#delgos

Kendrick sat against the wall under the prod of the spearpoints, and sighed through the gag when his aching arms were pulled over his head, wrists secured close together. He heard a groan of protest from his shoulder joint; ever since an arrowhead had been dug out of it six months ago, it had given him trouble with rotation, and the current position did him no favors. His ankles were manacled to the floor, and the gag stayed firmly, annoyingly, in place. Had it not, Kendrick would have had some choice suggestions on how to make a prisoner more uncomfortable. He had perfected it over the years, after all.

As it was, he sank back against the stone wall, rolling his shoulder carefully to try and work out some of the pinching ache. It didn’t help much, and he was too tired to try and rise enough to relieve some of the pressure. It would work itself out eventually, or he would grow accustomed to it enough to put it to the back of his mind. 

He closed his eyes. His mouth still tasted like copper and leather, the gag biting into the corners of his mouth. It was too kind of a thing; he would have used a brank, like he had on T’ke so many years ago. Gods, how long ago had that been? He had still been a Prince then, still fighting the last of his brothers for the right to the Kingdom. And his white ghost had been the one to secure the title for him, before disappearing like smoke and ash. It had been enough. It had gotten him this far. 

And he had gotten so close. 

He had gotten the castle, and swept his way towards the sea, chasing the tails of the bedraggled army. And then at the coast, ships had sailed in out of Reckson, trained mercenaries calling up old allegiances from the last war, and the tides had turned. And turned. And turned. Again and again they came so close to murdering each other, to taking out the high command and delivering the final crippling blow to the enemy. And it was Delgos who had finally swung the strike that took him down. 

Well, at least it hadn’t been Constantine. That might have been shame enough to stop his stubborn heart. Maybe. 

Kendrick wasn’t sure if he truly slept, or just wavered in and out of dreams and memories, hanging as slack as the chains would allow. He still stank of blood and battle, and the tower was eerily quiet. He could practically hear his own heartbeat echo off the stone walls. All of the tapestries and most of the furnishings had been destroyed in one conquest or another, and all that remained in the circular tower was arrow slits, a low table, and two stools. Maybe those had been brought up recently, for whatever purpose Delgos had devised. 

Breaking him. Hah. He doubted Delgos had it in him. All he would have to do was bide his time. If he could be free of here, he could make his way back to Ciel and regroup, rebuild. He was still King on the mountain. Diana had been minding the castle in his absence. He trusted her implicitly, and fully expected to return home to a kingdom running better than when he had left. Now all he had to do was return to her. Somehow. 

He wasn’t sure if he slept, but he was certain when he woke. It wasn’t the sound of footsteps that brought him around first, but rather the smell of food. His empty stomach growled, and he opened his eyes to see Delgos walk into the room carrying a tray on one arm. The Prince Consort had shed his armor and finery, and wore such a plain and shirt and breeches he could have been mistaken for a servant, were it not for his bearing, and the scars of battle so clear on his dark skin. The top of a tattoo peeked through the laces on his shirt, but Kendrick couldn't make out the image.

“It still smells like smoke up here,” Delgos remarked with a wrinkle of his nose, setting down the tray and moving one of the stools around so that he could face Kendrick. “Half the castle still reeks of it. What sort of oil did you pour on the walls before you set it alight? We won’t be able to breathe freely in here until next spring.”

Kendrick wasn’t sure what sort of answer the other man was expecting, and he just gave him a simmering look around the gag. Delgos rested his elbows on his knees. A thin silver coronet was mostly lost in the waves of his thick black hair, but it glimmered in the sunlight that streamed through the narrow wall slits. Kendrick could see why Constantine had chased him. For being a halfbreed merchant’s son, he had an aristocratic face, and the sort of patience that Kendrick rarely saw outside of the spotted mountain cats, picking their way across icy crags after nimble and tender goats. What he couldn’t understand is what he saw in the Runnemede brat. Constantine was no lion, regardless of what banners they flew. 

