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cienie-isengardu · 4 years

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The development of Law’s relationship with Zoro - Part 4: Dressrosa, The Breaking Point (Saving Law)

<<Part I: Before Meeting>> <<Part II: Sabaody Archipelago, The First Meeting>> <<Part III: Punk Hazard, The Alliance (A)>> <<Part III: Punk Hazard, The Alliance (B)>> <<Part IV: Dressrosa, The Breaking Point (The Plan Failed)__ (Saving Law)__(Protecting Law)__ (Birdcage, Pica and Doflamingo)__ (Aftermath)>>

The mission of saving Law (chapter 731) was carried by Luffy, Zoro and Kinemon, while Franky, Robin and Usopp were responsible for destroying the factory with the help of dwarves.

Before Luffy left the Colosseum, he met Sabo (his and Ace's long-lost brother that up to this moment was considered to die in their childhood) which made Straw Hat emotionally shaken. Due to the excess of emotions, Luffy couldn’t stop crying what didn’t go unnoticed by Zoro:

Though Zoro is usually lenient in regards to Luffy’s moods, the trio managed to run away from marines in disguises made by Kinemon and get close to Royal Palace while Luffy still cried without a proper explanation why. Zoro’s patience finally ran out:

Zoro not only told Luffy to get a grip of himself (“do you still want to go save Law?”), but also actually smacked him. This… is a very uncommon act for Zoro. Because yes, he never beat around the bush when it comes to telling hard truth nor hesitate to reprimand his nakama (or, just straight sum up their antics as “idiotic”), but hitting Luffy is mainly done by Nami and Usopp or Sanji. It can’t be said that Zoro never displayed “a rough approach” to Luffy before - because he did it too from time to time, especially in the earlier parts of the story yet after time-skip, I can’t recall any moment similar to this one. It is so uncommon now for him to lose patience in regard to Luffy’s antics and/or emotional “breakdown” to the point of hitting him and yet it happened when Roronoa and Luffy were in the middle of a rescue mission to save Law.

Luffy - a man for whom Zoro was ready to give up his life, and for whom he was so worried once he learned about Ace’s death - was a crying mess since he left the colosseum (and some time already have passed between that and now) and Zoro just smacked his captain in a way Nami and Usopp usually do. What speaks a lot about the level of distress / pressure he must have felt.

Of course, it is hard to tell for sure, if Zoro was so worried about Law because he already took to liking him, or was that more about saving ally as returning debt, since Law saved Nami, Chopper, Brook, Momonosuke and Sanji from Doflamingo. I personally think it is a mix of both reasons. Zoro always took seriously his duties and “promises” (and alliance is a form of unsaid promise) but for all Straw Hats, at this point of story Law was no more “just ally”. Whatever his reasons were, taking down Doflamingo was something very personal; a matter worth dying. Straw Hats, not even knowing the full story behind Law’s choice, did not want to let him down.

In the meanwhile, in the Royal Palace, Law was put on the throne of Corazon. It is hard to tell, was he truly unconscious or did he pretend to not bring the enemy's attention to himself but if the latter, he could listen to Doflamingo’s talk with (ex)King Riku about the situation. Luffy was stuck in the Colosseum, ignoring the plan. Franky was actually doing what he promised to do, but without any support, which was not good enough. Like Doffy said, the alliance's only pieces left were Pirate Hunter Zoro and samurai Kinemon whose location and intention were unknown. What wasn’t the best information but not the worst either - there was still hope Straw Hats had some plan in mind. Especially since Doflamingo did not mention at all what happened with the rest of the crew, so Sunny Go could sail already far away from Dressrosa.

On their way, the rescue team was aided by dwarf Wicca and Viola, who had personal reasons to hate Doflamingo. With her help, pirates get a chance to invade the palace by secret passage not known even to the enemy (chapter 735). The long stairs were going to take them inside lower part of building but Zoro came with smart shortcut by using “handmade lift”

While Kinemon was making sure Viola was not left behind, Zoro’s impatience showed up again by rushing Luffy - even though his captain wasn’t even fooling around and did as he was told.

Was Zoro in such a hurry because of the heavy pressure of time (Law captured by enemy willing to hurt him beyond necessary and Franky’s team already on move) or just simple desire for fight, hard to tell for sure. But in all fairness, looking how Zoro was willing to follow Viola to another secret passage rather than directly attacking enemy soldiers (in contrast to Luffy who simply punched the main door with gomu gomu no gigant pistol), seems like saving Law was a serious matter to him, not just an occasion for a good fight. His reaction to Luffy’s directness points to that too, because usually Zoro was first to follow the captain into fight and not so ago his idea to get inside the colosseum unnoticed was to cut it… gently.

Now, Zoro, Kinemon, Wicca and Viola were pretty shocked and / or pissed at Straw Hat. Zoro’s whole reaction was, well, extremely expressive.

Once Luffy made ruckus, Doflamingo was informed about intruders (chapter 736):

Since Doffy was still in the same room as Law, Trafalgar may or may not hear that Luffy (who was supposed to fight in Colosseum, to Doffy’s great surprise) and Zoro actually get inside the palace. To save him, instead of destroying SMILE Factory. What, in the current state of Law’s mind was the wrong decision to make.

Anyway, the rescue team was soon confronted by Pica, one of three top Doflamingo’s officers. Zoro stayed behind to fight with the enemy, so Luffy and Viola could head to the throne room, to save Law (chapter 740).

In meanwhile, Law clearly regained consciousness, listening in silence to Doffy’s rant about Straw Hats and their unexpected attack on Sugar and connection to the little Tontatta people.

Law of course couldn’t know what was going on since he had no information about Sugar’s role in enslaving people nor who the dwarves were. He said to Doflamingo he barely could understand what he was saying. Yet one look at his former boss (the biting nails reflex) could tell Trafagar how serious the situation was and maybe, just maybe the Straw Hats knew what they were doing which means that his plan wasn’t a total failure. Yet questioned, Law also said “I have nothing to do with them anymore… the alliance is over”.

Law could say that to confuse (mess) with already uneasy Doflamingo or because he truly believed the alliance was over - or maybe rather, should be, to not drag Straw Hats into their death? Most likely it was a mix of all reasons, but one thing was clear - Law didn’t wait for rescue.

Soon it turned out that Straw Hats dealt a serious blow to the enemy. Law probably didn’t know what was going on, but hearing Trebol crying(?) over the Den Den Mushi and seeing Doflamingo’s reaction was some sort of reassurance in the difficult situation of his.

A victory of the alliance that seriously reduced the enemy's advantage. Then out of nowhere, a one-legged man (Kyros) attacked Doflamingo and soon Monkey D. Luffy showed up to fight Shichibukai. Law’s reaction? So, so unhappy to see Luffy who should (alongside with Zoro) worry about destroying factory rather him (chapter 744):

Not that Luffy listened or cared for what Law had to say on the matter.

The situation get out of Doflamingo’s control to the point he decided to use “Birdcage” - something that clearly terrified Law (a detail that will be important later to talk about):

Luffy had a short lived skirmish with an enemy that ultimately ended by throwing Law, Luffy, Viola, KIng Riku, and Kyros out of the room by Pica (who went to aid Doflamingo). All of them landed in the place where Zoro already was (chapter 745), still looking for Pica who just disappeared during their fight. Doflamingo then started the Birdcage, intending to A) kill everyone (beside his own Family) before the truth would come out and B) make everyone play his “game” in which people murder each other (“Kill or be killed! All of the people of this country are now “hunters”!!! If you want to be saved… you have no choice but to take someone’s head!!!”) and C) set high prices on Straw Hat-Heart pirates and their allies. Zoro, Law and Luffy get on the list of course.

