Chapter Text
There was an ancient Patran legend, told in scrolls and songs and whispers, of an artifact that could grant its user the power to change the past. In some versions of the tale, it was a golden brooch set with rubies; in others, it was a shining silver medallion; in still others, it was an heirloom diamond ring. Some said that it was a keepsake of the royal family, and others insisted it was created by a hidden coven of witches that inhabited the far east of the land. More often than not, most infuriatingly, the stories would end with a moral objection, or an insistence that its events were purely fictional.
Laurent had read every version of the tale, and heard of a few more, tales of tales. His uncle had called it a flight of fancy, a boyish preoccupation borne of Laurent's grief at losing both his father and brother at a young age, but even so he could be persuaded into indulging his nephew on occasion; more than once he had presented young Laurent with a weathered tome or old scroll, adorned with ribbon, with a brand new version of the story of the magical charm written inside.
"But do remember," the Regent would say, fondly petting Laurent's hair as the boy read, "some legends are merely legends."
Laurent, absorbed in his reading, ignored him.
--
The plan was slow-going, once Laurent began to put it into motion. It began with a letter to the Patran royal family in Bazal, largely about affairs of state but with a small personal inquiry couched within the pleasantries near the end. The return letter was a disappointment, with no mention of Laurent's request, and Laurent began to ponder alternate methods of investigation; but then, one week later, a second letter arrived by private messenger, signed and sealed by Prince Torveld.
Their correspondence continued over the following year, scraps of information obfuscated within paragraphs of unrelated matters. Torveld's search on Laurent's behalf spiraled out from the capital in a thousand different directions; most were dead ends, as Laurent expected, but both he and Torveld persisted until finally, miraculously, the Patran messenger arrived at the palace in Arles with a small bundle wrapped in fine silks.
The object within was unassuming, as Laurent had expected; in all his years of scholarship, he'd learned that material details were the ones most often exaggerated. It was a simple copper talisman in the shape of an hourglass, which hung from a delicate chain. The chain was such that if Laurent were to wear it around his neck, the hourglass would rest against the center of his chest.
Laurent did not wear the chain around his neck. Instead, he folded the talisman back within its wrapping of silks and tucked it away beneath the false bottom of a drawer in his writing desk. He then sat at the desk and penned a return letter to Torveld, full of shallow sentiments and well-wishes. He did not mention the talisman at all.
Five more months passed as Laurent planned. The execution had to be perfect; there was no room for error. Nearly every version of the story was a morality tale, a stern warning against hubris, or avarice, or any number of other vices that Laurent was determined to avoid at all costs. A mistake at this juncture would mean losing what little he had left. And so he waited, and planned, and bided his time.
But for all that Laurent thought himself a master of Veretian treachery, his uncle was often one step ahead, one step away. The attack came in the night, a masked man who caught Laurent unawares in his own chambers. If Laurent had expected it, it would have been a simple matter to dispatch him; as it was, he only managed to overcome his assailant after a prolonged struggle. The man's knife had slashed an ugly hole in Laurent's jacket sleeve, cutting clear through the shirt beneath and into Laurent's skin, but Laurent had managed to grapple the weapon away with his good arm and get him into a unyielding hold.
Laurent held the knife to the man's neck. His own arm dripped blood on the tile. "You work for my uncle," Laurent said. It was not a question.
The man's voice was strained as he attempted to push himself back towards Laurent and away from the knife. "Y-your Highness, please..."
It had been a pointless exercise, to try and make him talk. Laurent slit the man's throat and tossed him to the floor.
With the immediate threat eliminated, the adrenaline hit him hard, and he staggered to his bed and leaned against the post, trying to regulate his breathing. The wound on his arm was beginning to sting. Luckily it had not been his dominant hand, or else the fight might have gone quite differently. Laurent's thoughts quickly spiraled in all directions, reviewing the last several weeks, looking for clues he'd missed that might have warned him of his uncle's intention. But he couldn't think of anything.
He couldn't think of anything, and that was what terrified him most of all.
Laurent took a deep, shuddering breath, and then began to work. He cleaned the blood from his assailant's knife, then used it to cut a length of fabric from his sheets, which he used to bandage his arm. The bleeding seemed to have slowed, thankfully; that small mercy would have to do. He tucked the knife into his boot, then kneeled beside the bed to fetch the sword he'd hidden beneath it. Once the sword was strapped on, he crossed the room to the writing desk and opened the drawer.
The hourglass talisman was still within the false-bottomed drawer, wrapped within its silks; for a panicked moment, Laurent thought of what might have happened had it not been there and he'd had to start afresh, now with undisguised assassination attempts added to the list of his uncle's seemingly endless treacheries. But that specific outcome had been eliminated and was not worth thinking about. Not when he had to be certain to get this right.
