A/N: Sorry I'm so late in updating, everyone. This chapter is... a bit frustrating. A bit wordy, I'm afraid, and I'm sorry for that. I hope you like it anyway! Please leave a review if you get the chance!

Chapter 3

"My King, please. If you would only wait but a moment."

Damen didn't wait. There were no pressing concerns. He longed to leave for Delpha, but he wouldn't have made the trip unless he was sure he could afford the few days ride there and back again. His city could survive without him for that long. Why, it had done just that on multiple occasions over the past years, and at times for even longer.

Shaking his head, Damen spared a glance for the cluster of frowning advisors, for his guards who pursed their lips and clucked their tongues in their confusion. They didn't understand. None of them would understand. Damen wasn't even sure he understood himself.

"I apologise," he said with a slight tip of his head. "I won't be gone long. But there's something I must know."

Leonidas, a recently appointed councillor who hadn't dealt with Damen's stubbornness for quite as long as the rest of them, stepped forwards. "Surely the Oracle of Delpha's gifts of wisdom should be reserved for more, ah…" He paused, wafting his hand in the air for a moment as though grasping for a thought, "necessary?"

Damen arched an eyebrow, and though Leonidas – and all the councillors, for that matter – were men-at-arms themselves, were veterans of war as every leader should be, they each cringed slightly. "Necessary?"

Leonidas blinked. "I apologise, I misspoke –"

"The King of Vere and our country itself are not deemed necessary in your eyes?"

"I didn't mean –"

"No, I don't believe you did," Damen interrupted him again. "For even you wouldn't be so foolish as to consider it. Vere and Akielos are tied, Leonidas. If you have any consideration for myself as your king, then equal consideration is to be given to King Laurent."

Leonidas appeared thoroughly chastised, just as each of the rest of the councillors did. Not that they were – or at least not to the degree that Damen was. That he felt. He would never not feel guilty for a past he couldn't change.

But even so, Damen had to know. He had to know the alternative so he could face Laurent without the veil of ignorance. Or, if not without ignorance, then at least with the purest understanding of his errors that he could attain.

Years ago, Damen had been prepared to give up his country for Laurent, and his life on top of that. He knew that, even now, that much had and never would change.

Laurent had turned nineteen by the time the treaty was finalised.

Damen had grown to measure time passing by Laurent's age rather than his own, even above such measurements of the passing years. He was at odds each time he looked in the mirror and beheld himself as younger than he knew he was, and the passing of days and weeks and hours and seconds was so haphazard as to be unreliable.

Damen didn't know what to make of that. He didn't know what to make of any of it. He simply fought with his every breath to change the wrongs that had been wrought not by his hand this time but by his brother's. His brother – and the ever-present will of the Regent.

The finalisation was held in Marlas. The irony was not lost on a single person, and Damen couldn't suppress the slight wince he experienced when Theomedes informed him as to the location of their meeting. At the height of spring, a symbolic time of renewal and rebirth, Damen set out alongside his father, his brother, and half the population of Ios in tow for the number of slaves and attendants the courtiers deemed necessary to accompany them. They left the city behind them as they ploughed through the blossoming greenery to the north.

Nikandros rode alongside Damen. He had been appointed kyroi of Marlas bare years ago, and had only descended to Ios to accompany the king in his trip towards the fort he now held. Damen had listened as, with more familiarity and casualness than would perhaps be expected of even a close friend to a prince, Nikandros had explained how utterly and nearly impossible it had been to make the preparations for the ceremony.

"You won't believe how much time and energy goes into ensuring that the living quarters and resources are adequate enough for everyone coming," he'd written months before when he'd been already thoroughly embedded in just those preparations. "Thinking about how much needs to be prepared even just for the feast on the night of the signing…"

Damen did know. Of course he knew, and not only because just that ceremony had been conducted under his own kingship in the past. Or future; he wasn't quite sure anymore. He was a prince, and though it wasn't his primary duty to organise such events, he wouldn't shirk his responsibilities and education by leaving such organising entirely in the hands of others. Nikandros knew that. It was likely the primary reason he'd been so jokingly complaining of the fact.

Riding north alongside his friend was the first time Damen had seen him in months. He'd bowed his head in allowance of taking the most recent journey to Chastillon by boat, and the time before that had been a visit of the Veretians to Ios instead. Laurent hadn't come for that one. He hadn't come for a single trip to Akielos, despite the fact that his absence could be considered a slight. That, if nothing else, told Damen that he was far from putting the past behind him. Very far.