The next part: Protecting Law

#one piece #roronoa zoro #trafalgar law #The development of Law’s relationship with Zoro #monkey d. luffy #donquixote doflamingo #dressrosa arc #my analyze

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quamorphor · 5 years

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Interesting alternative Berserker servants for Ilya

Somehow I recently thought “Ilya is so proud of Herkules that she even reveals his identity. In hope that his sheer name fills the opponents with dread. But which characters from other sources could create a new dynamic?”

Candidate #1: Kyros (One Piece, Dressrosa Arc) also known as “One-Legged Soldier” and “Thunder Soldier of Rage”. His relationship to wife Scarlett and daughter Rebecca, the time as a toy who can’t feel things which it touches and the fact that he helped to dethtrone an usurper could teach Ilya some respect and a sort of compassion for her servant.

Candidate #2: Turin (The Silmarillion, The Children of Hurin) known under monikers like Turambar (”Master of Fate” - how illya fitting) and Gorthol (”The Dread Helm”). His family was cursed by Melkor/Morgoth and he later unknowingly married his own sister (who committed suicide when she found out about it).

Candidate #3: Cavendish of the White Horse (One Piece, also from the Dressrosa Arc) also known as “The Pirate Prince”. He would be great for a cracky joke oneshot because he would be a Berserker who rides on a horse, fights with a sword and discusses with his split personality “Hakuba”. His interactions with the canonical servants would be pure comedy gold.

#fate/stay night #one piece #tolkien #silmarillion #kyros #turin #turin turambar #one piece cavendish #candish of the White horse #Berserker #ilya #ilyasviel von einzbern

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laurent-ofvere · 5 years

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44 and 54 makedon and nik

“I could just pushthis up, no one will notice.” / “We have to be quiet.” N/M

Growing up in Akielos had been very instrumental in shapingNikandros as a man.

Spending much of his formative years in the company ofpower, Nikandros felt that he had garnered much knowledge in the height of revelries.Banquets and celebrations had become a regular thing for him, and he knew thatthe only thing more important than how to act during a festivity was how toextract yourself from one: A more intriguing offer. Contradicting pleasantries.The beckoning company of men and women.

It was what Nikandros enjoyed, what he took pleasure in. Tolead someone away and into the privacy of seclusion, to leave behind thedulling hum of a packed room and replace it with another person’s sounds inyour ears, closed in by four walls and the endless span of nightfall.

It was all easy to him, familiar. The only difference nowwas that in those times, Nikandros had been the leader. He knew how to coax. Heknew what it was like to watch as nervous reservations turned to an eagernessto please, to be good enough.

It wasthis unexpected feeling of being the prey that was new, almost as new as likingit.

It was never something Nikandros would have considered. Theconcept alone had always been transgressive, and that was part of what arousedhim so much. The curling in his stomach that came with an order, the hot flushthat spread down his neck as he was bent over. That it was his General bendinghim over.

It was precisely where Nikandros’ mind was at that moment,backed into a corner in a small corridor. It wasn’t quite there, yet. Nikandroswas still upright. His clothing was still in place, his wits relatively intact, though the direction things would take seemed rather absolute asMakedon’s arms remained on either side of Nikandros’ head, his teeth againsthis throat.

The General’s eyes had been on Nikandros for the majority ofthe evening, dark like they had been lined in kohl and filed with smoke. He hadn’t bothered toapproach Nikandros until it suited him, but each time their eyes met it wasfollowed by a raise of his drink in Nikandros’ direction, a familiar tilt tohis lips. By the time he finally made his way over, Nikandros was sure theentire room could sense his desperation.

They couldn’t, of course. They were all too focused on thesuccess of the day’s hunt and the barrels of flowing wine. Everyone had beentoo preoccupied to notice Nikandros being led away, the proprietary hand on hisshoulder that shortly became a push.

Nikandros bit into his lip as a strongthigh wedged in between his own, nudging up and down. The last time they hadbeen alone together, Nikandros has been on his knees with his hair in a tangleof fingers, his mouth slack and wet. They were hardly alone now. The flickeringpassageway was a poor excuse for privacy, and anyone passing could have easilycome across them and seen the way Nikandros was trying not to moan like a whore.

“Is this what you wanted, Kyros?”Makedon asked, his tone uncaring and proud like he was daring someone to walk inon them. He’d lifted his head enough to watch Nikandros try and meet thefriction, shifting gracelessly.

“No?” he said, when Nikandrosfailed to reply. He pulled his leg away slowly, grinning when Nikandros made amuffled protest in his throat.

“Anyone can see us,” Nikandrossaid, his cheeks burning. For all of Makedon’s posturing and remarks aboutVeretians, he seemed rather impartial to their proactive of public coupling.The last time Nikandros had raised the matter, it had resulted in gettingfucked from behind with a hand covering his mouth, unmoving until he came.

Makedon seemed equally taken bythe idea now. He’d stepped back into Nikandros’ space, crowding him against thewall. “Is that your concern?” he asked. He had the same look on his face that he wore whenone of the soldiers far beneath his rank challenged him in javelin. His hands,large and warm, went to Nikandros’ thighs.

“I could just push this up,” hesaid, speaking into his ear. His fingers were playing with the hem of hisflimsy chiton, tugging at the edge. ”No one will notice.”

Nikandros felt a palm begin to move under thecotton, smoothing up the inside of his thigh and rubbing. He groaned as fingerswrapped around him, his head full of thoughts of being pushed up onto his toes,his chest pressed against the wall. The General would hold his hips in place,only lifting his own skirt high enough to take his cock out.

“We have to be quiet,” Nikandrossaid.

The fingers around the base of hiscock tightened. Makedon narrowed his stony eyes on him, and Nikandros felt the way hiscock throbbed in his fist.

“Was that an order, Kyros?”

Nikandros lowered his eyes,panting. “No, sir.”

He felt the grip loosen a bit,though he didn’t dare raise his gaze. Makedon’s free hand came to rest on hisneck, his thumb playing with the shell of his ear.

“Good boy,” he said, before releasinghim altogether. “Now turn around for me.”

#asks #writing #captive prince #nikandros/makedon #THEYRE SO MUCH FUN #I LOVE THEM #asorry i had to change the bikini one a little bit #this just worked better #also sorry these prompts are taking so long im gonna try and get to them all #i'd intended to fill a bunch when i got home from work but i napped instead

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winterbites · 6 years

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Kyros is literally the man of men. This guy has been running around with one leg fighting his ass off for the last 12 years and is beating some serious Diamente ass right now. Like can you imagine being so badass that you're called the Thunder Soldier while you're turned into a toy? That's fuckin badass. Just imagine you're a newly hired guard and all of a sudden your superior is like "if you ever encounter a toy soldier with one leg, *run*" that's so fucking scary XD Kyros almost beats as much ass as Luffy does AND he cut off his own leg to do it and if that's not badass then idk what is

#kyros one piece #one piece #one piece luffy #mugiwara no luffy #straw hat luffy #monkey d. luffy #luffy #straw hat crew #straw hat pirates #dress rosa arc #dress rosa saga #dress rosa #donquixote family

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skull-bearer · 5 years

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Finally finished Tyranny

So yeah.

Nate as an evil overlord.

Fits... surprisingly well?