“I’m not a cruel man by nature,” Delgos went on, since Kendrick could do nothing to interrupt him. “I have tried very hard to be a fair and patient man. But you have put me in a position that makes that impossible. So.” He leaned forward, catching the buckle on the side of the gag and slipping it loose. “I am going to have to start to mirror you instead, dragon.”

Kendrick flexed his jaw with a sigh of relief, aware of how dry his mouth was when he finally spoke. “Lesson one: don’t give your captive a nickname that instills fear.” 

Delgos backhanded him so sharply that Kendrick saw stars. The hit came too fast for him to expect, and he gagged on his words, blinking hard. 

“Do I look like a man that’s afraid of you?” 

Kendrick couldn’t see him for a moment until his vision cleared, but even so--no. Delgos did not look like a man afraid. He looked calm, collected, and faintly amused. “So, dragon, have you finished blowing smoke?” 

Blowing smoke. He snorted quietly, but said nothing. Blood trickled over his tongue; he had cut the side of it on his teeth from the blow. It made his throat feel more raw, and when he swallowed it felt like there was sandpaper lining it. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d had even a mouthful of water, but he felt it now. 

Delgos leaned back on his stool, and picked up a mug off the tray. Condensation beaded on the outside, rolling over his fingers and down the sides of the silver mug. Kendrick reflexively swallowed when Delgos did. A foam of ale misted on his lips for a minute, then disappeared with a sweep of his tongue. Fuck. 

“You know the biggest problem with the way you ran your Kingdom and your soldiers?” Delgos asked, when he seemed pleased at the stretch of silence. “You rely on fear and awe. You don’t instill loyalty, or respect. You treat your men like they were dogs. Worse than dogs. A good dog isn’t expendable.” He leaned forward again, enough to slosh some of the ale over the side of the mug. More of the liquid slid over his fingers. Kendrick watched the droplets hit the dusty floor, soaking into the hay and disappearing. If he’d had enough moisture left in his mouth, he might have whimpered. He hated it. 

“Do you want to die?” Delgos asked at last, tapping the red mark on Kendrick’s face with damp fingers. 

Kendrick gritted his teeth, and forced his focus back on the other man’s face. “No.”

“Good. Because starvation is a long, slow, terrible way to die.” He took another slow drink of ale, then held the mug in front of Kendrick’s face. He could feel the chill off the mug against his inflamed cheek. “And I would rather not watch you waste away. I just want you to break.” 

Good fucking luck with that. Kendrick curled his lip slightly, but couldn’t stop from watching Delgos dip his fingers into the mug of ale. He brought his hand up, and the liquid rolled down his fingers, finding every little crease, every callous and scar. Scars that Kendrick had helped put there. War and strife and sorrow, the droplets channeling like blood and tears, slipping away to fall into the straw. He leaned forward as much as the chains would allow, his dry throat aching to stop the waste.

Delgos smiled. "Is there something you want?"

"I am going to skin you alive when I am free of here," Kendrick warned. "And I'm taking your lips first."

He shrugged, sitting back again. He crossed his legs comfortably, and pressed the sole of one boot to Kendrick's chest, applying pressure to force him back against the wall again. "We'll see what wins out first, dragon. Stubborn ego, or thirst. You let me know when your pride has started to whimper, huh?" And he settled back, drinking his ale, carving hunks of bread and cheese from the platter, and looking over a few papers that had come with the tray.

And all the while his heel dug into Kendrick's chest. Not painful, but persistent. He rolled his sore shoulder again, trying to find a new position that hurt less. The chains rattled. Delgos didn't so much as twitch.

The beam of light from the window slit slowly crept across the floor.

Delgos had finished eating. He toyed with the last of the ale, swirling it in the cup so that Kendrick could hear nothing but the slosh of liquid, see nothing but the beads of it sliding down the metal side, pooling in the creases of the other man's fingers, and staining the hem of his sleeve a shade darker. With a contented sigh, he finally swung his legs around, freeing the pressure from Kendrick's chest, and stood. 

"I will be back tomorrow," he said, balancing the mug between his fingers, letting it tilt down until the remaining liquid pooled dangerously near the rim. "Think on what you want until then."

