Chapter Text
The blond King of Vere, Auguste, sits tall and fearless on his white horse, regal and ready to lead the charge of the army of soldiers on the opposite side of the field.
The stories of his bravery are almost legendary; captaining his own men at the tender age of twenty-five, taking command of the Veretian army right after his father was killed by a stray arrow in the heat of battle, the tales reach even Akielos.
His rumored stamina was legendary, too. Damen had heard that Auguste'd been present and fully involved with all of Vere's strategic meetings and then drilling the Veretian army for hours upon hours in the unwavering heat of the Marlas. Even as the sun pinked and irritated the pale Veretian skin accustomed to weathering the cold, harsh winters of the North rather than the sting of the sun in the South. And even still, Auguste made time to practice formation after formation with his men on horseback until his smooth, aristocratic hands hardened with rough calluses-- just so his men would be prepared when the next round of fighting began.
Auguste, unafraid of engaging in fierce, close combat with Damen's own soldiers at a pace so fast, he was nothing but a deadly gold and blue wraith in the middle of the dark green fields, cutting down and making his way through the red liveried Akielon ranks. Auguste, unafraid of anything in the face of the Akielon army pressing down on him and his men.
Damen could admire that. A leader who was willing to help, who was willing to step up and put himself on the frontlines with his people. Maybe they could have been allied Kingdoms, in another life. They once were, after all, and Damen feels, even now, that he could have learnt a thing or two from a mentor like Auguste.
Inhaling, he unsheaths the steel sword at his side. Nikandros, mounted next to him, grips the reins of his war horse tightly. Waiting for his command. Damen can feel the tension, almost tangible enough that it could be cut with a knife, and the anticipation building in the air on both sides. These men had been holding back from spilling enemy blood for the last few months, although the war had been raging on for days without pause for reprieve. Now that the scale tipped, the armies were not going to stop unless someone called a halt.
No matter how disciplined they are, no matter how well trained they are to drop their swords at a mere gesture from their King; bloodthirsty men are always the most dangerous and unpredictable type of men. They couldn't be controlled. There was no way of telling how they would react to a halt.
And it was very clear that neither King was willing to sacrifice their pride to do that.
He'd heard rumours that Auguste hadn't even taken the time to mourn the fallen King Aleron, so intense and relentless was the fighting.
A neighing horse breaks the silence around them. Damen looks across the field to see Auguste gripping his reins tightly, riding out steadily, and alone.
His chest plate shines under the sun, but his weapon remains sheathed at his side. He looks like a picture right out of one of those stories Damen's tutors used to tell him during his childhood; about those golden young heroes and terrible, avenging gods, riding to glory, riding to prove their worth in battle.
"What--" Nikandros begins, eyes squinting forward, looking at Auguste.
"Hold," Damen commands softly. "Don't move. It would not bode well if we accidentally harm an unarmed King."
He could tell that none of the men around him liked the order, but they hold at his command, watching the golden King approach.
"Damianos Exalted, our Brother of Akielos," the King of Vere calls out, in fluent Akielon, once he is in speaking distance, "I wish to formally call for parley, as is our right. Let us discuss terms and let diplomacy prevail over war. Let us take a different path from our fathers.”
"Exalted," says Makedon, one of his father's top generals. His voice and eyes are harsh as he looks at Damen. "What are your orders?"
"Keep holding,” Damen nods, gripping his own reins, “I’m going to speak to him.”
“Exalted,” Nikandros splutters, his brown eyes wide with astonishment as Damen spurs his horse into a steady trot ahead. His shock does not keep him from spurring his own horse into pace beside Damen.
“If there’s another way to end this conflict without spilling blood, I’m willing to hear it,” Damen says, continuing to urge his stallion forward and ignoring the protests of his men. Nikandros calls them to order, to tightly maintain their holding positions.
Damen stops only five paces away from the King of Vere. His helmet sits in front of his saddle, giving Damen a full view of his fine features and sharp, elegant cheekbones. Up close, he can see how tired the young King looks, and the dark shadows under his cool, piercing blue eyes, despite the awareness of his surroundings.
It's not easy carrying the weight and legacy of a war on your shoulders, Damen knows this well. He sees the effects of it first hand when he looks at his reflection in the glass. When he closes his eyes at night, unable to sleep, when he hears the pain-laden screams of his citizens, bleeding out, echoing in the fields around him.