Nate definitely has his dark side, even in Fallout 4. He’s very opinionated, and confident to the point of being arrogant at times. He’s only 22-23, but assumes he knows things better than most of the people he meets; although in his defense, he’s very gracious and apologetic when pulled up on that. And while in Fallout 4 he usually is loyal to the right people, I can really easily see him bestowing that on someone who is... less than great.

Most importantly, if he’s faced with a group he considers absolutely wrong (ie, the Institute) he will go completely Hellraiser on their asses.

So it turns out Nate being a Fatebinder of Kyros was a pretty good fit. The oddest thing is that being part of a larger group and having a structure to rely on, even if evil, actually means Nate is less fucked up than Fallout 4.

“We belong to Kyros, our lives are theirs above all else. To waste ourselves is theft from Kyros so by the Overlord, Nathaniel you are going to eat something or so help me...”

So Nate actually has a reasonably functional relationship with food in this world. Yay for evil armies and their rudimentary mental health services!

His backstory is a bit different but I’m really pleased I actually get to include trans!Nate in something, since it didn’t really working in Fallout 4′s backstory, and so far all he’s had is a little cameo in Bite Back.

Much like in Fallout 4, Nate’s born into a country that is very war torn. It’s only of the last Northern provinces still holding out against Kyros after the capitulation of Graven Ashe and the now-Dishonored. It’s been at war so long they’ve pretty much forgotten what peace is like, and everything in the country is pressed into service.

And unlike Kyros’ forces, they have definite views on how women should help the war effort. Basically by having as many babies as possible to fill the failing ranks of the army.

Nate was about eight years old when he realised this was what he was being intended for, and unlike Fallout 4 Nate, he didn’t try and tough it out, but sensibly ran away in the middle of the night.

He changed his name, lived on the streets as himself for six years. He didn’t really think about the war, getting closer every year, but just focused on staying alive and dodging patrols, and getting around the increasingly draconian laws.

After six years, his luck ran out. He was caught by the guard for stealing, and brought in front of the captain.

Who turned out to be his father.

Nate doesn’t like to think about what happened after that. He knows, logically, that his father was trying to be merciful. Penalty for theft was execution, and his father must have thought having Nate serve in the Mothering House would be kinder.

But Nate really, really would have preferred to have his head cut off.

And unlike Fallout 4, he can remember every fucking detail of the next four years.

At least he thinks it was four years. There weren’t any windows. Four births, anyway. He’d stopped speaking after the second. He’d stopped screaming after the third.

By the time Kyros’ forces finally broke through the walls and took over the city, Nate’s only thought was about the same as his Fallout 4 counterpart when he saw the bombs go off- oh thank fuck please kill me, I don’t care just as long as it’s over

As the forces took over district after district, soldiers came into the Mothering House and gave them weapons. Ostensibly for the women to kill themselves rather than fall into enemy hands. Nate looked at the blade, and his mind went- sort of red all over.

Years later, when he’s telling this story, Verse nods knowingly, “Yep, that’s what it’s like.”

By the time the Scarlet Chorus reach their district, the only one left standing is Nate. Covered in about twenty different kinds of a blood and carrying a butchered infant by the leg after he’d broken into the nursery. They are suitably impressed and take him to Tunon instead of just killing him on the spot- which is really not what Nate wanted and he’s screaming kill me the entire way there.

It’s probably not the most auspicious impression to make on Tunon the Adjudicator. Drenched in blood and demanding to die. Tunon is... well, it’s hard to tell behind the mask but the general gist is Not Impressed and he might just be about to quietly wave Bleden Mark to please kill this thing before it gets blood everywhere-

And stops. Nate still isn’t sure why. He looked at Tunon and it was like- the first real thing he’d seen in years. Like everything around them was just- the smoke that rose from his robes, and Tunon was the only thing that really existed. The one solid presence in the world. A fixed point.

Nate drew a breath, and started speaking. The first time he’d spoken in years and the words just broke out like a dammed river. Maybe he’d been saving the words, ready for this moment.

It wasn’t the best argument, stumbling and full of dead ends and confused examples, but the points were fairly well laid out and surprisingly coherent given the ending argument boiled down to please kill me and everyone else in this city.

But he must have said something right, because Tunon didn’t move as he staggered to the end of his recitation and- just fell to his knees as though the words had emptied him of everything he had left. He was crying, and pretty certain he’s about the die and please, please-

And Tunon looked at him. “What is your name?”

Nate blinks, because- they’d said his name when he was brought in. And Tunon keeps looking at him and it suddenly clicks and Nate swallows down a huge lump in his throat that isn’t just blood because oh thank you thank you he’s going to die under his own name. “Nathaniel.”

“Under Kyros, your name is Nathaniel.” And Tunon brings down his gavel on the word.

“Funny thing about Archon Tunon.” Nate explains as Lantry scribbles his story down, “When he lays down laws like that, the world changes in obedience. Maybe it’s just embarrassed to have been found fucking up so badly.”

Nate looked down at himself. And it was himself. He was very proud, he managed not to be sick all over Tunon’s robes. He burst into tears instead. His body was still a wreck, four pregnancies did that to you regardless of apparent gender. But it’s his, it’s his it’s his-

He’s not sure who takes him out of the hall. It might have been Bleden Mark, he can’t remember. He vaguely remembers having a bucket of water dumped over his head and being put in a room with a bed in it. He looked at the bed, and had no idea what it was. He slumped over and quietly passed out on the floor.

His first day as a Tunon’s Fatebinder started with someone accidentally stepping on him. Calio never lets him forget that one.

“It would have been a waste of resources to kill you.” Barik points out as Nate finishes his story. “Anyone who can kill a squad of guards with a dagger and make a legal argument in front of a court is worth preserving.”

“Well, yes.” Nate shrugs. “But it doesn’t really matter, does it? Whatever reason Tunon had, this is what he did. And for that, I’ll love him forever.”

#nate brooks #tyranny #tw implied rape #tw killing babies

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aferryandanet · 6 years

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The Legend of Kyro Chapter 1

(Critiques/advice/your thoughts are appreciated!)

The familiar sound of a ball bouncing off stone rang out from my room of imprisonment. A toothpick was pinched between my teeth. My teeth being unfamiliar with hygiene. I lay flat against the vaguely, barely taller than the ground, bed-shaped slab of stone, which dirt and mold sought to reclaim. My fingers gripped the red rubber as the bouncing seized; a new sound tugging at my interest. After sitting up, my body stayed still as the repetitious whisper of boots to stone echoed down the darkened corridor leading away from my room.

My limbs trembled as reason retreated from the bowels of my mind. The whisper grew to a shout which hit my ears with each sounding yell. Shoulders racing to my ears as my face cringed in horror. The shout stopped just ahead of my door. Keys were sifted through for a perceived hour until the loud series of clanks of unlocking sent shivers down my spine; my eyes glued to the stone beside the metallic door.

“Up,” the guard’s gruff and low voice demanded of me.

With one swift motion, I stood up as straight as possible. My arms stayed at my sides as the guard’s eyes scanned over my form. I couldn’t see them doing such, but I could practically feel his sight glazing over my being.

“Leave,” he ordered.

I obliged, leaving the room and beginning to walk the same steps I had once before. The hallways, while lined with full cells seemed to be lifeless, no one dared to leave their beds without being told to. After taking a right I was met with an immensely darker hall, closed rooms lined the right, while dusted with age, oil paintings filled the left. At the last closed room, the guard demanded my stop; I did so without hesitation.