Lost in thought, it took hours into their ride for Nikandros to draw him into conversation. Or at least it was likely hours; Damen found he could blink in one moment and find himself in a different location entirely. That happened a lot, and though Damen didn't understand why, he considered it likely had something to do with the strange phenomena in which he found himself embedded. At least he hoped that was what it was, with the past twisted and impressed upon him in an entirely unexpected fashion. Damen couldn't let himself think that what was happening was real, was permanent, even if it did feel very much like it. The life he'd already lived couldn't have just vanished.

Could it?

With a hint of concern in his tone, Nikandros interrupted his thoughts. "Are you alright, Damen?" he asked, deliberately keeping his tone low as though to inhibit potential eavesdroppers.

Damen blinked up from where he'd been staring detachedly ahead of him, eyes grazing over the undulating hills and blossoming life that surrounded them. Spring truly was upon them, had hit fast and warm. Damen had always loved the season.

He turned his attention towards Nikandros, lifting his eyebrows questioningly. "Yes?" he said, more of a question than a reply. "Why?"

Nikandros stared at him for a long moment before he slowly shook his head. "Nothing," he replied. "It's just… you were doing that thing again."

Nikandros was smart. Smart and observant, as he'd always been. He was one of the few who'd noticed that something might not be quite right with Damen – or at least one of the very few who persisted with such speculations. In the past years since Damen's awakening in the battle of Marlas, the years that had passed so disjointedly and haphazardly, Nikandros was the only one who still asked him.

"Doing what thing?" Damen asked obtusely.

Nikandros' frank expression told him he wasn't fooled for a moment. "You know what I'm talking about. I swear, you haven't even seen a second of the countryside since we left Ios, even if you have been staring."

Damen shrugged. "I'm just thinking."

"You do a lot of that."

"Well, it is good for the mind, you know."

Nikandros snorted, drawing Kastor's attention from where he rode just before them. Only momentarily, however, before Kastor turned away once more. Damen's brother wasn't one who'd pursued Damen's 'strangeness' as ardently as Nikandros had. "You sound like a Veretian when you say that, you know. Next thing you know you'll be weaving a web of half-truths around me that tangles me off my feet."

Damen couldn't help but smile for his words, if a little ruefully. Nikandros had said just that on multiple occasions before, and it would always elicit a flicker of amusement within him. It was true, after all. Damen knew he'd hardly been spared from the influence of Veretian exposure in the past, if more in the past he knew than this alternate version of what he was still so unfamiliar. Just as Laurent and his attitude had shifted – if barely noticeably to the naked eye – so too had Damen's. He knew and he liked that fact. It made him feel just a little closer to his real home.

The thought wiped Damen's smile from his face. Such would always happen when he thought of Laurent. He couldn't stop it. All of it, from his failure on the fields of Marlas to his inability to do anything in the year afterwards or any of those since. He'd been all but useless to Laurent. For Vere, he'd made headway, and many would likely thank him for it, but for Laurent?

There was still the Regent. There was still his oppression, the fierce hand he continued to struggle even now to wrap around Laurent's throat. That understanding, no matter how cordial and enabling the Regent seemed in their meetings, made it impossible for Damen to view him with anything less than murderous loathing.

Damen missed Laurent. He missed him dearly, and that fact grew only more profound the more time passed from the reality that he knew, understood and loved. Was this one any better? Akielos and Vere were reaching an accord years younger than they would have otherwise, and the antagonism was dampened because of it, but was it better?

Damen wished he knew. No, he wished he had the courage to acknowledge that it was, wished he believed it was. Akielos benefitted, and even Vere, despite the absence of the hatred that had grown into friendship and then something more between Damen and Laurent. He knew he should think of it as better but…

No. It didn't feel right.

"You're doing it again."

Turning from where his gaze had drawn forwards once more, Damen attempted another smile. "Sorry. Just thinking."

"About?"

"Nothing of great importance."

"Now that I definitely don't believe." Nikandros shook his head with a slight smile of his own. "The Damen I know doesn't think about 'nothing of importance'." He raised an eyebrow and Damen forced a chuckle from his lips. The Damen I know… The Damen Nikandros knew now, maybe. Damen understood himself well enough to know that at least the first time around he hadn't been quite so deep-thinking.

