One x One 𝕿𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍「𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲」

[The Witch Son]

Prince Nuri & Lord Emerson
Theren
The War Rages On...

A Frenemyship Is Born

Prince Nuri startled awake, heaving and yanking on what held him back. It took a moment, a wild eyed moment too long, to gain his mind back.

War, he was at war. He was at war with the truth too.

The truth of that murdered King ceased to matter when war broke out.

War, the equalizer of all hurts.

He twisted his hands, testing the thick rope he was tied with.

Nuri was the only one confused as to why the truth didn't seem to matter anymore. The details never mattered to Kings. Not when they had whole Kingdoms to rule over.

And in the end, the truth was nothing next to his duty as Prince, so off to war he goes. Where he battles and wins, ‘and loses’, his mind supplies.

He'd lost, his leg was stiff and in a splint. It was bandaged too heavily to get a good look at it, but the memory was coming back…

A blinding pain, worse than any time he'd ever tasted steel. It'd gone straight through him from behind.

One moment he was crossing axe with steel at King Averett, adrenaline making him feel half a god. Fully intending to end it there once and for all. Glory so close he could taste it. King Avarett was tired, Prince Nuri was not.

He would stand victorious over the King who dared declare dishonor upon Theren.

The next thing Nuri knows he’s kneeling in the mud before him, yelling his head off in pain before everything turned black.

His head ached something fierce. That would explain why he was so sluggish. And it wasn't as though he was tied to a nice comfy cushion where he could rest, he was sat upright in the middle of a tent. A large and mostly empty tent that would've belonged to nobility from the size of it, the comforts of which did little good to him when he was tied to a support beam with the world's scratchiest rope.

His mouth was so damned dry. He moved his jaw testily before looking at his leg once more and letting out all of the air in his lungs slowly.

He breathed only when he was sure he would not panic. He could feel it in his bones even if no physician had told him. Prince Nuri, not yet thirty years of age, would never walk without a limp again.

Like a prize destrier with a broken leg, he was useless. And better off dead.

Beyond the self pity, the most alarming part of this new development of things was that Beleth was almost certainly going to win now. Old King Gaius was… well he was old, and Prince Nuri was his champion. If Nuri had been defeated and his forces overtaken, it was only a matter of time.

At best they had retreated and could regroup with his father…

But Nuri no longer had the luxury of hopeful idealism as someone entered in behind him. He schooled his probably pathetic expression into one of cool apathy.

“Really, Duncan? This is what you came up with?”

The older man coughed slightly as they came around into view of Prince Nuri.

“Things were a bit… Chaotic, sir,” the man named Duncan protested. “I was told to secure him for the time being!”

“Ah, you are awake,” the first speaker said to Nuri, as he knelt down so his eyes were level with the Prince’s. He had bright coopery red hair, tied back into a short braid, and freckles across his high cheekbones.

The grindingly chipper voice immediately annoyed Prince Nuri.

“I apologize for the arrangements,” he said, and seemed sincere enough about it. “Duncan is a soldier through and through. Not a lick of hospitality in him.”

“Sir, if I had been told-”

“Oh, hush now,” the younger man said, somewhat teasingly. “What’s done is done. Go and fetch a bedroll from one of the medical tents, would you? Maybe two.”

Duncan nodded and began to leave, but the red haired man added an afterthought as he assessed the prince. “And two pairs of cuffs. For his ankles and his wrists.”

It wouldn’t do to have the Prince running away, after all.

The man smiled lightly at the Prince, though not so much that the corners of his eyes lifted.

Blue met green, assessing, both implacable in their own special ways.

“You have questions, I’m sure. I will do what I can to answer them,” he reassured Nuri. “But first- Would you care for some water?”

He pulled a waterskin from his hip and uncorked it, holding it up to the Prince’s lips.

Prince Nuri didn't have long to decide whether or not to drink, but he had at least decided if the waterskin was filled with piss he was going to spit it out in the redhead’s face.

The water cleared his head considerably, and he rolled his shoulders, adjusting where he could to sit straight. Sighing to force himself to let go of the irritation he felt.