The guard had opened the door and then shoved me into the room. Panic began setting in as I quickly realized what this was. Before I could run back out, the door was shut in my face. I began to bang on the door. My spirit grew weak with each passing second. I stepped back from the door. Looking around the room I could see a single wooden chair in the very middle, an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling just above the chair and a large flag stretched across the wall that the chair faced. With my face swollen, I slumped into the chair and awaited a new guard.

My patience was not rewarded as a large, but unknown amount of time passed until the door behind me finally clicked open. The guard stepped forward and began to strap my wrists to the chair’s arms. I looked up at his face, tears streaming down mine as I began to stutter out the only sentence I could, my voice quickly catching up with my fear.

“Not… Not rebel… Not Kyro… Not them, not them, not th-!” my voice was cut off by a strand of leather being fastened around my mouth.

The leather was buckled in the back and the guard held my head so all I could see was the dimly lit flag. I froze, knowing what was coming… Until I was violently pushed onto my side.

The wall of my room was blasted open. The guard fell to his knees and was struggling to get up. My ears rang and my head ached; I desperately tried to pull my wrists out of the straps, but it was pointless. He pulled my chair back up and then stumbled. With my chair upwards I pushed the chair forward and fell onto my feet. I turned the chair’s back towards one of the walls and rammed the chair into it. Upon hearing it crack I ran forwards and back, slamming it into the wall once more. The chair split in half and I could move my arms again. I unfastened the wrist bands and unbuckled the band around my mouth.

Breathing heavily now, I grabbed the guard’s keys and pistol. The clear tank on the side read empty. With it being empty, the flintlock was essentially an accessory. I sneaked towards the door and began to unlock it when an arm was thrown around my neck. My body was thrust back into the middle of the room and I began to elbow my attacker in the ribs. Their grip loosened and I slipped away from them. It was another guard, his baton at the ready. I charged towards him, ready to tackle him to the ground.

With another explosion, the floor cracked and then gave way. We fell through and my body hit the ground. My vision blurred as my consciousness began to go. The last thing I saw was the guard I had tackled being shot in the chest.

…

I awoke sometime later, my body being dragged along. My hair felt wet; my vision still blurred. I was being pulled along by the legs; who was doing the pulling, I did not know. They eventually set me down and sat just in front of me. The light of a new dawn began to set on my face. I brought together enough energy to sit up and rub my head. Once I touched the back of my head though, I immediately retracted my hand and cringed. Looking at my hand I saw that it was slicked red.

I sat up and began to slowly slide away from the person just in front of me. I gripped my flintlock, hoping to at least have some security. I pressed my hand against a twig and it cracked under my weight. The person stood up and spun around swiftly. The barrel of a rifle now pointed at my chest. I raised my hands in a surrendering position, knowing that I was outmatched.

“You’re out of that hole now, you can speak,” they lowered the barrel.

Questions began to flood all of my senses, my mind struggling to put all of the pieces laid out in front of me together.

“Where… Am I? Who… are you?” I slowly found the words that had been locked away from me for so long.

“Outside... that,” they gestured to someplace behind me, “As for who I am, you’ll learn soon enough. Come on.”

They offered a hand to me; I grabbed it and they pulled me up onto my feet. My entire body felt sore, but it had begun to get better. Nonetheless, I had trouble walking. After the flooding thoughts began to subside, I could take in my surroundings.

We were in what looked like the outskirts of a forest. A bubbling brook ran past us. Brown leafed trees reached out towards us. A mountain watched the ants below it, its very top obscured by mist. We were walking down a dirt path nature had sought to reclaim.

My supposed rescuer I had assumed to be female. Her short, jet black hair bounced as she walked. She had on a blue buttoned vest and a white shirt underneath. She also wore black trousers. Her rifle was closely held at her side. She stopped at every sound, looking around and then with a sigh, began to walk forwards again. I had no idea where we were going, but what other choice did I have?

After what seemed like hours, we arrived at a small clearing. A roaring fire originally sat at the middle, but now its withering embers and charred remains were all that could tell its story. A furnished tent had been set up to the left. My rescuer checked the tent and then the fire and then the tent once more. She sat on a stump near the fire, tapping the grip of her rifle.

“What… is it?” I tilted my head to the side, concerned how the camp could possibly upset her.

“We’re the only ones here, there was supposed to be others but… Do you hear that?” She looked over her shoulder and into the surrounding forest.

It was faint, but it was there. I had much preferred the occasional rustling by wildlife than the distant, soft sound of conversation. It was far but it was there.

“Hold here, I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she got up and began to walk out of the camp towards whoever was talking.

“Wait-!” I began to say, but she had already entered the tree line.

I sighed and sat by the fire, pondering the circumstances I had somehow gotten myself into. It was grueling, but the Center was routine. Sure I was glad to leave, but can I trust her over the people that fed me every day?

I got up and walked into the tent. A table was placed at the very middle, with chairs surrounding it. A map of the area around the Center was laid across the table. A closed, small wooden crate was near the back of the tent. The chairs weren’t pushed in and books littered the floor. Upon picking one up, I had made it out to be a journal. I stepped out of the tent, flipping through it.

My mind had drifted ever so slightly from my current situation and I hadn’t noticed at first when she finally came back. My book was snatched away from me and my head flicked upwards at the robber.

“Not for your eyes,” the heat of her stare seemed to burn holes through my eyes.

“None of that makes sense… The Sheng have been here for centuries…” I desperately tried to fit the pieces I was fed and the pieces I just found together.

“Not interested in giving a history lesson right now. Come on, S-Soldiers are moving to our position. If you want to make it out alive, I suggest getting out of here.”

“Wait. You never told me who you are.”

She paused, biting her lip and looking from side to side before answering.

“My name’s Ia. Now come on. Please?” Ia had asked, her eyebrows raised and her face softened.

I obliged and we ran out of the small camp; she kept the journal.

#mystery #thriller #chapter 1 #kyro #writing #steampunk #author #jakob #ia

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laurent-ofvere · 6 years

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the angsty pallazar fic part 1

can be seen as somewhat of a follow up to this pallazar fic of mine in terms of chronology, bc that one goes into how they started fucking around wheres thes one just jumps into things

Pallas had taken many lovers in his life.

Though he was only in his early twenties, he had still spent much of his life traveling throughout the kingdom, experiencing all the delicacies his country had to offer. Whether it was his years spent in the army or all of the aristocratic endeavors that his birth had subjected him to, there was no shortage of men for Pallas to make his way through. Be that a son of a noble, a stable boy from his family’s home in Kesus, a man in an old tavern or a fellow soldier he’d shared company in the barracks with, he had admired them equally. Despite his early age, Pallas had been sure that he had sampled them all, and that there was nothing left that could surprise him.

That was, until he met Lazar.

Lazar had come into Pallas life like the storms that took Isthima in the summer: a slow building gradualness that could be acknowledged without begging concern, before hitting in a full burst of nature that threatened to wash the streets with ocean water and crumble homes into ruins.

Pallas hadn’t been entirely sure what to think of the man at first. Since they had caught sight of each other at Charcy across distinguishing lines, he had began to make his awareness of Pallas known in minute ways that were some odd combination of lazy and self assured, like it would take nothing more than a slide of his eyes and a low whistle for Pallas to be lifting his skirts for him at the nearest corner of privacy. It was part insulting, and part encouragement when Pallas did simple things like walk across camp borders or slather his body in oil before stepping up to his wrestling opponent.

It was inevitable that they ended up in bed together (if behind the barracks, followed by the first empty tent they could find constituted as a bed). Pallas wasn’t in the habit of denying himself the things he wanted, and he wasn’t a fool. He had known from the instant they had locked eyes that he was going to have him, it was only a matter of time.