What he wanted was to wrap the chains around Delgos' neck until he was begging for mercy. What he wanted was his throne back, with his soldiers and his lovers all back at heel. 

What he wanted was water. 

Kendrick didn't sleep. He tried, dozing until his head drooped, snapping awake again when his chin hit his chest, the strain sending pain down his back. He fought the chains, chafing his skin until it bled. They didn't loosen. He scuffled at the hay and grime at his feet, finding nothing useful and stirring up enough dust and soot to make him sneeze. His eyes watered. His throat burned. He didn't sleep. 

Morning light cracked through the window and lanced across his face with fresh insult. He craned his neck back as far as he dared, trying to both stretch the aching muscles and get the sun out of his eye. He grimaced, arching his back and pulling at the chains. His shoulder screamed protest, and he heaved free a frustrated noise at last, the breaking of the silence so harsh it almost startled him. No noise followed from outside, and Kendrick swore loudly. His own voice was hoarse, and he screamed his frustration to the walls, to the slice of sunlight, to the chains. He yelled and cursed and thrashed until his dry throat allowed no more noise but a hiss of angry air. 

"Do you feel better now, little dragon?"

Kendrick felt his cheeks flush; he hadn't heard the door open, too busy listening to his own frustrated echoes. He tried to speak, but he had worn away what little voice he had left, and nothing but a rough sound followed.

Delgos smiled, leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded comfortably. "I hope it helped. Are you ready to be reasonable?"

He glared. It felt ineffectual at best.

At last, Delgos stepped inside, closing the door behind him with his foot. He knelt in front of his captive, and ran his hands up Kendrick's arms, finding the trails of dried blood left behind, searching the raw skin around his wrists with a gentle touch. "Were you growling all night long?" he asked, sounding amused. "I don't even have to hurt you. You'll do that yourself."

He rocked back on his heels at last, and freed a waterskin from his belt. The sound of the sloshing liquid made Kendrick's throat ache with longing. Delgos popped the cork, then waited. 

Kendrick could have strangled him. His fingers trembled, and his throat strained for a painful, dry swallow. He tried to breathe through his nose, but it did nothing to relieve the dryness of his mouth. His lips were cracked. 

"Well?" Delgos asked at last, tilting the waterskin so that a few jewelled drops slid over the back of his hand. He pressed his knuckles to Kendrick's cheek, and he automatically turned towards the promise of water. 

A bubble of curses died in his sore throat, and he closed his eyes. He pressed his face against the cool of Delgos' hand. "Please," he rasped, not sure how he found his voice enough to beg. 

No matter his hurt pride, when Delgos tipped the water between his lips at last, the cool flood of relief was like opium smoke. Delgos supported the back of his head, giving him a few mouthfuls before he pulled it back again. "Not too fast, you'll make yourself sick."

Kendrick licked his lips, catching the last drop of water before it could roll down his chin. He cleared his throat. It hurt marginally less than the last time. "How long--?" His voice cracked. He swallowed, then tried again. "How long do you plan to keep me like this?"

Delgos smiled. "Until you break. How long that takes is entirely up to you." He tilted the waterskin towards him again. "How comfortable you are is also entirely up to you, too."

The chains rattled as he shifted. "Uncuff me then."

His smile widened, sharpened. "No."

Kendrick scowled. "Uncuff me, please."

"Marginally better," he allowed. "But no. When I hear your genuine begging, little dragon, and I am in a good mood. Then maybe." He moved the waterskin over again, waiting until Kendrick leaned towards it to pull it away. "Ask me again."

Kendrick closed his eyes. Survive this, and a chance for escape. But he had to survive first. He had to live first. He had to. "Please," he whispered, his voice coming rough again. 

"What do you want?" Delgos needled.

"Please, can I have more water?"

Cool fingers cradled his jaw again. "Look at me."

He didn't want to. He knew all the tricks for breaking captives, for snapping stubborn will and leaving a man crawling. He knew. So did Delgos. He had seen the broken things that Kendrick had left behind. And Kendrick, in the pit of his aching stomach, knew it was only a matter of time before hope of escape would poison into the despair of inevitability.

