said, when Damen pushed up onto an elbow, and then, “Idiot,” when Damen kissed him.
He pushed Damen firmly back. Damen obeyed for once. He lifted his fingers to touch Laurent’s face. Iron links dragged over marble.
‘You know, you’re going to have to unchain me at some point,’ said Damen. His fingers now buried in Laurent´s hair.
‘I will. At some point. What’s that sound?’
He could hear it even in the slave baths, muffled but audible, the sound ringing out from the highest peak, a peal of notes, proclaiming a new king.
‘Bells,’ said Damen.