"I'm just thinking about the ceremony," he said, sparing a glance over his shoulder for the long line of attendants and soldiers clattering in their wake. The trail stretched into the distance, continuing over the crest of a hill. "About what it will mean for everyone. For Akielos and Vere."

"See? Hardly nothing of importance."

Damen's laughter was more genuine this time. "Just walking the same weary tracks, more correctly. It's not like thinking of them will do me any good."

"Worrying, then?" Nikandros prodded. He tipped his dark head expectantly, meeting Damen's gaze as he turned towards him.

Damen shook his head. "Not exactly. Just wondering how the Veretian's will take it, I suppose."

"Or one Veretian in particular, maybe?"

Damen nodded. The words didn't need an explanation; not from Nikandros. Nikandros understood at least that much, and he'd never cautioned Damen for it. Not once. "Maybe one in particular," Damen agreed.

Nikandros was silent for a moment before he replied hesitantly. "I don't know if he'll ever turn a favourable eye upon Akielos. Maybe it's a good thing that, at least for now, the Regent holds the power in Vere? I know you don't like him but…"

Damen deliberately tuned out Nikandros' words after that. He didn't want to hear them. He didn't want to hear the tentative justifications for the rule of a cruel, vicious, cunning and underhanded bastard that Damen dreamed of destroying every night. Even if Nikandros was right in one regard – that the Prince of Vere might never turn a favourable eye upon Akielos – that didn't mean that the Regent should rule. It never would.

It hurt to even consider, however. That Laurent might never favour Akielos when Damen knew that, once upon a time, he'd grown to do just that. As Damen urged his mount up the next rise, it was to regret more heartily that such hadn't happened in this life. In this turn of events. And that, perhaps, it never would.

Perhaps this was the right way, how things should have been, how Akielos and Vere should have joined their forces. Maybe it was better had they formed an alliance founded on political communication rather then the love between two individuals. But to Damen…

It didn't feel right. He wasn't sure it ever would. Not like this.

The ceremony didn't feel right either.

More correctly, it didn't feel right to Damen. There was fanfare, there was jubilation, there was excitement and wonder that this is really happening, but to Damen it was of little interest. Or, more correctly again, he'd experienced something like it and this ceremony...

It fell short.

Damen could remember the moment he and Laurent had stood side by side and announced to the world their intentions for their two countries. Damen had felt nothing but love and pride, both for his people and for Laurent, and he hadn't been able to decide who he longed more to gaze upon. In the end, it had been a day of rapidly switching his eyes between Laurent's cool, composed and yet quietly satisfied presence and the delighted uproar of his people and his soldiers intermingled with the Veretians that stood in attendance.

There'd been no wary, sidelong glances. There was no open distrust. Damen and Laurent had already struggled for years to manage peace for their historically warring countries. Though the official announcement, the official ceremony and the pompous yet entirely necessary signing of paper treaties, had been long expected and long in coming, it was still met with all the awe and enthusiasm of an entire two countries abruptly liberated.

At this ceremony, however, the ceremony at Marlas, Damen stood alongside his father and his brother. Maybe, just maybe, this was how it should have been. Maybe this was how it would have been better, for their countries to reach such an accord diplomatically and with the gradual consensus of the entire councils of Akielos and Vere combined rather than Damen and Laurent single-handedly deciding for them. Maybe... maybe that would have been better and yet...

To Damen's eyes, it fell flat.

It wasn't because there was a lack of enthusiasm, for it was present. The people at Marlas and then some, both from Ios and Chacillon, flooded the primary courtyard of the Marlas' keep, spilling into the surrounding streets of the city. Flags were waved, shouts and cries of approval voiced, and smiles of satisfaction, though some tentative and a little guarded, were worn by all. It was how it should be.

What was wrong wasn't that the one standing before the assembly was not himself as the King of Akielos but his father. Damen felt a pang of regret as the memory of his own speech rang in his mind, dimmed only slightly by his eternal appreciation seeing his father speaking on his own pedestal. Damen had never wanted the throne if it meant losing Theomedes. Listening to the pride than rung in his father's voice as he spoke of Akielos and Vere putting aside their differences for the mutual good, Damen felt his chest constrict. He hadn't realised how sorely he'd wanted his father to see what he and Laurent had built in the destructive wake of Kastor and the Regent's combined forces.

