#pedrea

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“I’m looking for someone,” Enea says, teeth chattering. His grasp on the language isn't bad, can't be bad after so many years of living under its thumb, but it falls out of his mouth in too-sharp syllables, clumsy with cold. “He’s—he is—”

And what is Pedro, exactly? A sellsword. A mercenary. 

Enea doesn’t even know his last name. 

The woman, who until now has been eyeing him warily, softens. “Why don’t you come in,” she says, slowly, like he’s a bit dumb. “Get warm. Come on now.”

He goes easily into the inn. It is warm inside, so warm, and dry, and it smells like roasting meat. Enea ran out of food two days out of Llynford.

“By the fire, off with you,” says the woman. She bustles him over to it, stripping off the soaked tatters of his cloak and then sitting him down in a chair. “Just stay there.”

/

He hears it from a distance, half-asleep as he is. My lord. Yes ser, he’s right over there. Enea, were he not so exhausted, heavy to the bone with the desperation to sleep, might be afraid. He thinks the thoughts—ah, Flavio has found me—and then lets them go, submits to them. Maybe Flavio will take pity on him. Put him back to work, in a less reputable brothel to be sure but at least it will be somewhere Enea can get warm. And maybe—maybe Pedro—

He sucks in a breath that rattles. He’s prone to this, this sickness of the lungs. Maybe, he thinks, just maybe he’ll die before Flavio can kill him.

“Ah,” says a new voice. “Enea. It is you.”

When Enea opens his eyes it’s—Lord Marquez, stood in front of the fire, all broad shoulders and trim waist and generous smile. Marc Marquez is and always has been very beautiful. One of Enea’s favourite clients. 

Is Enea hallucinating?

“You are so far South,” he says distantly, because that seems to be the only thing to say. Marc laughs. 

“On my way back from the city.” He kneels in front of Enea, settling the blanket more smoothly over his lap, and peers up at him. “Now, you…”

Enea grins, exhausted, but satisfied. “I ran away,” he croaks. “I know your country has these laws, for your slaves.” He coughs now, shuddering as he realizes what he’s saying. “Flavio will have me killed the second he sees me.”

Marc’s smile falters, but only for a second. Most people wouldn’t have caught it but then most people have likely not fucked Ser Marquez.

“No,” he says slowly. “Not if I have anything to say about it.” 

And Enea keeps smiling. He wants to believe this—that Marc might protect him out of some misplaced loyalty, that Marc might feel like it’s something Enea is owed. Enea has never turned down a gift before. But the idea that he could be protected from someone like Flavio is so outrageous that he wants to laugh. 

“I came back,” Enea says abruptly, wheezing a little. He really does feel quite awful. “I could have—I went home. And I could have stayed.”

Marc watches him, features blurry and firelit. “It wasn’t home anymore,” he says.

Dizzily, Enea nods. Marc understands. He always seems to understand. “So I have come back,” he says again, “to find Pedro.” The edges of his vision are going spotty. Darkening, tunneling. He’s so tired.

/

“It would be better to stay,” Nadia gripes. “The weather is bad. Look at him, he’s barely awake.”

Enea makes a muffled noise of protest. He’s plenty awake. He’s following the conversation just fine, even holding his spoon on his own. 

“Really,” Nadia says, ignoring him. “Marc. Really.”

“He can’t stay in this part of the country,” Marc says easily. Finally. Anyone else might not have picked up on the hesitance, the resistance against offering up any information that he doesn’t explicitly have to share. 

“I’m a whore,” Enea offers helpfully. Marc and Nadia shoot him sharp looks, equally pointed in different shades. 

“He’s one of Flavio’s,” Marc says. The reluctance is more naked this time. 

Nadia’s face pinches. She looks nervous for a beat before she scowls, starts to mutter to herself. It takes Enea a moment to realize she isn’t speaking Marc’s language; she’s speaking his. “That blood traitor,” she says under her breath, going back to her dough, kneading furiously. “That scum.”

/

“Enea,” Marc says, soft, chin hooked over Enea’s shoulder. “I need you to stay awake a while longer.”

Enea grunts back at him. Why? He is so tired. The snow hasn’t started to fall but it smells like it will, soon; if only they were headed south. East. Anywhere but the north where Enea will be cold, cold, cold. 

“We will stop soon,” Marc tells him. “And we’ll have a fire, and you can rest. For now, tell me about Pedro.”

He’s quiet for so long it must seem as though he’s fallen asleep. Marc moves to jostle him, but Enea sinks into his hold.