After all, the redhead had not given him piss.

“To whom am I speaking?”

“I am Lord Emerson,” the other man said, and added after a moment. “The bastard.”

He said it as though it were a habit, to bring up the scandal of his parentage before others might mock him for it.

A thing which did not go unnoticed.

“Your eyes seem clear, that is good,” Emerson said, and continued his quick skim of the prince while the prince did a quick skim of him.

He winced once he got to Nuri’s bandaged leg.

“I am sorry about your leg,” he said with contrition but very little shame. “I might have aimed more carefully, if…”

He shrugged, not continuing the rest of the sentence.

If I’d known you were so valuable.

If we had not been in the chaos of a battle.

If I had known you were going to live.

“Yes… We teach bastards how to aim in Theren. I would've assumed Beleth did the same. My head was higher Lord Emerson.” Nuri said dryly, but not without humor.

“So it was,” Emerson acknowledged.

“And besides, there would have been glory in it for you. A son for a brother would've suited Beleth nicely I think. You could've lorded that over alllll the people who look down their noses at Lord Emerson, the bastard.” Nuri said softly, as though he were tempting him with something.

“People who like to look down on others can rarely be persuaded to glance up, no matter how much noise is made,” Emerson said, with the wisdom of experience, offering the waterskin again.

He’d said it with such honesty and frankness that Prince Nuri had to battle the wry grin coming to his face. Thank the spirits for water. It soon became his focus instead.

Duncan arrived with the bed rolls and cuffs, and arranged the rolls on top of each other for additional padding.

“Let’s get you lying down and more comfortable,” Emerson proposed. He began to untie Nuri’s ropes, but warned, “If you try anything- Well. Don’t.”

Nuri had already been searched for weapons, and presumably Emerson had his own. Duncan certainly did, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

“I’ll only struggle if Duncan got me flea ridden bed rolls.” Nuri watched Duncan once Emerson was out of sight, who didn't say anything in return.

The sound of ropes shifting and loosening was undercut by men screaming somewhere in the camp.

“He doesn't have your sense of humor, I think Lord Emerson.” Prince Nuri noted over the screams. Ignoring them completely.

Emerson winced ever so slightly at the strangled cries of pain, but said nothing.

“Where in Beleth is it you hail from any - eughoof!” Nuri’s next question was cut off from the considerable effort it took to heave himself up, even as Lord Emerson was helping him do it.

The thought of him trying anything at the moment was a joke, a thing he had suspected strongly and confirmed to his dismay. His leg felt like a log, a painful log.

Nuri was a panting mess by the time he was lying down, head swimming with pain so bad he didn't even register that the cuffs were on him.

“North.” He panted plainly when he could, “That's my guess, near the border of Ruhar. That's where you hail from.”

“My mother is from Fremont,” Emerson told him. “A duchy along the western edge of the mountains.”

It was fairly south of Ruhar, all things considered.

He checked to make sure the cloth he had wrapped around the cuffs were secure and would prevent the metal from biting into the Prince’s skin.

“What makes you say North?,” he asked curiously.

“Are they torturing my men, Lord Emerson? You'd best just kill them, they can't tell you anything of value.” Nuri responded lightly, as if answering his question.

“No, slaves usually are not told too much,” Emerson agreed. “Do not worry about your forces,” he said. “It is our own soldiers who are facing justice from the King right now.”

Strangely, this was one topic in which Emerson’s cool facade minisculely slipped to show the slightest hint of discomfort.

“So you were raised with your mother? Who is a Fremont? From a duchy no less… That's unusual, I don't think I've ever encountered a bastard from the mother’s side, it's usually the father isn't it? Men always get away with it so easy. Poor thing, she must have been ruined.” Nuri watched Emerson's expression intently, looking for all the little ticks that could tell him things.

“Yes, she was,” Emerson nodded in agreement. It was an odd topic they had landed on, but Emerson did not mind- If the Prince was trying to bait him, he’d need to find something that the bastard hadn’t been answering barbed questions on his whole life.