There is a pregnant, heavy pause between them before Auguste starts to speak.
“If you would join me in my tent,” he says, hesitantly. The Veretian accent adds a soft, lyrical twist to the harsh Akielon syllables. “We can negotiate freely there. With your advisors, of course.”
Damen knew that it could be a trap-- a play to get him away from his soldiers. But Damen also knew that Auguste called the halt first. Damen believes he would not have done that if he genuinely did not want to stop the fighting. He owes Auguste the benefit of the doubt.
“Very well,” he concedes, “When do you propose we meet?”
“Within the half hour? I will escort you back to my camp myself,” Auguste says.
“A half hour,” Damen agrees, already mentally planning who he would have by his side. Nikandros and Makedon, definitely. Perhaps Heston, one of his father’s oldest and closest advisors. "If this is a trap--"
Auguste makes a frustrated sound but composes himself before speaking. Damen can hear the quiet, firm determination in his voice. "How many more Akielon and Veretian brothers and sons must be needlessly lost? Which one of us has to return to our people, has to return to our family , body wrapped in a shroud, before we realize that this war is not worth the cost? This is not a trap, Exalted. I swear to you on my word as King of Vere, it is not."
****
“What does he want?” Nikandros asks once he gets back to the hill, where the rest of the Akielons are stationed.
“They wish to parley. We have half an hour to meet King Auguste. He’ll escort us back to the Veretian side himself,” Damen says.
“It’s a trap, Exalted," Makedon snarls.
“There’s something different about King Auguste,” Damen disagrees, shaking his head, “He’s not like his father. He prefers diplomacy.”
“I don’t trust them,” Makedon hisses, “Your father went to his grave not trusting them. He never trusted them. And neither will I. My men and I notch our belts for a reason.”
Damen fixes his general with a steady look and says, firmly, “This isn’t up for discussion. You will be accompanying me, Makedon, and we will hear what King Auguste has to say.”
Fierce brown gazes hold each other until Makedon breaks, sighing, “Yes, Exalted.”
Good, Damen thinks, I can’t tolerate indiscipline on the field, not even from Makedon.
Damen uses his remaining time to put together a makeshift council. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Auguste approaching the center of the field on his mare.
At his instruction, he and the men ride out to meet him. Auguste takes the lead, escorting them back to his camp, Veretian soldiers flanking their sides. Damen leaves Straton, one of Nikandros' best bannermen, at the head of the army. If none of the Akielons come back after two hours have passed, Straton has orders to lead a charge against the Veretians.
Once they reach the borders of the Veretian camp, the soldiers eye their procession with scorn and distrust; it’s a look that's returned twofold by the Akielons. But, nobody touches them. Nobody draws their weapons. The men trust their Golden King--Damen is happy to see some of the stories proved true.
Auguste's tent is a large, circular field command tent; white, with his personal standard-- a blue flag with a gold starburst-- flying as pennants. Several advisors are already waiting for their delegation inside, seated at a makeshift war table, as Auguste draws the flap back and leads Damen in.
"The Veretians wish for peace," he says in Akielon. It’s a careful, diplomatic move. "Damianos Exalted, tell us the demands of the Akielons to end this bloodshed, so that we may begin negotiations."
"Akielos demands Delpha," Damen says, without hesitation. "Which was rightfully brought to us by Eradne, Queen of the Six, and lost by King Euandros. Delpha begins and ends with Akielos."
"And what if Vere accedes to your demand? What would we get in return?" Auguste asks.
A man swathed in red velvet and chains of office from head to toe, clearing his throat softly and opens his mouth to speak. Damen very much wanted to point out how impractical it was to be wearing all that velvet in the sticky heat, but wisely holds his tongue.
"Lord Chastillon," Aguste says, without turning around, "You are here merely as a courtesy to Our late Father. You are not a part of my Council. You do not have my leave to speak."