He opened his eyes. "Please," he repeated, each word like a grain of sand in an hourglass as he looked into Delgos' face, "can I have more water, Prince-Consort?"

"That is a mouthful of a title, isn't it?" Delgos tsked thoughtfully, and poured the water into his cupped palm, then tipped that into Kendrick's open mouth. "Let's keep this simple, as you may find it hard to talk later. You can call me My King.” 

“You’re not King of Vendave.”

The castle sat near enough to the northern border that the ride out was not long or hard, just winding paths through thick groves of pine, passing the smaller tributaries that fed the large river that served as the eastern border miles away. Scouts ran ahead, reporting back every few hours to assure there was no sign of the enemy yet, and redirecting them wherever there was a blocked road.

“There are so many trees down,” Constantine complained, his jaw clacking together as his horse jumped yet another broken pine in the trail.

“One of the scouts asked about it when they checked in with Roger’s Ford. The last winter brought so much heavy snow that it felled all the weaker trees. It made the rivers flood for almost all of the spring thaw, so most of the ferries and fords are still recovering, too. It almost swept away the bridge at Roger’s Ford.”

“If there is a bridge there, then why is it called Roger’s Ford?” he asked scathingly, wiping blood from his split lip, the squeeze of his legs making his horse prance and snort.

Delgos smiled. “Well, it used to be a ford, in your grandfather’s time. I guess the name stuck.”

“How far are we from the border now? We must be close.”

“After we make camp tonight, we should reach it by midday tomorrow.” Delgos pulled his horse up short when another scout came doubling back, dripping water and barely controlling his panicked horse.

“Cielans on the trail ahead, sir! There’s–an army.”

Arrows shrieked through the drooping pines, and Constantine’s horse reared, braying alarm and throwing him from its back.

“Formation! Get shield up and keep together!” Delgos called, as a second rally of arrows made the branches shake and men scream. He held the reins in one hand, wheeling his horse around and leaning down to grab Constantine by the arm. The King scrambled in the mud, his boots sliding on the wet needles as he clung to Delgos’ arm. Men leapt from the thick underbrush on either side of them, silver dragons embroidered on their chests and silver blades flashing in their hands.

“Formation!” Delgos ordered again, his startled men scrambling to turn their horses on the narrow path, others jumping down from the animals to face the ambush head-on. He yanked harder to pull Constantine upright and get him on the horse with him, when he felt an impact in his lower back. Starbursts blackened his vision, and in the moment where the world stopped, he landed on his side in the path. Shouts of men and horses thundered in his ears, Constantine pulled at his arm, the trees shook against the darkening sky, and the invasive blackness and ringing quiet finally settled over.

———–

“Patient spiders catch the flies

They wait and spin all day

But dragons need no patience for

All the world’s their prey

Wood to ash and flesh to bone

Sun to rain and life to death

When you hear the dragon’s roar

You’d better count your final breath!”

Constantine swallowed a whimper behind the rough gag, the ache in his arms from their awkward binding a mere annoyance compared to the tightness of his chest. He twisted in the saddle, but couldn’t see around the burly man keeping him from falling off, much less anything else behind the whooping, singing formation of soldiers. Vendave’s soldiers had scattered, and the dead were left among the pine needles and fallen horses. Delgos had been left there, laying still in the fading light. An overnight camp and a ride at the break of day had given Constantine hope of rescue, hope that his guard would sneak in, alive and well, but the hope seemed fainter at every step of the horse.

“No need to keep squirming, Your Majesty,” the rider assured chipperly, a carved dragon in his helm sporting a gemstone eye. “We’re almost there.”

The trail split ahead of them, and the dragons made their way towards the better-used half, the dirt path giving way to tightly-packed cobblestones and the wide entrance into the walled and stitled city of Roger’s Ford. The Cielans were greeted warmly, and if Constantine hadn’t been so worried about his guard, he would have been more angered by their treason. The walk through the town was brief, a blur of decorated nets hanging above doorways, and colorful banners that stretched across the center square.

