#lilon

The other man smiled, gave a little bow—to him, Elgar—and left with a last glance at the prince, who seemed to be sleeping in today.

The princess’s personal slaves, Elgar had learned, had been a wedding gift, brought into her marriage with the Ochurian Crown by the queen. Thirty of them total, to be split up between the siblings and the queen; in fact, two of the ones now in the princess’s entourage belonged to the prince, having been redistributed after his assumed death.

They seemed as pleased to have him back as anyone. Elgar was dying to talk to them, to learn from their own words that they were alright and being treated well, but of course his language skills were far from that. For what it was worth, he hadn’t noticed any injuries, even bruises, and they all seemed well-fed. They were expected to follow orders, of course, but who wasn’t? He’d even seen them chat and laugh among themselves, the way he and the prince would never have been allowed to.

Surely, they had drawn a fair enough lot, for slaves.

They seemed to regard him with a mix of curiosity and suspicion, especially when he tried to stay closer to them during the journeying. He didn’t fit with the royalty, he knew that, but clearly the slaves didn’t think he fit with them either; maybe they were worried what the prince would think if they treated him as an equal.

Elgar couldn’t blame them. He didn’t know what the prince would think, either, though more and more he started to entertain a faint hope his kindness would last, that his gentleness was genuine.

That flutter he had woken with was an echo of last night. He remembered, although it seemed almost like a dream. He touched his own forehead, where the prince had asked to kiss.

As if it was Elgar’s decision what happened with his body.

He swallowed, looked down at the prince—he slept so soundly, when Elgar knew he had always woken early these past days, and suspected why—and then got up to look out the window, which the slave had thrown open for the prince to wake to fresh air. The breeze helped clear Elgar’s mind, too.

The golden morning sun that just crept over the horizon poured its light over a rocky hillside, at the bottom of which a few houses huddled, with more scattered on the surrounding hills. Flocks of goats dotted the rugged landscape. The road had been getting rougher and rougher, and it had to zigzag up to the local manor they now resided in.

It was different from what Elgar knew. But maybe that could be a comfort.

A soft yawn called his attention back into the room. The prince had sat up, caught his eye, and smiled, giving him a little wave.

»Good morning, your Highness.«

The prince smiled wider hearing him speak in his language, and gave him a little thumbs-up, so brief it almost seemed shy.

»Have you slept well?« The question just popped out; he couldn’t usually bring himself to be casual with the prince, how could he? He had to switch back to Teeradian, too.

For a moment, the prince looked thoughtful, his smile running away; then he nodded, just as thoughtful, and the smile came back.

He pointed at Elgar, questioning, and now Elgar couldn’t help a smile of his own.

»Me too, thanks.«

* Orafin had never really seen Elgar smile before.

He realized it with perfect certainty now, because while Elgar had been handsome before—the curse that was a significant part of landing him in their master’s bed—now, in a moment, he was beautiful in a way that went beyond mere looks, something his fearful false smiles couldn’t begin to emulate.

He must be finally feeling better, and that was the best part of it all. Orafin’s heart felt fragile, after whatever it was that had happened last night, but now it felt lighter.

He got up and went to look out the window beside Elgar. He wondered what Elgar saw, looking out at this landscape that was so familiar to him, but, by all accounts, much different from flat, seaside Teeradia.

Elgar must have noticed something about his expression; he answered. Orafin was more than glad to hear it. Elgar had avoided speaking without being spoken to, and he, Orafin, couldn’t speak to him.

»It’s, um. It’s pretty. Different, but… pretty.«

For a moment, the thought dashed through Orafin’s mind that these words might as well describe Elgar himself; but he cast it out just as quickly. Others might think that, but he knew how alike they were.

He gave Elgar another smile, then went to wash. When he was done, he knocked on the door for Lilon, one of the slaves now returned to his service. Of course he could dress himself, but it was proper for a prince to be attended to—even if the thought sat askew in his soul now, somehow. He pushed that feeling aside, as well.

He didn’t want to cry again so soon.

Lilon entered in a moment, bowing to him before he went to assist him. »Good morning, Sir.«

Orafin accepted the help, like he had a thousand times before without sparing it a second thought. And yet… that, too, felt uneasy.

He had to remind himself that no slave in their family would ever suffer like he had, or like Elgar had. The laws of Ochuria didn’t even allow it.