Everyone knew who the Lord of Chastillon was. It was a title specially created for King Aleron's younger brother by their father when he was King. Upon looking at him more closely, Damen can tell that he's attractive, even at his age. His shoulders stand proud and broad. His face is cleanly shaven. Whereas the King of Vere is blonde, mostly due to his mother's Kemptian heritage Damen assumes, Lord Chastillon's dark hair is full and thick with just the beginnings of small, greying streaks at the front and around his ear. His jaw doesn't have the same graceful slope as his nephew, and the only familial feature they seem to share are their piercing blue eyes. His presence is commanding though; powerful-- the same kind of aura carried around by his late brother. And not at all what it should be here, as a family member to his King, Auguste.
He closes his mouth, jaw set, and Damen can see the cold, burning anger, the embarrassment, behind his eyes.
"The Veretian citizens in occupation on the border will be left alone of course," Damen says after it is clear Lord Chastillon will remain silent, "But we would demand remuneration for previous years of unsanctioned Veretian rule. We would also not be opposed to opening trading routes, subject to tolls, between Akielos and Vere, which may open new opportunities for our nations in the neighbouring Kingdoms of Patras, Kempt and Vask."
“You are aware that Vere no longer has a standing alliance with Kempt, yes?” Auguste asks, “That expired before our mother’s body took the cold chill of death. They took offense to my father burying their youngest Princess in a Veretian crypt; they may take offence to another alliance of any kind with Vere."
“Then, what does Vere want?” Damen asks.
Auguste pauses then, and turns to look at the men around him.
“Leave us,” he says after a moment, “All of you, except Herode and Laurent.”
Several loud protests of, "Your Majesty!" echo around the tent, and Auguste repeats his initial order, tone brooking no argument. The men slowly leave the tent, clearly hesitant to leave their King alone with the enemy, but they leave nonetheless. After they are gone, a scoff catches Damen’s ear before the words do.
"This is extremely stupid of you, brother," a soft voice says from the corner of the tent, approaching the circular table slowly, "Do you trust the barbarians enough to be left alone with their leader?"
A small smile flitters across Auguste’s face.
“You worry too much, little brother,” Auguste says, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder, "He won't harm me."
Damen looks at the boy for the first time and his face is not one Damen’s likely to forget soon. He has long, blonde hair that's pulled back in a tight braid. It falls down his back in typical Veretian style, like he'd seen on some of the younger soldiers. He’s laced into a severe blue outfit, a sword of sharp steel sheathed at his side, a heavy metal plate strapped across his chest and thick leather doublets laced up his wrists. His shoulders are small and thin, much like the rest of his body.
He can't be older than fourteen or fifteen, and Damen can tell that in adulthood, he would gain a decent size if he practiced at the sword, but would likely keep his slender, svelte shape.
What stands out, even more than his hair, are his piercing blue eyes. They are a brighter blue than Auguste’s, framed by sharply arched blonde eyebrows, and equally as blonde, inkstroke lashes. There was a certain cold, cruel intelligence in his eyes which made Damen hesitate. Auguste was a dangerous enemy, but he felt that Laurent would be absolutely lethal if crossed, even at his young age.
"Exalted, allow me to introduce my brother, Prince Laurent of Vere," Auguste says.
"And Acquitart," the boy, Laurent, mutters.
"And Acquitart," Auguste adds briefly, allowing a small, affectionate smile for his brother, before returning to the discussion.
Damen says nothing, observing them, and waits patiently for Auguste to continue.
"I wish to accede to Akielos' demands, for I see no reason to continue with this pointless war for a land that was never truly ours. However, in order to do so, I must appease my Council. I need an alliance of substance. The lifetime of a written alliance is flighty and unforeseeable," he says.
Damen nods; he had read enough histories of past alliances between Akielos and Vere to know how true those words ring.
"If any of us had any women within our families, it is more than likely that there would already be discussion of terms for a marriage," Auguste continues, "And even though we do not, that is what I want in return. I want an alliance founded on marriage, something to forge an even stronger bond between our Kingdoms that will last long after either of our deaths."
Damen did his best to conceal his confusion from his face, but he can hear it still in his words. "Surely, you don't mean for me to marry you ?"
Auguste laughs, a soft, musical sound at odds with his deep voice. It somehow suits him.
"No, Exalted. A marriage between you and myself would not work because we are both Kings in our own right. The power between us would not be split evenly. And if there are children, they would be born illegitimate, outside the constraints of a marital bed. The Veretians would not take too kindly to an.... illegitimate ascending our throne," he explains, sorrowfully, as if that were a true inconvenience, "But, I want you to consider the benefits of a union between yourself and my brother."
