#lazaar

Lazaar-

Several feet of green grass was the only barrier between the Akielons and Veretians. Jord and Huet stood at the edge of the gap with folded arms and watched as the Akielons set up camp. Lazaar joined them leaning against a post. Jord glared silently. He hadn’t been the same since Ravenel. No one blamed him, but he was far less easy-going and there was a much more palpable disdain directed towards the Akelons. Or maybe just one in particular.

Lazaar had never been this close to so many. The prince’s slave was the most time any of them had spent with an Akielon. If he had decided to turn on them it may have taken ten or fifteen of them to hold the giant down, but eventually, they would have managed. Now there were hundreds of the barbarians. 

Was there a cloth shortage in Akielos? There was little left to the imagination. A younger one walked by, his chest bare, only a small wrapping around his hips. Lazaar, with fingers between his teeth, whistled a catcall. The Akielon turned, his large puppy-dog eyes found Lazaar. He blushed. The dark skin turned ruddy. He quickly looked away and hurried off. Huet laughed at the response and shouted after the young Akielon. Lazaar was surprised. It hadn’t been the reaction he expected and he watched the Akielon until he was no longer in sight.

Nikandros-

“If Theomedes were still here— we wouldn’t be— this would never—” Makedon trailed off and peered into his empty chalice. He groped for the wine pitcher. “Prince.” He slurred his words, “Pale and puny. Looks more like a bed slave. Bet he can’t even lift a sword.”

“I wouldn’t want him in my bed. He’d probably bite someone’s cock off.” Nikandros wasn’t nearly as intoxicated as Makedon but wished he was. He had lived with the idea that his best friend, Akielon’s rightful ruler, was dead. Finding him alive had been a short-lived relief. The Veretians had made the prince of Akielon a slave and instead of wanting revenge, Damianos had formed an alliance with them. Nikandros was certain he’d lost his mind. He even still wore the slave cuff on his wrist, as if proud. It was an insult. Nikandros’ confusion over Damen’s insanity had been quickly cleared when he’d seen the Veretian prince. Another blue-eyed blond, of course. Typically the infatuation didn’t last long. A few hours in bed, and Damen would move on. Jokaste had lasted the longest, but even she hadn’t kept Damen’s exclusive attention.

“He needs a good fucking,” Makedon slurred his words, “He’s as stiff as a statue.”

“I’ve heard he’s celibate.” Nikandros knew enough of the Veretian language that he understood what was being said about the icy prince. He hoped that was false. If Damen couldn’t bed the Veretian prince the entire Akielon nation may be doomed. There had been some satisfaction when Damen had placed a matching slave cuff on the arrogant prince during the day’s ceremony.

“Shoulda just taken the prince hostage and controlled the Veretian dogs that way.”

“You’re drunk,” Nikandros said, but privately agreed.

Pallas-

After years of training, Pallas had thought this opportunity had been taken away from him. The first time he’d seen Prince Damianos was as a young boy, too young to catch the prince’s eye. He became a soldier with the hopes of getting close to the prince. The news of his death had been heartbreaking, all of Pallas’ dreams had been swept away. Now was his chance to prove himself and make Damianos notice him.

The ceremonial games were starting soon and Pallas prepared, making his body was warm and ready. The others were excited to take out some aggression on the Veretians, all certain they stood no chance in the Akielon games. Pallas only wanted to win three times. Just three times and he could challenge Damianos. 

The whistle made him turn. He should have known better, days of the catcall and he was still gullible enough to look. Of course, it was that lanky Veretian with lecherous grin in place. Pallas turned away feeling his face warm. This was not a day to be distracted, his king was watching. 

Everything was going as planned, he had won two competitions and was stepping onto the field for the long sword competition and realized his opponent was the lanky Veretian. He looked at Pallas approached, an obvious up and down glance over his body. Pallas’ heart rate picked up. Why did this happen? It was the closest they had been. The man had a roguish handsome face, wearing scars of old battles and a confident grin. Pallas had been surprised by his opponent but was still confident in his ability.

He lost. 

It had been grueling. The Veretian barely seemed winded and had bested Pallas effortlessly, his technique was masterful and unique. He seemed to know exactly what Pallas would do while all of his attacks had been unpredictable. A different Veretian won the long sword competition. 

Despite the setback, Pallas won three events and was given the honor of challenging Damianos himself. He was no match for the raw power. Ultimately he didn’t mind the loss, he was pleased he’d been noticed and that Akielon’s ruler was so mighty. Secretly he couldn’t deny his pleasure at just being in contact with Damianos. It was a sport, but it was also, almost, something else. Something Pallas had yearned for since first seeing his future king.

Jord-

Laurent had always been difficult to read, hiding his emotions and frequently speaking in a cold sharp tone. Over the years, Jord had slowly gotten better at understanding his distant prince and could notice the subtle differences in his moods and expressions. With everything going on it was understandable that Laurent would be inconsistent. Jord had noticed the difference after Ravenel and Damen had told him that he had taken the prince to bed. He didn’t consider himself a quick-tempered man and if Laurent had shown any signs of displeasure, Jord would have been honor-bound to try and slay the Akielon.

It was after Charcy that Laurent’s temperament changed, suddenly cold towards Damen, or rather, king Damianos. Jord gritted his teeth at the thought of having to formally address the prince killer. The alliance shouldn’t have come as a surprise, Laurent would make any necessary arrangements in order to retake his throne. The ceremony, however, had made Jord’s blood boil. His prince now wore a slave cuff. The matching one to Damianos', who had lied to all of them, but more importantly had lied to Laurent. 

It was clear Laurent was unhappy. When there wasn’t some issue to take care of or some other princely duty, he remained in his tent. Alone. Jord had seen him begin to open up to the slave, they had spent a lot of time together and the prince had seemed comfortable, if not amicable. Jord was sorry Laurent was hurt, and more sorry that he possibly could have prevented it from happening. Maybe he should have told Laurent right away of his slave’s true identity, even if that meant Damen might have lost his life. 

After keeping an especially vigilant eye on the prince it became clear what was happening.  Laurent was not just lonely, he was pining. It was only obvious in the way he blatantly ignored Damen, not sparing him a glance. It made sense, in a convoluted way, that this would be Laurent’s approach. He liked to exercise his willpower, and resolutely avoiding something he wanted was an excellent way to achieve that. Damen was the opposite, nearly always watching the prince.

Everything changed at Karthas. It was obvious what had happened, but not so much why. Whether good or bad, the prince seemed happy. It was almost out of character. Jord only hoped it would last.

Paschal-

Paschal had never expected that he would need to tell Laurent to get out of another man’s bed. Ever since Damen had been wounded by his brother, Laurent hadn’t left his side, choosing to take all of his meetings, meals, and rest in the king’s bedroom. It hindered Damen’s healing process as Laurent's presence was too much of a distraction. Paschal expected this behavior from Damen, but Laurent had more self-control, or so he had thought. Months of ignoring Damen and now he wouldn’t leave him for more than a few minutes. Laurent may not have purposefully initiated anything physical but had to be aware of the temptation he posed.

One early morning, an apologetic Laurent had woken Paschal saying sheepishly that Damen’s stitches had been torn.