Lazar was different, in ways that Pallas couldn’t initially put his finger on. At first Pallas had thought it was because of his Veretian roots, but it had only taken the weeks following the death of Kastor-Exalted where he spent unlimited time in the presence of countless other Veretians to see that they were all just more of the same, and that there was something else that set Lazar apart.

Pallas didn’t know much about him at first, or vice-versa. He knew that he was a soldier in the Veretian Prince’s guard, that he knew little to no Akielon, and that he fucked better than anyone Pallas had ever spent a night with. That fact alone was enough to sate any of his initial curiosities, and the notion was only reinforced the more time that passed. A sizable amount of Veretian soldiers had returned to Arles to ensure that it was protected on all fronts following the trial that had brought the demise of the Regent, but Lazar was part of the contingent that remained in Akielos under his prince while he waited for Damianos-Exalted to heal. Because of that, they had nothing but time, for the unforeseeable future.

Pallas hadn’t particularly minded the language barrier, despite the minor difficulties that it offered them. Pallas’ highborn upbringing had ensured that he knew an appropriate amount of Veretian, and if he was being honest with himself, he found Lazar’s lack of Akielon and his muddled attempts to speak the language quite charming.

He was trying to learn, to his credit. While they mostly spoke in Veretian, Pallas would occasionally point out an object and offer the Akielon word, and Lazar would repeat it back to him. His accent was strong, his tongue softening the harsh Akielon vowels in a way that was wildly contradicting to his rough demeanor, and that coupled with the determined set of his brow each time never failed to make Pallas’s chest temporarily feel like it was contracting.

“Don’t they teach other languages where you are from?” Pallas asked one evening in Veretian, after he had asked Lazar for his chiton and was handed his sword.

It was quiet outside in the dead of the night, only the sound of grasshoppers entering the small confines of his tent. Lazar had snuck in, as he tended to, barely bothering with either language before dropping to his knees.

Lazar turned his head to face Pallas, the tips of his dark hair grazing the pillow. “Of course they do,” he said. “The prince speaks Akielon.”

“The prince is royalty,” Pallas said, thinking of the quick glimpse he had gotten of prince Laurent that morning when he had been guarding Exalted’s sickroom, bustling past Pallas and through the doors with an intent look on his face. Surely he spoke the Akielon language, growing up in a palace with what was likely the finest tutors. It was not as if he had someone teaching him the language alone, in private, like Pallas was teaching Lazar.

“And I’m not,” Lazar said. “So I don’t see why I would.”

“I am not royal either,” Pallas said. “But I speak more than one language.”

Lazar made an offhand sound at that, a short laugh that didn’t manage to be more than a breath. He had an arm crossed behind his head, the line of his bicep tensing as he looked back up. “You and I don’t exactly come form the same kind of places.”

Pallas rolled his head back as well, pondering the idea. He thought of the home he had grown up in, the different ones he had taken lodgings in. The prearranged dances and the prim negotiations the nobility would hold, the ones Pallas was required to attend when he was not otherwise occupied. He tried to insert Lazar into that image, to view him side by side with his father, and then tried to stifle his smile.

“Where do you come from?” Pallas asked him, wanting the adequate information that could help him paint the proper picture. Lazar was good with his hands, perhaps he came from a family of blacksmiths.

“Ladehors,” Lazar said. “Why did you ask about languages?”

Pallas frowned. “What?”

“You brought it up when I gave you the sword you asked for.”

“Oh,” Pallas said. “Because I asked for my chiton.”

“Oh,” Lazar repeated, nodding a few times. His eyes moved up the length of Pallas’ outstretched legs as he did, and Pallas saw as they paused by his stomach, head stilling as well as he looked up. “Why would you need that?”

Pallas blinked twice, unsure if he had perhaps misunderstood. Lazar tended to forget that his Veretian was not perfect and spoke a little fast for him. He braced a hand on the bedroll. “To dress,” he said, pushing himself onto an elbow.

But his efforts went intercepted, his body stilling when Lazar pushed his hand above his head, the tight grip of his fingers similar to the way his legs were suddenly straddling his waist.

“I didn’t say I was finished with you,” Lazar said, his other hand going loosely around Pallas’ neck as he bent down and took his mouth.

Pallas wasn’t entirely sure what it was they were doing, or what was compelling the two of them to continue to go back to each other. There was certainly no shortage of places for the other to look for a tumble, and he knew their time together was to be limited, seeing that Lazar would be returning to Vere soon.

Perhaps that was it, Pallas thought as he rolled on top of Lazar. He knew who he was, and what his future would entail. Pallas could do whatever he wanted now, but he wasn’t negligent enough to entirely ignore his eventual fate. His birth had always promised him to another, someone who couldn’t possibly be farther away from Lazar and the person that he was. Dallying with someone who was similar to him, someone who would always be there was pointless. That could only potentially court sentiment, whereas with Lazar it was nothing more than an exchange of pleasure, and physical pleasure was always interchangeable.

Lazar was a good fighter, a better fuck, but most important was his expendability. Whatever transpired between them now was only temporary, and as long as things remained the way they were, Pallas didn’t see that becoming a problem.

It had been a long day. The Veretian captain Enguerran and Nikandros, newly appointed Kyros of Ios had implemented new drills at the king’s bidding, and the soldiers had been up and in the training yard from the first sign of light, not sparing a moment of precious time. By the end of the sessions Pallas’ bones ached, his limbs feeling like they could give out at any moment, his fingers stiff like the concept of uncurling them from around the hilt of his sword would be an impossibility.

Pallas valued it, the burning strain of it all, a sign of a successful day and the proof of his body being pushed to its greatest limits. He relished it, but not nearly as much as he relished the taste if Lazar’s cock, his hands tight in Pallas’ hair as he pushed deeper into his mouth.

Pallas’ jaw ached, his knees feeling sore on the ground as he gripped the backs of Lazar’s thighs. He was still dressed, not having bothered to remove his blue livery when he entered the tent once silence had fallen over the camp, and Pallas didn’t bother to do more than unlace the front of his pants before opening his mouth for him.

Pallas kept his eyes opened, from the strong line of Lazar’s jaw or the way his neck rolled as he swallowed, his own lip pressed between his teeth. He watched Pallas as he pulled out, slowly, his hooded eyes reflecting in the dim lamplight as he thrust himself back in.

The sound Pallas made was muffled, his tongue laving around the sides as he took Lazar in as deep as he wanted, pushing past his own barriers for him. The noise Lazar made was roughened, a string of words that were too muddled for Pallas to understand in his dazed state leaving his mouth in open breathes as he continued to thrust past his lips.

Pallas was unable to move like this, restrained by the strong grip of Lazar’s hands on either side of his head and the unyielding rhythm of his hips pumping forward as he fucked Pallas’ mouth as he wished, as Pallas wanted him to.

There was something about Lazar when he was like this, unrestrained, like the barely contained energy that he exuded each day on the sawdust against men who couldn’t handle his strength was being expended on Pallas now. He didn’t treat Pallas like a man of refined birth, a highborn noble who required polishing and dainty treatment. Here, like this, he treated him like a treasured find in an old brothel, like he was the only person capable of matching his most raw desires and wants.

Pallas’ scalp stung, the roots of his hair burning as Lazar tugged sharply, one hand sliding down to the nape of Pallas’ neck for different leverage as he pushed into his mouth once more, twice, his nails biting into his skin as he came inside Pallas’ mouth with a loud, unabashed groan. Pallas didn’t release his hold against his legs, not straying from his position as he swallowed down all of his spend, watching the look on Lazar’s face as he did.