More than that, when Theomedes returned to his place between Damen and Kastor, the nod of approval he'd offered him and the murmured, "You made this possible, Damianos," made it difficult to breathe for a long moment. Theomedes had wanted peace as Damen did, even if he likely hadn't considered obtaining it in the same way.

It wasn't any of that for which the ceremony felt flat for Damen. It wasn't that the feast was inadequate, the entertainment sparse, or the company poor, for it wasn't. It wasn't that Damen felt awkward, still out of his depth with the world he'd found himself in; though he knew years had passed, each month seemed to flash in little more than a heartbeat. It wasn't even that, in recent months, Damen was certain that he hadn't been imagining Kastor's sidelong glances that weren't quite angry but certainly felt disgruntled.

It wasn't... it wasn't the ceremony itself that was in error and it wasn't the people. It was everything else.

Perhaps this did unfold how it should have, but it didn't feel right. It didn't feel like it was supposed to be, and the entire sequence left Damen feeling unhinged as he plucked at the rich meats and tasted the sharp cheese, sipping smooth wine that swirled like honey down his throat. It was as though he viewed a picture just slightly off-centre and a little crooked - not enough to be noticed by a passing glance, but something that became only more apparent the longer Damen stared.

And the primary reason was that Damen wasn't at Laurent's side.

Damen had watched Laurent grow. Always from a distance, regardless of how he'd tried to make it otherwise. He'd attempted to build an amicable relationship between them, or at least one lacking in volatility and antagonism, but Laurent didn't want that. He didn't want to be friends with Damen, even when Damen overlooked the cruel barbs embedded in 'compliments' or 'innocent questions' that became more intricately woven as Laurent grew and his tongue sharpened.

In that moment, Damen regretted it all. He regretted that they were from opposing countries, that they weren't given the opportunity to spend more that a few hours together in the instances where Damen, as the leader of the Akielon party adamant on pursuing the alliance, visited Vere. Damen had never considered his time as a slave favourable; that he had met Laurent was something other, but slavery? No, he had never wanted that.

Except that now, Damen was very certain he would give up everything to return to how it was. To have the chance to build that tentative and gradually rising bridge of wavering trust between them. It had taken long that first time around – so long – and under such extenuating circumstances that Damen still marvelled at times that he'd had the chance to realise his feelings in the midst of such urgency, such mania, and such unprecedented conditions.

Without that, devoid of those moments racing half-blind through the streets pursued by the Regent's men and breathless from adrenaline and exertion, without the rides through the thick underbrush to scout the enemy lines and conduct secret meetings with Vaskian tribes, without...

Without the moments when Laurent had needed to simply speak because he had no one else to trust and Damen was as good as he'd had. Without any of that, there was nothing between them. Laurent didn't want anything, and Damen knew because he'd tried. He'd tried damn hard.

Damen had watched him from afar, very aware that he was longing for someone who barely spared him a glance if not in animosity. It helped none that Damen knew Laurent's hatred was only twice as fierce for Kastor. Damen watched as Laurent grew, as his mind sharpened and his face shaped into one of cold familiarity.

As Damen observed him across the hall in the midst of the ceremonious banquet, it was like seeing a portrait of Laurent from when he'd first seen him so long ago. All of it, from his posture to the sharp tilt of his chin, the cool blankness of his expression to the unwavering hardness of his gaze. Even the tightly laced garments, though more extravagant in deference to the formality of the setting, only added to the thickening tightness that had settled itself in Damen's throat.

At nineteen years old, Laurent was so similar to Damen's first memory of him that it hurt to behold. It hurt even more to know that he couldn't touch him – that he could barely speak to him.

Damen knew that several of those around him knew of what seemed to be his obsession. Nikandros had spoken to him of his observations just the once, but the knowing glance he often turned upon Damen suggested he hadn't forgotten. All of Damen's men, his 'entourage', suspected there was something more between he and Laurent than was visible, even if they didn't have evidence for what it was. They could hardly miss it, Damen was sure, and if they saw then Laurent was surely aware. Not that he said anything, but Damen knew with utter certainty that he'd noticed.

Damen didn't care. He didn't care what anyone else thought, what anyone said or the assumptions they made. The worst they could make, that Damen gazed upon Laurent with nothing but impassioned lust, was crude but wasn't entirely untrue. Damen did want Laurent. He wanted him sorely, even if not just physically. He wanted everything he'd had and was now no longer his.

"You have eyes for the Prince of Vere, little brother."