He put the chain around his neck and closed his palm around the talisman. It felt unnaturally cool against his skin. He pressed it to his chest and closed his eyes as he spoke.
"I wish only to save my brother Auguste's life."
At first it seemed as though nothing happened. Laurent listened to his own heart beat once, twice, faster and faster.
Then there was a rushing in his ears, like he was riding a horse at a full gallop. It felt as though all the parts of his body were moving quickly in all different directions, tearing him apart. He opened his eyes to darkness, which managed to turn his stomach, so he snapped them shut again. The edges of the talisman cut into his palm as he tightened his fist around it.
And then, suddenly, a moment of silence. The warm feeling of sun on his face. Laurent opened his eyes.
There before him was Auguste, sword drawn, facing Prince Damianos on the battlefield.
Laurent moved instinctively, his body following the course of action he'd spent months planning, imagining, dreaming. The sounds of the battle seemed to fade in around him, then away as he made himself ignore them. His eyes were fixed on his brother, shining in the sunlight.
He stepped between Auguste and Damianos, drawing his sword as he did. The clang of metal against metal rang in his ears as he met Damianos's strike.
"What are you--" Auguste, from behind him.
"Brother, stand back," Laurent said. He ignored the wave of emotion he felt at hearing Auguste's voice, fought the urge to throw the sword aside and embrace the person he loved most in all the world, blinked back the tears that threatened in the corner of his eyes. He focused instead on the enemy prince standing before him, as large and threatening as Laurent had imagined him to be. "Damianos will kill you."
"Laurent?" He couldn't turn to see the look on Auguste's face, but the disbelief was plain in his tone. Of course; Auguste would not recognize Laurent was he was now, five years grown. At the Battle of Marlas, Laurent was only thirteen. "But you... this doesn't make any sense."
"I'll explain everything when you're safe." Without looking back, Laurent reached towards Auguste with his injured arm, motioning him to retreat. His fingertips just barely brushed against Auguste's armor. At the same time, he raised his sword towards Damianos. "I'm here to avenge my brother," he said, in Akielon.
Damianos's eyes widened for a moment in confusion. He was bleeding freely from his shoulder, where Auguste had wounded him before Laurent had arrived. In Veretian, Damianos said, "I have not yet bested your brother."
"No," said Laurent, switching back to his own language. "Nor will you."
His first attack was parried, as were his second and third. Laurent paused then, taking a step back; Damianos went on the offensive immediately, but Laurent had studied the Akielon styles of swordplay, and knew which attacks to expect. He let Damianos drive him into a slow retreat, but instead of stepping straight back, towards where Auguste had gone, Laurent took sidesteps, gradually circling around until his brother was in his peripheral vision.
Laurent felt safer with Auguste in his sights, but he would not let himself be distracted. Instead, it bolstered him, a visual reminder of exactly for whom he was fighting, and exactly why he had done this. Years of planning were culminating in this moment. He kept his attention on Damianos, his dark skin shining from exertion, his shoulder dripping blood. They were both wounded, but Laurent still had the use of his free arm. He put both hands on the grip of his sword to block Damianos's next attack, then used the added strength to push back, sweeping Damianos's sword away to one side. Unbalanced, Damianos staggered; Laurent pressed the advantage, lunging in and pressing the tip of his sword to Damianos's throat.
But, as it turned out, Damianos's wounded arm was not as useless as it appeared; his hand darted forward and grabbed hold of Laurent by the throat. Laurent swallowed instinctively, his vision blurring at the edges as Damianos's impossibly large hand pressed down on his windpipe. His sword listed to the side, its point drawing a thin line across Damianos's neck.
Fleetingly, Laurent thought: my own death is worth it, if it means Auguste can live.
Somewhere, distantly, Auguste shouted. Laurent could not make out the words, but the sound of it was enough. He rallied his wits and twisted in Damianos's grip, shifting his weight onto his left leg so he could kick out with his right, seeking to knock Damianos off his feet. It was only mildly successful, but enough that Damianos's hold on Laurent's neck loosened as he sought to right himself. Laurent leaned back, away from Damianos's hand; at the same time, he shifted his sword to his wounded arm, and reached out with his dominant hand, digging his fingers into the open wound on Damianos's shoulder.
Damianos's hand slipped free of Laurent's neck, and he scrambled to regain his hold, trying first for purchase on the laces of Laurent's jacket, then twisting his fingers into the delicate chain that hung from Laurent's neck.
Damianos pulled back. The chain snapped.
Again, Laurent was plunged into darkness, the simultaneous feelings of his body being stretched and crushed. He didn't understand why this was happening, not when he had been so close to vengeance. His stomach lurched, and he snapped his eyes shut. Air rushed in his ears. His hand was wet with Damianos's sweat and blood.
Then, everything went still and quiet. Too quiet. Laurent waited, unmoving, catching his breath.