The way Lazar looked after climax was something else that Pallas liked- had slowly found that he liked. His cheeks held the slightest tinge of a flush, though Pallas could never be sure if that was simply a sign of exertion that his lighter completion couldn’t hide, or something else entirely. His already dark eyes were like flames wavering against stained glass windows. His face, usually sharp with stark lines of determination and surety were softer, lighter, a layer of confident bravado temporarily stripped away so that he appeared years younger, vulnerable.

Pallas accepted his hand as he was pulled up off the ground, bringing them back to their near equal. Lazar released him after a moment, the edge of his lips quirking as he raised a thumb to the side of his mouth and wiped at the skin.

Footsteps sounded a few yards away, dead grass crunching under what Pallas couldn’t be sure were sandaled feet or boots. He took Lazar’s wrist in a light grip, swiping his tongue along the finger before finally releasing him, putting a single step of space between them.

Lazar followed him, as Pallas expected that he would, though he wasn’t quite expecting the way Lazar placed his palms on both of Pallas’ cheeks, pressing their lips together before implementing his own bit of space.

He said something as he adjusted his pants, words coated in the honeyed rumble that often came with release, though you are was all Pallas had been able to make out of the Veretian words, the third one foreign to him.

Lazar had a hand on the entrance of the tent, his head turned one last time, and it was only after the cloth flap fell closed and left Pallas to himself that he realized his heart was pounding.

To Pallas’ surprise, it was not just Lazar’s ability in a foreign language that was progressively improving. His Akielon was getting better, gradually, in that he was able to point out random words or state occasional phrases when Pallas wasn’t expecting it. They were usually broken and often incorrect, but the fact alone that he could remember a sufficient amount of vocabulary was a success in itself, and the accent that he couldn’t seem to drop was something that only made his valiant attempts sweeter. It was unclear why he was trying to learn, given that they could handle most conversations in Veretian, but his resilience behind each carefully pronounced syllable was something Pallas was slowly growing familiar with, in more ways than one.

“Who are they?” Pallas had asked that afternoon, watching as two men walked out of one of the palace corridors and into the courtyard. He was standing with a group of men, passing around a canteen of water. Aktis was at his right, Lazar at his left.

“From Patras,” Lazar said in Akielon. He spoke easily enough, though he pronounced it as Pah-trahs.

“What do you know of them?” Lydos asked, his shoulder on a wide stone pillar.

Lazar shrugged, accepting the water. “Huet is trying to fuck the tall one.”

But it was not just Lazar who was learning. Pallas had never known that Veretian had different dialects, or that it varied depending on what province you lived in. Lazar also taught him a few Vaskian terms of mountain slang, though none of them would be of much use outside of a bed. When Pallas asked him how he acquired any knowledge of the Vaskian language Lazar had only grinned, crossing his arms behind his head.

“Do you- with women?” Pallas asked. He heard how incredulous he sounded.

“I’m a man of many tastes,” Lazar replied. They were back to speaking Veretian, Akielon saved for a word here and there.

Pallas looked down at him, blinking. He thought of the scarce bits of knowledge he had heard about Veretian customs, how strict they were with who they were allowed to take to bed. “Is it not forbidden?”

“It can be our secret,” Lazar said as a response. He placed a hand on Pallas’ thigh. “Have you been to Vask?”

“No,” Pallas said.

Lazar hummed. His fingers trailed the edge of his chiton. “They would like you there.”

Pallas’ knowledge of Vask was limited. “Why?”

Lazar made a different sound. “For the same reasons I like you, I’d guess.”

Pallas’ hand – halfway to Lazar’s – stopped. His boots were discarded at the entrance, his jacket removed. He looked comfortable on his back, feet crossed at the ankles, not seeming to care in the slightest that he was lounging in Pallas’ tent like it was his own. Lazar had told him earlier in the evening that he wouldn’t see him that night, and Pallas had been too caught off guard with pleasant surprise when Lazar had still shown up to question it.

Pallas lowered himself down the bedroll, turning his body onto the side so he was better facing him. He waited for Lazar to open his eyes, only then taking his hand and placing it on himself.

“Tell me,” he said, moving it lower. “What it is like in Vask.”

Lazar grinned again.

For all the men that Pallas has been with, he had never spent so much significant time with a specific one.

It was not that he had any problem with consistency per se, more so that no one had managed to hold his attention long enough to go back to. He was never one to build up such a routine, to close his eyes at night thinking there would be something, someone waiting for him the next day. Such concepts were abstract, conceptual, and a notion better suited for a future. More specifically, a future that wasn’t filled with contracts, unions and obligations.

Seated on Lazar’s lap with his legs on either side of his waist, those realities felt far, far away. The last thing Pallas had felt walking across the courtyard and picking his way through the private, singular Veretian tents was obligated. Lazar’s shirt and jacket long ago discarded, his own chiton unpinned so It was pooled at his waist, the only thing Pallas felt as Lazar rubbed a calloused thumb in circles around his nipple while mouthing at his neck was alive.

Pallas spanned his fingers against his arms, the sensation in his stomach clenching when he felt the way the muscles rippled under his hands. Lazar raised his face to his, barely managing a kiss before Pallas was pushing him down onto his back, his hands moving to his shoulders.

Lazar’s hands went to his waist, reflexively, giving a not so subtle shift of his hips as his palms trailed down the sides of his thighs. “No foreplay today?”

It wasn’t a word Pallas was familiar with before Lazar. It seemed silly that Veretians needed a word for every individual action. “Do you need foreplay?”

He tried to pronounce it the way Lazar had, but he still heard the way his tongue struggled around the smooth vowels, jagged shards to polished glass.

His smile was impish, like it always was in these definitive moments. “Get my oil.”

Pallas remained on his knees as he crouched over one of his trunks, moving clothing aside until he found an inner compartment stuffed with cloth. He unwound it, shifting things aside until he came across a glass vessel.

The vial was wider than the ones Pallas was used to; the glass tinged a darker shade. He uncorked it, and the blunt sound it made had Lazar lifting on an elbow and turning to him, shaking his head only a second after Pallas realized it was the oil meant for filling the lanterns.

“That’s the wrong one,” Lazar said, motioning to a different compartment of the trunk. Pallas nodded, absently, peering into the vial.

“I realize,” he said, lifting it to his nose. He saw Lazar looking at him, lowering it to his lap. “It smells of lavender.”

Lazar was turned to him, pushing onto a second elbow. “It came from Vere,” he said. “Oils are typically scented.”

“Not all of them are,” Pallas said, having been in enough Veretian tents to know that there were non fragranced ones. He looked around the small perimeter of the tent, thinking about the way the oil slowly burnt as the flames diminished. He thought of the acrid scent that spread throughout, the way it tended to linger and make him feel as if it clinged to his body, even in the mornings.

He raised his head. “You like the scent of lavenders?”

A wasp had flown in through the billowing folds, its quick movements seemingly captivating. “No.”

Pallas leaned back on his palms, considering putting the oil to use so he could better see Lazar’s expression. “Should I pick you flowers after I’ve sucked your cock?”

Lazar was sitting up now, his mouth set in a way that desperately made Pallas want to laugh. He looked like a petulant child, arms moving across his bare chest. “Are we going to fuck or not?”

Pallas couldn’t help it, a bit of laughter leaking out from between pressed lips, feeling like some of it had seeped out from the confides of his chest, vibrating against his ribcage. He was moving forward, helplessly, not quite able to stifle his lingering smile, even as their lips pressed together.