At Kastor's words, Damen shifted his gaze from where it had indeed been resting upon Laurent. Kastor was staring at him with a touch of amusement, the quirk of a smile upon his lips as he swirled his goblet of wine in one hand. He'd spoken for Damen's ears alone, almost as though he wanted to preserve the privacy of his observations.

Damen didn't care. He didn't care if the whole world knew. What did he care if most believed his desire to join their countries was to grant him favour and proximity to the Veretian prince? Such an assumption wasn't exactly untrue.

Tipping his head slightly, Damen shrugged. "I do."

"Is the entertainment provided not to your favour?"

As directed by Kastor's gesture, Damen spared a glance for the pool of sparsely clad dancers - slaves of Akielos - who were currently flaunting themselves in intricate feats of flexibility and coordination to many an admiring pair of eyes and clapping applause from Akielon and Veretian lords and ladies alike. They were wonderful, truly, and Damen had long ago appreciated such arts; the weaving of arms and sweeping of legs, undulating in shapes and motions that he knew he would never be able to emulate should he practice for a thousand years. It was captivating.

Or it was to most. It didn't hold Damen's attention for long, however, because his gaze was drawn like a moth to flame back to Laurent. And not just Laurent, he knew. A familiar face, a youthful face and even younger than Damen remembered it, leaned at his side, expression drawnin a conspiratorial and just vaguely taunting manner. The sight of Nicaise sent an entirely different pang through Damen's chest.

"Well?" Kastor prompted.

"It's not that it isn't to my taste," Damen said, deliberately dropping his gaze to his plate and plucking at a sliver of meat that was so tender it nearly crumbled in his fingers. He wasn't really hungry, and had more than eaten his fill in the past two hours, but it was better than meeting Kastor's admittedly leering gaze. "I simply tire of staring at the same act indefinitely."

"Unless that 'act' happens to be the Prince of Vere," Kastor said a little smugly. He uttered a thoughtful hum that immediately drew Damen's sidelong gaze, tightening his jaw as he noticed Kastor settling a contemplative gaze in Laurent's direction. "Well, he is very pretty. I can't blame you for looking."

"Pretty," Damen echoed. The word wasn't nearly adequate.

"A bit cold, though. Probably freeze your cock off if you actually managed to drag him into your bed."

Kastor laughed in good-humour as he jokingly butted Damen's shoulder with his own. It was teasing, only spoken in jest, and was nothing less than how every soldier spoke, how Damen knew even the Veretians saw their prince.

And yet even so, Damen felt himself stiffen. He didn't do well with such words, and hadn't for a long time. What did Kastor know? What did any of them? And what was wrong with coldness, anyway? Laurent was an ice-prince, and he blasted his opponents aside with a chilling blizzard at barely a thought. That skill was was incredible; Damen had long come to appreciate the sharpness of Laurent's wit and intelligence, of his silver tongue, when it wasn't turned against him.

"Still, I would have to admit," Kastor said, when he'd resurfaced from his boisterous humour to speak once more. It was a struggle for Damen to meet his gaze without glaring. "I think the entertainment could be improved by something more, ah... representative of our historical relationship."

Damen stared at his brother sidelong. The thought that had crossed Kastor's mind clearly amused him, and though Damen knew that once, long ago, such amusement would have had Damen clamouring to know what it was and how he could encourage it, now it only left him wary. "And what would that be?"

Kastor shot him a glance that was far too mischievous for his age before rising to his feet and raised his goblet aloft. That was all that was needed for the hall to immediately smother their conversation; perhaps the respect afforded to the Akielon king's eldest son would fade with time, but in the novelty of the situation every eye was drawn towards him and every tongue stilled. Expectation reigned as Kastor paused before speaking.

"I have a suggestion," he announced, overlooking any care for fanfare. "In light of our newfound allegiance, I propose a challenge. A challenge of goodwill, if you would." He glanced towards Theomedes, then towards the Regent. Not towards Laurent, Damen noticed, and he couldn't help but feel disapproving for the slight. Disapproving, and just a little angry. "Your Majesty, our people have been grounded in war for many a year, but the act of battle itself is not without glory and beauty. Perhaps we can emulate this glory in the light of friendship?"

Murmurs of mixed confusion and speculation arose, but Damen was removed from it all. He knew where this was heading, and similarly knew he shouldn't allow it to unfold. And yet to stand up, to rebuff Kastor's request, would appear nothing if not undermining of the idea and his brother both.