Damen steps back, stunned. Next to him, Makedon and Heston make shocked sounds.
The other Veretian, Herode Damen recalls, stands there quietly, saying nothing. The look of pride in his eyes speaks volumes. Auguste clearly must have spoken to him about his mad plan before their parley and he clearly must have given his approval.
"Your brother is not of marriageable age," he splutters, in a very unkingly manner, "I will not wed somebody who is still practically a child ."
“He will be of age in six years' time,” Auguste retorts calmly. "We can prolong the engagement period until Laurent is of age. The time will also serve to show that we are serious about our alliance. Laurent will receive all appropriate tutelage as befitting for a role of King consort. "
"Six years is a long time for an engagement," Damen says, not entirely agreeing with Auguste’s belief the length of time would be beneficial. He then turns his attention to the younger Prince of Vere, "Even so, do you consent to this? Marriage to me, a barbarian ?"
Prince Laurent inhales, looking as though he wants to say something sarcastic. Or inappropriate. Perhaps both.
"I am a Prince of Vere," he says, slowly, words taking Damen by surprise, "Which means, first and foremost, I belong to Vere before I belong to myself. All my choices must be made to benefit my people, my country, to which I have sworn my loyalty, with the approval of my brother, the King. I will consent to this marriage, if it is what needs to be done."
"How noble, for a little Veretian serpent," Makedon sneers in thick, old Akielon dialect, and Damen hears a soft blow land behind him and Makedon says nothing further.
It takes great effort not to curve his features into a smile.
"Heston, Nikandros, Makedon," Damen says, "And the rest of you, my Council, may leave. I feel this is business that should be negotiated between Kings only."
Nikandros looks at him with a subtle level of concern before he and the rest of the Akielons awkwardly shuffle out the tent.
"I wish there was another way, but this is the only way I can ensure my brother and Vere are protected, if anything were to happen to me. Surely as a King yourself, Exalted, you understand my plight. There will always be a plot against my life," Auguste says, quietly, "I could arrange a marriage to a noble in Patras or Vask, but they are not military countries. Not like Akielos is."
"You've seen the members of my Council," Auguste adds, after a telling pause.
Damen had. He saw the way Lord Chastillon looked at Auguste, the cold rage, the greed and underlying coils of envy swimming in his eyes. Looks like that could push men into committing the dangerous acts, treason and uprisings included.
The other Kingdoms don't have the capacity to subdue Veretians, like the Akielon army could , remains implied between them.
And the implication was true. Akielos could easily subdue Vere during an uprising, until there was a leader or heir to take control.
"Your Majesty," he says carefully, "Even if we both were to consent to this, even if it would work, in the event that something happens to you, any child of mine or your brother's born to the marriage would not be eligible for either throne. You said so yourself. And the Akielons would not take too lightly a Veretian heir making a claim to Akielos."
"I have no interest in children," Laurent suddenly says, "I have no interest in the fairer sex and therefore, no interest in procreation. Any children born to the marriage would belong to you. They would have sole claim to the Akielon throne only. I shall handle the appointment of a Veretian heir, should it come to that. We can make this a condition of the alliance."
"And the underlying hostility between our people?" Damen asks.
"We will facilitate an exchange of citizens every year in the summer to begin the assimilation and tolerance of cultures. These citizens will be hand picked by you and I from a nomination list, and will range anywhere between commoners to palace workers," Auguste says, "I will agree to give up Delfeur, ah Delpha , without issue. All I ask for in return is a solidified marriage alliance that will no doubt benefit both countries in the long run and protect my brother. I'm sure we can work out an arrangement for open trade between the countries of the continent. Laurent has already consented to the marriage. Will you do the same?"
Damen considers it. From the perspective of the brother of higher rank, he understands where Auguste is coming from. He would do the same for Kastor, if the roles were reversed.
"Alright," Damen says, "You'll have a marriage contract presented for your perusal at dawn tomorrow, your Majesty."
"Please," Auguste says in a pleased tone with a wide smile, extending his right hand, "Call me Auguste. We are to be family, after all."