Pallas’ future was not something he thought of much, at least not in the detailed sense. When he was eight his eldest sister had been married off to the son of a noble from Sicyon, close enough to the Delphan border that his father hoped to maintain some of intel, along with benefiting from their chain of vineyards. She had had to sever ties with her young handmaiden who always flushed in his sister’s presence, and Pallas remembered passing by the lower quarters at night where the washing was being done, the soft sound of weeping coming from beneath the door. When Pallas had asked his sister about it, she only patted his cheek and told him he would understand when it was his time.

That was a response Pallas had received many times, growing up. When his sister had to leave someone that Pallas had seen make her smile more than any other. When his parents would argue behind closed doors and he was too curious to ignore it. When his brother, nearing the age that his sister had been when she left, disappeared.

Pallas had never given the choice that his brother had made much contemplation, even once he had begun to understand it. His thoughts of him were more tangled up in reminiscences of sitting in their courtyard, watching him spar for hours on end and thinking, this is what I want to do. They never strayed far from those singular moments, those days spent training on the sawdust together. And yet, for reasons unbeknownst to him, memories of the morning he had woken up to find his brother’s chambers empty, along with his horse and favored sword seem to slip into his every day thoughts more and more, unwelcome and unignorable.

Perhaps that was why Pallas was thinking about it that evening, the white flowers and silk dresses that his home would be filled with one day, unlike the second pair of boots or the dagger that was currently left by his own things. He wanted to place all of his focus on the way Lazar’s hands felt under his chiton, his tongue tracing the line of his lips, yet he couldn’t stop the brief flashes of neatly scrawled ink on the folded over parchment that he had discarded the instant Lazar entered, telling him of how lovely the daughter of the Kyros of Aegina was.

Lazar noticed as well, it seemed. Only a few minutes of this had passed when he puled away, his hand still on the inside of Pallas’ thigh. “What?”

His lips were wet, kiss swollen. Pallas lifted his eyes from them. “Nothing.”

Lazar looked at him for a few moments, saying nothing. Pallas had seemed him look similarly at a target while spinning a spear between loose fingers, rearing back after a minute. Pallas shifted.

“Is it to do with the papers you were reading before?”

Pallas was silent, weighing all the different responses he could offer in his mind. it was odd to talk about, odder with Lazar, though he couldn’t be too sure why.

Lazar leaned back on a hand. “What was it?”

“Nothing important,” Pallas said. He tried to extend a hand, but Lazar only swatted it away with an amused tilt of his mouth.

“Did you steal someone’s letters?”

Pallas reared his own hand back, horrified. “That is dishonorable.”

He watched as Lazar rubbed a palm across his forehead, muttering a few words that he couldn’t understand. He asked of them, but Lazar only waved him off again.

“Tell me,” Lazar said.

Pallas drew up a leg, winding his arm around his knee. It was new, different for Lazar to be engaging him in something other than sex this intently. Maybe that was why he felt a sudden urge to talk.

“They are letters,” he amended. “From my parents.”

He waited for some kind of reaction to that, only to receive none. Pallas had spoken Veretian more those past few weeks than he ever had in his life, and his comfortability in the language had improved enough that he rarely needed to think before speaking, hearing the way Lazar spoke helping even more. He almost missed the slight hesitation, the excuse to put his attention elsewhere.

“All right,” Lazar said.

“They write to me every so often,” he continued.

Silence. He half expected some comment on the young soldier writing to his mother and father, but Lazar only gazed back at him with the same blank expression that Pallas hoped he was giving.

“This one specifically was about Calista of Patras,” Pallas said. “My prospective wife.”

A strong breeze bustled the tent flaps, common for the final summer nights in Ios.

“Wife,” Lazar said.

“Future wife,” Pallas corrected.

The air around them was still, the space between them silent. Pallas tried to put his finger on why he felt like he was holding his breath. This wasn’t necessarily the first time he’d had this conversation, and there was nothing unique about this particular one. And yet, some part of him felt like his legs were dangling off the edge of a precipice.

Lazar’s grin was slow building. It was languid, a little crooked, familiar in a way that Pallas almost mirrored back. “You’re marrying a woman?”

Pallas flushed. He hoped that his complexion didn’t show it, but was sure that the quick aversion of his eyes did. “I- well, yes.”

“Care to tell me why?” Lazar said, nudging him with an arm. “Am I keeping you unsatisfied?”

His neck still felt warm. He wanted to put out the lanterns, to go outside for air. “It’s expected.”

“Expected,” Lazar repeated.

“Yes.”

Lazar was no longer looking at him, but he still had a wry smile as he shook his head. “Fucking aristocrats,” he said. And then he laughed, shaking his head again.

He hadn’t expected to hear his laugh, the low, almost reserved sound. “What?”

“I don’t know what tomorrow will bring me,” Lazar said. “And you already know how your life will end.”

“It is my duty,” Pallas said, automatically. He had lost track of how long they were sitting there, talking.

“Well, I think it sounds awful,” Lazar said.

Something about that gave Pallas pause, had him looking at Lazar with a more considering eye. He was reclined casually, comfortably, seeming entirely unruffled by the discussion of marriage. Disinterested even, aside for Pallas’ personal involvement. “You don’t believe in marriage?”

“I don’t believe in doing things I don’t want to,” Lazar said, looking up at the tent poles.

Pallas was watching him in the same way. Lazar wasn’t someone who typically spoke of himself at length, that much was apparent. Testing the possibility like the dip of his toe in cold water he said, “what do you want?”

Lazar straightened his neck, looking back at him. He reached a hand out, and suddenly his fingers were curled around Pallas’ wrist, tugging.

“I want,” he said, pulling Pallas down on top of him. “For you to fuck me.”

It was the middle of the night. Or nearly morning, depending on how Pallas looked it. He had yet to fall asleep, his legs drawn up with only a thin sheet pulled across his lower body. He thought it might be the hot air keeping him up, thick and humid, but growing up in Akielos had made sure he was accustomed to such weather. If he was being truthful, then it likely had more to do with the fact that Lazar was still laying beside him, despite how long ago they had both finished, Lazar even redressing most of the way before taking his spot back up on Pallas’ bedroll. That had immediately sparked in Pallas’ mind, and it was just about as uncommon as the way Pallas’ thoughts were reverberating in his mind.

He was thinking of that evening, the way he had been sitting on a log by the fire, a mug of wine between his hands when Aktis had joined him. Aktis was a few years older than him, as most of the men here were, but their age difference did nothing to impact the way they had grown together. Their close proximity and similar circles had allowed them to train together, to aspire together, and those twinned ambitions had brought the two of them here, serving under their king.

“You keep watching him,” Aktis had said.

A second passed, another, Lazar laughing at something another soldier said before he turned to Aktis. “And?”

“You don’t just watch,” Aktis continued. He had a drink of his own in his hand, but made no move to sip from it. “You look, like his attention should be yours.”

Pallas scoffed. He lifted his mug to his mouth, licked the wine from his lips. “He’s not mine.”

“No,” Aktis agreed, looking at Lazar himself. “What would your mother and father think?”

“It’s not-“ Pallas frowned. “He-“

Aktis lifted a brow, dark and naturally shaped with a strong arch. Pallas considered how to reply, what to reply, when the spot on his other side was taken. Pallas hadn’t needed to look, he knew the way that arm felt around his shoulder.

“Is this for me?” Lazar said, taking the wine from his grasp and drinking. Long, deep gulps that left his lips colored and wet.