"You have a proposition, Prince Kastor?" the Regent said, regarding Kastor curiously as his finger tapped on the edge of his own goblet.

Kastor bowed his head in a single nod. "I do. A duel, between Akielos and Vere." He smiled before repeating once more, "In an act of friendship, naturally."

Damen had to close his eyes briefly at Kastor's words. He'd known what he was going to suggest, but hearing it didn't ease him any. Akielos was a country grounded in strength of the sword and testing one's metal in a physical manner, while Vere, though masters of the weaponry and warfare themselves, more strongly emphasised the art of verbal intricacies. Kastor was, in essence, asking the Veretians to good-naturedly lose in a duel against an Akielon fighter.

Damen thought the Regent knew it, and perhaps some of his own courtiers and councillors, too, but none spoke in objection. How could they, when a bubble of excitement immediately arose with Kastor's words? The murmurs of confusion shifted to ones of excitement, hisses of surprise yet appreciation, and Damen knew that there would indeed be a duel.

What he hadn't expected – or maybe had simply hoped wouldn't happen – was for Laurent to rise silently to his feet. It took barely a moment for his movement to draw the attention of everyone in the hall, just as Kastor's had, and he waited expectantly for the mutters to cease before he spoke. When he did it was in cool, clipped tones. "If it is a duel you seek, Akielos Prince, then allow me to offer myself as an opponent. A dance between princes would be nothing short of a show, would it not?"

For a heartbeat of further surprise, silence reigned. Then it erupted; excitement redoubled, eagerness for what first Kastor and then Laurent had proposed thrumming like a visible cloud throughout the room. Damen felt Laurent's words like a punch in the gut. This… was not good.

Leaning towards Kastor, he barely managed to touch his elbow, to mutter a hasty, "Kastor, allow me to –" before Kastor was speaking with a fierce smile splitting his face. "I appreciate your readiness, Prince Laurent. And I accept your challenge with relish."

If the excitement had been palpable before, it positively exploded with his words. Chatter rose in an undulating wave as, in an instant, motion took hold of the room. Damen found himself caught in it and could do little but witness it unfold. He followed in the wake of his brother and the entirety of the attendants as Kastor strode across the room towards the doors, leading the way to the training grounds. No one stopped him. No one even tried.

It was like a scene from a theatre horror that unfolded before Damen, and he could do nothing about it. Not only would neither Laurent nor Kastor, not Theomedes nor the Regent, put a stop to what was ensuing should he request it, but it would cast nothing but dispersions upon Damen himself. It would shame him and his family, not to mention the Veretians that had so recently become their allies. Against his will and his better judgement, Damen held his tongue as the training grounds were cleared, a wide circle formed, and Kastor and Laurent stepped forwards.

Silence was even harder to maintain when Laurent suggested, in the spirit of verisimilitude, to fight with iron swords. Damen's vision blurred for a heart-stopping moment; a rush of fear tore through him, because surely, surely it could only end in bloodshed.

Laurent was a master swordsman, Damen knew. Or at least he had been when Damen had met him. But he wasn't as good as Damen, and wouldn't be as good as Kastor. This duel could only end one way and Damen… he regretted that it would only make Laurent hate Akielos more.

Neither bothered to change from their ceremonial garb, though that was saying little given that neither were cumbersome nor greatly inhibiting. It all unfolded with eerie speed, and within what seemed like moments – had it really it only been moments? – Laurent and Kastor faced one another with swords raised.

Silence. A sea of attendants, and not a single one seemed to breath. Damen barely noticed them. He stared at the lull before the storm and felt his own breath still in his chest.

It was almost comical, the differences between the duellers – everything from their forms to the stances, their garments to their swords. While Kastor stood with stance wide and grounded, tall and broad with leather pteruges hanging across his thighs and sleeveless breast piece doing nothing to hide the bunch of muscle as he raised his gladius, Laurent was his opposite. Straight and poised, wrapped in the familiarly laced pieces of Veretian attire, he stood like a slender willow before a charging bull, the estoc in his hand raised almost negligibly. The single-handed sword itself seemed nothing if not diminutive against the gladius.

The honour of initiating the fight was given to Theomedes with a graceful incline of the Regent's head. In a split second, the duel began. Damen couldn't move, couldn't shift his gaze, as Kastor, ever the initiator, launched himself forwards in a flurried attack.

