There is this prince - high above all and yet standing in the same footing as soldiers, as powerful as the highest of kings and yet as weak as the lowest of peasantry. Kacper watches him with careful eyes, holds him up in battles and takes him to bed when he gets too drunk.
He's a lonely boy inside, but that's okay - so is Kacper. He'll stay by his side, achingly in love, watching from the shadows. When Serefin is king, married to some woman, he'll do so, even if it'll corrupt his insides until he is nothing but dust, blood and bone standing upright because it is his duty to do so.
And then Serefin will smile at Kacper, lighting up his entire world from the shadows, rising him. Were he a religious man, he'd have put Serefin on an even higher pedestal than the one he'd already put him in, become a devotee of the god the boy was.
Then he'd help Serefin go to his tent after too much day-drinking to be healthy, and the pedestal would lower itself a little until they were face to face, eye to eye: at the end of the day, Serefin was human, and not a god. That was fine - he loved him anyway, god or not.
Serefin says he hears the voices of gods, and Kacper wonders - is this punishment for elevating him above his station? As if they'd heard his thoughts and said, fine, so be it as you wish?
Guilt, worming itself through his heart, gnawing at his bones - what if it was his fault that moths followed Serefin and constellations were born in his steps? He held his hands and told him that all would be fine, that they'd still think he was Serefin.
Serefin smiles, and his grip on Kacper's hands tighten. It is enough to both sate him and leave Kacper starving for more, greedy creature that he is.
He helps Serefin struggle inside a kalyazi church, helps the holy woman clean his wounds. The infection will persist, she says, but he'll be fine.
Kacper almost breaks down and thanks the gods above for it. Serefin, his Serefin, will be fine: what else can he ask for, really?