“Patrol the roadways, and keep an eye out for any prowling lions,” the gemstone dragon ordered, dismounting and pulling Constantine down with him. “Report in every hour.”

“Yes, sir!”

Constantine dragged his feet, and his efforts were rewarded by being unceremoniously slung over the soldier’s shoulder. It was a short walk of shame, before a tavern door swung open, and the King was dropped onto a wooden table as if he were a slaughtered elk from a prize hunt.

“A gift for you, sire. We found a few lost lions in the woods, and thought you’d like the look of this one.”

Although Constantine had heard plenty about the heir to the Cielan throne, this was the first time he had seen Kendrick, though he had never expected his first impression to be at this angle. Kendrick had his boots propped on the table, and he didn’t move even when Constantine was deposited there. The angle made his already long legs seem to go on forever. His hands were folded comfortably in his lap, keeping the front of his silver-embroidered tunic smooth, showing off the impressive dragon that curved across his lean chest. He smiled, the expression wrinkling the edges of his dark eyes, as hawkish as the curve of his nose and angle of his jaw.

“I don’t know, seems a bit small to be a lion,” Kendrick mused, nudging the bound royal with his toe. “You sure you didn’t catch a house cat instead?”

“Shall we put it back, Your Majesty?”

“No, not yet. I’m sure we could find use for a mouser somewhere.”

Constantine thrashed for a moment, but finally got his legs beneath him, enough to sit up and give Kendrick a proper glare. He tried to speak, but got a mouthful of cloth for his troubles, his frustrated growl only making the other King laugh.

“My father used to talk about the Runnemede line, how they were made of stone and fire. Why don’t you and the boys see what he’s made of, Captain? Find your weakest dogs, and let them have a go at him. There’s a decent clearing by the river. Just don’t let him give up and drown himself, huh? If he really is a lion, I’ll want his hide to stretch in front of my fire later on.”

Constantine’s muffled protest was wholly ignored, and the gemstone dragon pulled him off the table by his bound arms. He hit the ground hard, barely getting his legs under him to avoid being dragged along completely. The last he saw of Kendrick was a sharp smile and a condescending wave of his fingers, before the tavern door swung shut again.

“Rumor has it you’re good with a sword, little lion,” the Captain said conversationally, as if Constantine could answer. “Well, we cut our teeth on swords up north. We’ll see if you’ve got any claws after all.”

The edge of town broke into smaller fishing huts, and eventually gave way to a sandy sloping bank at the river’s yawning mouth, trees thinning for a few hundred years until they met the dark forest again. Early morning light dappled the ground, and a dozen or so soldiers lounged by the water, one of them casually fishing, the others tending to armor and weapons, chatting easily.

“Captain Everlin, what did you bring us?” one of the soldiers called in greeting.

“A man of cloth and straw.” He dropped Constantine on the sand, and leaned down only long enough to cut the tight ropes. “Cut a few branches and test him out, huh?”

Constantine ripped the gag out of his mouth with his half-numb fingers, and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

Everlin smiled, looping the cut ropes casually around his hand. “We know exactly who you are, Constantine Runnemede, son of Silas, son of Marius, King of what was formerly known as Vendave. Recent annex of the Kingdom of Ciel.”

One of the other soldiers tossed Constantine a rough wooden sword. “You’re target practice.”

Constantine caught the sword awkwardly, and quickly tried to rub the life back into his arms. “You don’t own Vendave yet, not by a long shot,” he snarled. “She will beat you back with every breath.”

“Until her last breath,” Everlin agreed. “Which will be soon. On your right, Your Majesty.”

Constantine’s sword caught the edge of his attacker’s just before it struck his shoulder. Pain rippled up his tingling arms from the impact, but he forced the other sword aside with a snarl. He countered almost immediately, striking the soldier just above the hip with a swift undercut. The men at the riverbank stood, forming a rough ring around the pair, and passing out more of the practice weapons.

“Oh, he does know how to use a sword!” Everlin crowed. “Maybe the lion’s got a tooth or two.”