Maybe it had been too long since Damen had seen Laurent fight. He'd underestimated him the first time he'd challenged Govart what now seemed so long ago, and had regretted it, had sworn to never do so again. But he'd been blind-sided by Laurent's youth and couldn't help but fear for him.

He shouldn't have. Perhaps his concern should have been for Kastor, for Laurent fought an entirely different battle. While Kastor was all force, the strength of his descending arm heavy enough to split a horse's skull clean in two, and each moment just as weighty, Laurent moved with every step premeditated, every act a preparation for the next. Kastor darted in close, swung his sword, and Laurent slipped out of the way to thrust and jab and slice n retaliation. When Kastor withdrew, skirting the circle of their duelling ring before launching himself forward in a windmilling blur of his sword, Laurent neatly parried. He twisted from reach, spinning behind Kastor to deliver a blow that Kastor only just managed to block.

Was this how it had looked when Damen and Laurent fought? Damen didn't know, but he hoped the confidence and condescension that Kastor wore, not wavering even when Laurent slipped past him time and time again, hadn't graced his own face. Kastor saw himself as superior with the arrogance of a master swordman that hadn't been beaten in many a year.

But he didn't know Laurent. He didn't know how Laurent fought, knew it even less than what Damen had at first. Kastor wasn't prepared for the springing dodges that left him swinging at empty air, the feints that were infinitely subtler than those taught in Akielos. Damen's own training had taught him that the most direct route, the fastest defeat of a foe, was always the best, and Kastor's similar tutelage was evidenced in his attack. He looked like a bear lunging and swiping at the darting attacks of a bird that fluttered around him, poking and prodding and jabbing just enough to annoy if not to actually injure.

Or at least not immediately.

Laurent drew first blood. It was a shallow scratch across the thigh that nonetheless welled red and dribbling, yet a gasp still arose from the captivated audience. For a moment, as Kastor lunged backwards out of reach and spared a for the injury, there was a pause. A long pause, in which no sound breached the stillness of the yard but for Laurent and Kastor's heavy breaths. Damen wasn't sure how long they'd been fighting, his sense of time long lost before his concern, but it must have been substantial. He could see the sprinkle of sweat touching Kastor's cheeks, that which just barely darkened Laurent's hairline, and noticed the slight lowering their swords for the touch of weariness that it was.

It should have ended then. Despite having left the audience stunned at the fact that Kastor – Prince Kastor of Akielos – had taken a blow from a man nearly half his age and with just as little experience. Theomedes even stepped forward, and though incredulity was unsuccessfully masked from face, it was apparent that he would put a stop to further fighting.

Kastor didn't give him a chance. He didn't seem as angered as Damen might have expected him to be, but Damen didn't like the smile touching his lips either. He trained his attention upon where Laurent stood, still yet with poised readiness before him. An instant later, and Kastor was leaping forward with sword raised once more.

No one objected. They should have, but they didn't. Not even Damen could say anything, could only watch with rapidly clenching fists, tensing shoulders and aching jaw for the tightness his teeth clenched with each aggressive slash of the resumed fight. It grew not faster but fiercer. Strikes met parries or deflections, the necessity of Laurent's thinner sword demanding he evade rather than force back with a block of blade on blade. The scuffle of feet and the clash of iron permeated the air, overwhelming even the pants of the two fighters.

Then Kastor landed a blow. It was as shallow as the one he'd received, and the same gasp rose from the audience in response. Neither dueller paused, even when Theomedes took another step towards the edge of the circle. Neither did they slow when Laurent managed another, or received one in turn a second later, a stain of redness appearing as little more than a spot on his dark blue garments.

Damen felt panic well. He knew he had to do something, but he didn't know what. He didn't know how. Should he demand it stop? Object that it had gone on for long enough? This was supposed to be a friendly duel, not an attempt to make a grisly patchwork of one's opponent. Damen watched with rising terror as blows were exchanged, as another landed and blossomed into a smear of blood dribbling down Kastor's arm.

He had to do something. He had to. Damen would be damned if he let this go on any longer, and even if it would shame both Laurent and Kastor to do so, he would step in.

Yet he'd barely taken the beginnings of that step when the flow of back and forth strikes ceased. It happened so suddenly that a gasp arose from the audience even in the absence of a blow falling.

Laurent slipped.