“You share drinks?” Huet asked, another Veretian soldier who Pallas did not know well but knew Lazar considered a friend. He had taken the spot across from him and Aktis without him noticing, two more men joining them shortly after.

Lazar set it down on the grass, watching Huet as he did. “We share more than wine.”

Pallas had glanced at him, the fire making his face feel hot. He hadn’t minded the insinuation, not really. He was sure everyone there wanted Lazar, wanted to be in his place, but it was still an odd thing to be spoken about in public, and only made more so when Lazar had brazenly followed him to his tent.

Now, Pallas turned his head to the side so he could watch the way Lazar dozed with his eyes closed, the tips of his fingers brushing along his midsection. He had a scar on his face, small, a faint line running down the side of his left brow in a jagged line. He reached out to touch it, and it was the quick, embarrassed withdrawal of his hand that had Lazar opening one eye.

“What?” he murmured. His voice was languid with sleep, but Pallas knew he had been awake from the way his breathing had not yet evened out.

Pallas had pulled his hand back to his side, a little mortified by his impulsive act. He thought back again to the way they had all sat together for well over an hour, the way Lazar’s hand had only moved from his shoulders to the top of his knee.

“You really don’t care?” Pallas asked.

Lazar had both eyes opened then. “What?”

“To talk about-“ He didn’t know how to phrase it, this. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, motioning to where Lazar’s head was now resting by his hip.

Lazar followed the movement of his hand, his gaze trailing up Pallas’ arm and to his face before he snorted, looking back up. “I’m the luckiest man here,” he said. “Why should I care who knows it.”

Pallas’ lips parted, his fingers gripping the edges of the sheet so he didn’t do something stupid again, looking at the ground and remaining silent. He felt, a bit ridiculously, as if he was in the middle of a battle of long sword when a second dagger was suddenly pulled on him, and he didn’t quite know how to subdue the feeling.

Lazar sat up, abruptly, the bedroll ruffling beneath them as his knees pushed into it, turning so they were facing each other. He looked at Pallas like he was waiting for something.

“Those matters are private,” Pallas said, keeping his voice neutral. “And you don’t even pretend to deny it.”

“Deny it?” Lazar repeated. “Who am I, Damen?”

The name took a moment for Pallas to register, one too long. By the time he realized who Lazar was referring to, his brows were tugging in a downwards line without him even meaning to. “You should not talk that way about Exalted.”

Lazar made a noncommittal sound, a flick of his wrist. “He doesn’t mind,” he said. “He’s used to it from the march south, all that time with Veretians.”

Pallas bristled at the familiar tone. “He is my king.”

Lazar’s hands were against his chest. They were crossed against his middle, tugging on the loose laces of his shirt that fell down beside each other. “I never said otherwise.”

“Then you should speak of him with respect.”

Lazar was unflinching in the way he was looking at Pallas, and it did nothing to deter the way he looked at him back. He didn’t know what this was, this sudden rush or irritation – of despondency – that he felt, only that it came on like a wave and it didn’t seem to be going away. He felt as if-

Lazar was pushing himself up. His expressed was crossed with something new, a shadow passing over face as he looked down at Pallas. “Have I upset you, my lord?”

The wave crashed, dousing his bones in rattling ice water. Partially from the statement, partially from the way the last two words were spoken in Akielon. “Excuse me?”

His feet were in his boots. He was tugging the laces together, and Pallas struggled with the sense that something was slipping out of his grasp.

“Do you think I’m one of your prim, repressed suitors who need to act polished for you?” he asked. Pallas thought the word meant prim, his grasp on Veretian felt a little disarrayed at that moment. He sat there, wordless, simply watched as Lazar finished doing up the front laces of his jacket, pulling at the collar one strap too tight. “Or have I spoken out of line?”

Not for the first time, Pallas wondered how it was that Lazar made it to the personal guard of a soon to be king. He had seen him train, he knew his capabilities, but he also saw the way he tended to carry himself with a certain level of utmost indifference. He often toyed with the notion of him catching someone’s eye, of his impeccable abilities bringing him under the prince and a hearty compensation, without much of his own ardor either way. The thought, once again, nestled in his head.

“Even if you didn’t chose to be here,” Pallas said, watching Lazar retreat and ignoring the way he felt it in his throat, “it does not mean you shouldn’t honor your royalty.”

Outside, the camp was long asleep, the palace surely the only place where people bustled at all hour of the night to keep their king alive.

Inside, Lazar stopped straight-backed with a hand on the post, his shoulders a rigid line. He turned, drawing the flap aside before setting his eyes on Pallas’.

“I would die for my prince,” Lazar said, taking the step out. “You know nothing about the choices I’ve made.”

Pallas was patrolling the courtyard, as was one of his tasks that day. It was mid morning, early enough that the trees were still bathed in a golden light that poured out onto the rest of the gardens, making each flower and blossom seem like something out of a dream, a honeyed fairytale. Pallas’ hands were behind his back, his eyes not staying in one place as he walked the long grounds, several other soldiers visible a ways off.

He circulated the fountain in the center of the grass, its three straight levels that decreased in size as they rose, water spurting out of the top and trickling down the ledges into a stream where lily pads floated throughout. A bird landed on the marble animal mounted on top, its musical chirping soft in the still air.

The bird was blue, the sort of shade that only needed to be threaded in gold to resemble the livery that he would see if he looked anywhere around himself, and yet he hadn’t actually seen in days.

The bird jumped from one foot to another, flapping its wings enough to take him onto the edge of the fountain, to the base, then off into the air where it flew far enough that Pallas needed to pivot his body to follow the path it made, eventually setting Pallas’ gaze on the two figures standing beside the pillars.

They were under an archway, wide and curving upwards with winding vines, pink flowers trailing down its ends. The pillars were thick, enough shade provided to block out the blaze of the sun and to offer a sturdy surface for Exalted to rest his back, leveling the weight of his body.

The fact that the king was outside was shocking in itself, and a testament to how far his recovery was progressing. More than once on guard duty outside his sickroom, Pallas had heard the Veretian prince reiterating to the physicians in an eerily calm voice that all decisions regarding when Damianos left his bed went through him, and that they were to ignore Damianos altogether. The notion itself was preposterous, and yet he hadn’t seen him leave his sickroom until now.

The prince was by his side, a mere few inches between them as if his close proximity alone was holding Damianos up, or holding him together. His posture was straight, bordering on rigid, and even from his vantage Pallas could see the way his eyes would rarely lift from Damianos’ mid section. It was there they stayed, unmoving, until a knuckle was brought beneath his chin.

Pallas took a step back just as the prince lifted his head, both of them acting in a similar kneejerk reaction. Damianos was smiling, a certain look that Pallas had never seen on him in the short time he had had the honor of being in his close presence. His king was handsome, his features always etched in warmth and kindness, though above all he held himself with a certain poise and regality that was quite unlike the way he was murmuring around a crooked grin, whatever it was that he was saying being enough to cause the prince’s cheeks to color like the blossoms framing them both.

Pallas looked elsewhere, turning his body away like a wall. It was improper for him to be watching, an intrusion that was beneath him and that he was already regretting. He continued his stride around the grounds, retaking his usual position of crossed wrists and a raised head, clearing his throat with a mouthful of air. As he followed the sounds of the soldiers from the barracks, he tried not to think of the last time he had seen a look similar to the one he just witnessed, and what Damianos slowly being able to leave his rooms meant.

#captive prince #writing #my fic #the angsty pallazar fic #so here is what i have so far #if you were interested #it also stops right when things actually started to build up so hahah i suck

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