He opened his eyes to an empty field, tall grass as far as the eye could see. The moon hung pale in the night sky, surrounded by a sea of glittering stars. Laurent was kneeling in the grass, sword still clutched in his weaker hand.
There before him, lying on his back, was Prince Damianos of Akielos.
Laurent struggled to his feet, planting the end of his sword in the soft dirt to use as leverage, and crossed the gap between himself and the body of the enemy prince. No, not merely a body; Damianos was still breathing, if shallowly. It mattered little; Damianos was defenseless, his sword lying in the grass a foot away. Laurent sheathed his own sword, then retrieved the Akielon one, which he pointed at Damianos's chest.
It should have been easy like this, the object of Laurent's hatred lying prone before him, unguarded, heart exposed. In wakefulness, Laurent had not dared to imagine the moment he might take the ultimate revenge upon Damianos, Prince-killer, but it had come to him in dreams, in an abundance of forms. More often than not, in those dreams, he and Auguste fought side-by-side until the Akielon prince fell to his knees, begging mercy which neither brother was prepared to grant. More often than not, it was Auguste who struck the killing blow.
Maybe that was why Laurent hesitated. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that, no matter what had happened that pulled himself and Damianos away from the fighting on the fields of Marlas, it meant that somewhere, certainly, Auguste was alive.
With a gasp of breath, Damianos regained consciousness.
Laurent watched in silence as Damianos's eyes opened, came into hazy focus on the sword still pointed at his chest, then refocused more clearly on Laurent. He saw the moment of realization, and waited for a moment of resignation which did not come. Damianos had assessed his situation, and chosen not to surrender. Foolish, but not entirely unexpected.
"What have you done?" Damianos said.
There was little point to explaining everything. Laurent held the sword steady, still aimed for Damianos's heart; he pressed his other arm against his side, in case it began shaking. He spoke in Damianos's own language. "You killed my brother, and now I will kill you."
"But I did not kill your brother." Damianos breathed evenly under the tip of the sword. "You made certain of that."
Laurent struggled to keep his tone from wavering. "You would have." He resented how petulant he sounded, but it was the truth. "You were about to."
"I challenged him, and he accepted," said Damianos. His brown eyes were very clear now, focused on Laurent. "Had I beaten him, he would have died honorably. That is how it is, in war."
"How dare you." The words tore from Laurent's lips, in Veretian, before he could stop them. "You could not possibly understand," Laurent said, the impassioned note in his voice tempered into a whisper, "what it is like to lose everything you have in the span of moments."
"Are you truly Prince Laurent of Vere?" asked Damianos.
The question struck Laurent harder than any physical blow he'd been dealt so far. He could feel the color drain from his face, his whole body gone bloodless. The sword in his hand, for the first time, wavered from its mark.
"Because," Damianos continued, with the slow confidence of one putting together the pieces of a puzzle, "Prince Laurent of Vere is thirteen years old."
"You think me an impostor," Laurent said. His voice was trembling with anger, and his sword arm was trembling along with it. He sucked in a deep breath through clenched teeth, but could not quell the furious beating of his heart.
Damianos's expression was unreadable. "I think that you are Veretian, and nothing in Vere can be explained in the simplest way." Laurent opened his mouth to retort, but Damianos was still speaking, a bare smile twitching on his lips. "And I think that, in your single-minded fury at me for a murder I did not actually commit, you've failed to notice that your arm has miraculously healed."
It seemed an obvious bluff, but something in Damianos's voice put Laurent on guard. He spared only the quickest glance at his free arm, but the evidence was obvious: while the makeshift bandage remained, the blood that had soaked through the cloth was now gone, and the fabric of his jacket beneath seemed to be unmarred. His mind raced to make sense of it; he remembered the attack in the palace at Arles clearly, but the physical evidence of it had been erased, as though it had never happened. The injury had remained after he had made use of the talisman and arrived on the field at Marlas, but whatever had happened afterward--
"Someone is coming," said Damianos.
Laurent heard it as well, the sound of a horse cantering through the tall grass, coming closer. "Let them come," Laurent heard himself say, even as he focused on the noises in the distance, trying to determine how far away the rider was, how quickly they were moving, and how much time he had left. "Let them watch as I run you through."
"If you were going to run me through," Damianos said, "you would have done it already."
A shout, in a sharp, familiar voice: "Your Highness!"
Damianos was silent, his gaze locked on Laurent's. Go on, his eyes seemed to say. I dare you.
It should have been easy to kill Prince Damianos, alone and unarmed, with no witnesses. But faced with the task, after everything that had happened in the past hours, the past years, Laurent could not make himself move.
Fortunately, there was more than one way to kill a man.
"I am here, Jord," Laurent called out. He moved his sword up, first, pointing the tip between Damianos's taunting brown eyes, a silent promise, then turned away, towards the sound of the approaching horse. "I have discovered an Akielon spy in our midst."