Thankyou you reviewers, what a bunch of lovelies you are... I never intended it to take so long for Pythagoras and Jason meet, but they'll get there soon, I promise!
Pythagoras was always happiest in the shabby, noisy mess that made up his city.
Here, he was more than a prince. Here, he was someone of worth; a healer, a counsellor, a storyteller to the grubby, dusty urchins who followed him wherever he went- his own band of Lost Boys.
At this moment, the prince was dressed in rougher-than-usual green; he'd learnt a while ago that it was insulting to wander the slums in all his princely finery. They wanted a human being, someone they could relate to. The golden circlet on his head and the silken robes of turquoise and aquamarine were for the palace, not the lower town.
Stood on the dusty street of the labourers' district, with his thick, curling hair unbrushed and a noisy child on his hip, intent on smearing his mucky hands into as much of the prince as possible, Pythagoras felt much more at home than he ever would in the palace, where his standing was fast beginning to change. There he must now spend his days being fussed over, dressed, preened and plucked and prettied.
He had returned the day before to find his books moved on to an exquisitely carved bookshelf, with beautifully stained glass over the front, designs depicting the swell of peaceful waves against white cliffs. And a finely wrought lock to which he did not have the key.
'Well, you know that many of those books are very valuable… It was foolish to just leave them scattered around your rooms in that way. Anyone could have made off with them!' Minos twisted his hands uncomfortably, faced with the hurt and incomprehension in his son's eyes.
'Father, you know full well that my chambers are some of the safest in the city. What more good will locking up my books do?' He lowered his eyes and took a deep breath, calming himself, before looking back up at his father. 'Why are my books being taken from me?'
Minos sighed. 'It was suggested to me that your time may be better spent acquainting yourself with the workings of the city's military. After all, you are to marry our general. It must be in your power to provide him with your counsel on such matters.'
With that, his resolve and anger crumbled into impotent dust, sinking to the pit of his stomach to form a solid ball of dread and resignation. Pythagoras knew that he had lost the battle. His books were gone.
Barely suppressing tears, he bowed low before the throne- 'My lord'- and headed back to his rooms.
After returning the little boy and his trailing sister to the parents who had been called to the sickbed of a neighbour, Pythagoras knew that it was time to head back to the palace. Time to stop being such a child and do his duty. Learn to be a good husband.
Heptarian was not a monster. He was a good man, an excellent general, a caring mentor to the young prince as he grew up. But however much he told himself that there was no reason to fear the marriage, that he had known this day would come, it didn't stop the fear. How was he to be a figurehead to wheel out at public occasions, to smile and wave and be utterly useless to everyone?
He sat up late into the night that day, studying his new tracts on the provisioning of the city's army, all of which seemed contradictory and outlandish. He persevered anyway, was determined to conquer the devil on his shoulder that shrieked at him.
This isn't fair!
Life isn't fair. The people in the slums have things far worse.
They have their freedom! Why not take yours? Run. They'll never find you in time. Let them have blessed Heptarian as their king. They don't need you, a skinny scholar incapable of rule.
I will do my duty. Anyway, where would I go? I have no-one. No-one at all.
Pythagoras woke up when the rays of golden sunlight began to filter mercilessly through the drapes that had been hastily drawn to shield his sleeping form. His neck was stiff from falling asleep with his face turned sideways, planted gracelessly on a pile of requisition orders for the city military.
Blinking himself into consciousness, he ran his hands roughly over his face, attempting to dispel some of the grogginess of too little rest. It was no good, his eyes simply refused to focus on the waving smears of text before his eyes; abstract figures and amounts that simply didn't make sense for a city in peacetime.
The orders to stockpile iron for weaponry and the requisitions for the barracks granary were far too extreme. They must be out of date; his brain must be too weary to make proper conclusions.
But suddenly he was very awake. It wasn't that they didn't make sense. They made absolute, perfect, utterly logical sense. Simply not for an army in peacetime.
They were absolutely correct for a general preparing for war.
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