For anyone else, it would have seemed the climax. The moment preceding the finale. For anyone – except Damen. He knew it only too well, the feint that was so familiar and one that he similarly could never forget witnessing.

Kastor saw it, and through his panting exertion and the sweat that now slicked his face, he took the opening. It was too perfect, so perfect that Damen marvelled he didn't realise it for the feint that it was. In that moment, as time didn't seem to slow but Damen's mind raced, he knew one thing:

He's going to kill him. Not Kastor, but Laurent. Laurent's going to kill him.

No circumstances could have been more poorly timed. None would have caused the most damage. And yet Damen knew it would happen.

Kastor lunged. He struck. He staggered – and Laurent swept himself out of the way. In a motion that was less a swordsman's technique and more the underhanded strike of a wrestler, Laurent spun to standing and struck out with a foot at the back of Kastor's leg. It could have been that he was wearied from the fight or merely that it was so unexpected, but Kastor fell. He hit the ground and an instant later Laurent's sword was arcing downward.

A collective gasp hissed through the yard. Not a single person seemed to breathe thereafter, not a single eye blinked, and no one moved in that moment when the sharp slap of iron striking skin split through the air. No one moved for a long, long moment, the sound of panting the only interruption to the silence.

Two sets of panting. Two.

Laurent stood above Kastor, his sword pressed to Kastor's cheek and the flat of the blade flush to his skin. Kastor didn't move, simply stared up at him, and the moment seemed to stretch eternally. Damen couldn't move himself, no matter how he longed to. He was torn between the desire to fling himself forwards and drag Laurent away from Kastor – more for Laurent's safety than for fear that he would finish what he had so nearly started – and the need to sink to his knees in relief.

Laurent was the first to respond. He flicked his sword from Kastor's face and, even at a distance, Damen could see a ruddy bruise erupt on Kastor's cheek. Laurent took a step towards him and, to what Damen knew as being the collective surprise and confusion of every onlooker, he lowered himself to a crouch at Kastor's side.

Damen didn't know what he said. The murmur of words was too quite to hear at a distance. It lasted only for a moment before Laurent rose and strode from the ring. He didn't spare another glance over his shoulder for Kastor, and only a brief moment of his attention for Theomedes. He did stop for the barest of seconds alongside the Regent, however, and the meeting of their gazes was loaded with unspoken weight that Damen wasn't sure anyone else perceived.

Then he was gone.

Life seemed to flood back into the audience with Laurent's departure, and Damen released a gasping breath he didn't realise he'd held. He was still staring in Laurent's wake, even as the onlookers fell into sharp mutters and rapid movement. He hardly noticed when Kastor appeared at his side until he spoke.

"He really is as cold as ice," Kastor said, and there was sharpness to his words that demanded Damen attend to him. Something between a smile and a snarl twisted his expression, his cheek rapidly darkening to a deeper red beneath the sheen of sweat, and his sword disappeared into its sheath. Damen recognised that expression; it was the warring combination of satisfaction for a good fight and the frustration of being beaten. He'd experienced it more than enough times with Kastor himself.

"What did he say to you?" Damen asked, swallowing thickly against the nausea that rose within him. When the heat of the moment had died, he realised just how close it had been. He'd underestimated Laurent once before and sworn he'd never do it again, and yet he had. Laurent could have very easily killed Kastor had he wanted to.

Kastor's snarling smile spread just a little wider as his own gaze was drawn in the direction Laurent had disappeared. He seemed to toy with the idea of voicing Laurent's words for a moment before finally deciding. "He said this was repayment, if only in part. That it was leagues less that I deserved."

Damen nodded slowly, the gesture catching Kastor's attention. "He hasn't forgotten," he said. "He never will."

Kastor frowned slightly, the curl of his lip fading. "About what happened in battle?" He shook his head. "What happens in war should stay on the battlefield."

"Even if it caused you the loss of your brother?" Damen couldn't help but ask.

Kastor didn't reply to that. He simply met Damen's gaze with his own frown for a moment before glancing once more after Laurent, staring through the crowd that was still clamouring with what they'd witnessed.

It could have gone better – much better – but it similarly could have ended so, so much worse. And throughout it all, as Damen allowed himself to be ushered by the masses back into the ceremony hall, he couldn't help but wonder:

It was me he felt such hatred for, if not this time. The passing thought ached, and even more so that Damen longed for it. What does it mean that I would want him to hate me again if I could have it all back?