Constantine ignored the ripple of laughter, moving into a stance of long practice to face the other soldier. The dragon grinned, but his next stab was sidestepped, and Constantine jabbed the end of his wooden sword as hard as he could into the soldier’s stomach. He fell to the sand, the air forced out of him with a choked noise. The dragons around them laughed. Two more soldiers stepped into the ring.

The sword ring was like coming home again, and Constantine could hear his trainer’s voice in his ear. Step. Parry. Counter. Step. Sword point up. Watch your footing. Counter. Parry. Duck. Counter. Stay defensive. Watch your flank. Step. Parry. Counter. Too aggressive, young Prince. Parry. Parry. Counter. Step over the winded soldier. Block a hit to the face. Stay defensive. Counter. Blood on the sand. Laughter in his ears. Pain in his arms. Step. Parry. Counter. Pain. Blood. Laughter. Parry. Counter. Parry. Parry. Parry. Fuck–

The butt of a sword hit him just below the eye, and Constantine fell onto his back. The sun lanced onto his face, its height and the burning in his lungs and arms promising it had been a few hours. Soldiers crowded closer. The practice sword cracked against his ribs. He spat blood onto the sand.

“Get him back on his feet,” Everlin called. “Surely you’ve got more left in you, little lion?”

Constantine wasn’t sure if the hands that helped him up were more friendly or rough, but his ears rang and his vision blurred. He tasted blood. He picked up his wooden sword, the end of it splintered. He wanted to face the crowd and see Kendrick’s smug face, wanted to spit blood and proof that he was no house cat, but the Cielan King was nowhere to be seen. “Until my last breath,” Constantine snarled.

Everlin smiled. “That’s the idea, Your Majesty.”

The sun arched higher. Bruises blossomed. The line in the water broke from a large fish, snapping through the unattended line in the midst of the fight. Constantine could no longer see, sand and blood and tears forming a paste around his eyes. His arms swung again and again, his head throbbed, his knees shook. He hit the ground. He got up. Parry. Counter. Pain. He hit the ground. He got to his knees, but his legs would allow nothing further. The sun burned at its zenith. His body burned.

He hit the ground.

Constantine waited for a blow that never came. He took in a shuddering breath, but instead of laughter from the soldiers, his dull headache throbbed in time with shouts and calls, whistles breaking the stillness of the river. He measured his breath. His hands twitched, dully trying to remember. Parry. Counter. Step. He was still on his back. He pawed at his eyes, digging splinters deeper into his raw palms. One eye remained swollen shut, but the other cracked open, blinded by the cheerful sun.

“Con!”

Sand clouded the sunlight as Delgos slid to his knees beside the King, cradling his face in his hands. “Con, oh Gods what did they do to you?” Familiar fingers soothed over his bruised cheeks, and Constantine was sure that this was blissful death, and he didn’t care. If Delgos was there with him, then he would walk any bridge, no matter where it led. His bloody lips twitched, longing to smile in relief, and he let himself fall into the beckoning blackness at last.

When Constantine woke, he was certain he wasn’t dead; after all, the dead didn’t feel pain. His groan of protest was met with a soft touch, and he turned his cheek towards the press of Delgos’ calloused hand.

“Don’t move too much, Your Majesty. You’re safe,” Delgos assured, lips close to Constantine’s ear. “You’re safe.”

Safe, and if he shifted just enough he could feel that he was stripped of his filthy clothes, balm applied to his bruises, and open wounds wrapped with fresh cloth. More importantly, Delgos sat beside him. Alive. Safe.

Constantine choked, and when the first sob bubbled in his throat, Delgos was there, climbing onto the bed with him to cradle him in his lap.

“I thought you were dead,” Constantine rasped, his dry throat protesting each word, still feeling as if it were full of sand and splinters.

“Well, I thought you were dead as well, so we’re even,” Delgos soothed, sliding fingers into his dark hair and kissing his brow. “I rallied the men, and we drove the dragons back to the border. I’m sure they’ll be back again, but for now–”

Constantine pulled him closer by his collar, kissing him with bruised lips. “For now,” he whispered, “we still have breath to fight.”