“She would have been the next Duchess,” he admitted. “But when she refused to name the father or marry one of the suitors he had chosen, my grandfather disinherited her. It was a messy business- At least that’s what I’m told. I was obviously much too young to recall the details now,” he said with a small smile at his poor joke.

Prince Nuri returned the smile, thinking for a moment.

“Then the fools had the sense to retreat did they?” Nuri pivoted, “My men I mean.” Not all of the men Nuri commanded were slaves, but the ones who were… well, by Theren law they could not retreat. Only free men had that right, it was to buy time for the free men to do so successfully. Or something like that.

“Yes, they retreated after you fell and the tides turned,” Emerson told him. “It was well organized,” he admitted. “We were only able to capture a small contingent of your forces, though at least a few are among your senior officers.”

“We have sent a negotiating party to your father’s camp, with the hopes that they will be released soon. Bit of a bother to feed them, after all,” Emerson allowed. Especially as Beleth had been burning crops.

“Ah, so that's what your righteous King wants with a crippled Prince. My father won't trade on my behalf, dishonoring him as I've done.” Nuri cocked a brow, as if chiding his state of living as an unwise decision.

That wasn't entirely true, he couldn't trade on his son's behalf, that much was true. Neither of them could survive that shame, the crown could not survive that shame. But he would mourn. It would still burn him, dishonor or no.

“You underestimate your own value,” Emerson scolded. “Besides- With a bit of rehabilitation, I think you’ll be able to walk on that leg again, even if a little bit crooked.”

“You don't understand.” Nuri shook his head, The Ruharan Knights he squired with didn’t understand either when he explained it to them.

“You're Belethan, a Theren warrior is supposed to die in battle. To be captured alive means you did not fight to the death. Which you can probably get away with if you're not a noble. But to be returned a crooked Prince…” He smiled ruefully.

“They would prefer me dead.”

“And a Belethan is supposed to never waste a potential bargaining chip, until they are quite certain it has no more value,” Emerson returned. “Besides,” he added lightly. “Your mother is from Ruhar. Perhaps she will want you back.”

Nuri barked out a laugh, he couldn't help it.

“Did your mother want you Lord Emerson?” It was his most audacious question yet.

“Being trite doesn’t suit you, Your Highness,” Emerson said, his soft smile still pinned into place. “If you are hoping to goad me into finishing what I started in the battle, you’ll have to do better.”

“I thought we were just being friendly, Lord Emerson.” Nuri said in a saccharine tone that definitely wasn't friendly.

“Now you’re getting the picture!,” Emerson said cheerfully, as if they were indeed on their way to becoming fast friends. “Now that you are more comfortable, can I get you anything to eat?”

“Anything the cook makes will be delicious I’m sure.” Nuri’s tone was somewhere between sarcastic and genuinely looking forward to eating.

This drivel no longer mattered, Nuri’d found out what he'd wanted to know.

His men had retreated successfully, with less than 40, probably less than 30 if ‘small’ was to be believed, captured. And King Averett was not keen on what Theren did with its prisoners. Some 500 last Nuri knew, probably more since then.

The King wanted a trade. Holding prisoners was not easy when your entire force was on the move. And the chances of Nuri making a successful escape were as hobbled as his leg… all the relevant information he needed to decide what to do next.

He made a new list.

code by @fudgecakez

 

[The Witch Son]

King Averett & Lord Emerson & Prince Nuri
Theren
The War Rages On...

The King Meets The Prince

“Well,” Emerson said, once the two were sequestered in the privacy of His Majesty’s tent. “He’s going to live.”

“I had assumed as much,” Avery said, sitting cross legged on his bedroll, his knees caught between his elbows. Emerson sat across from him on a low stool with a plush blue cushion on it.

“I severed some important muscles, though,” Emerson admitted. “It will be a rough recovery. Physician doesn’t think he’ll walk straight again.”

“That’s hardly your fault,” Avery told him, trying to relieve what he viewed as his friend’s guilt.
“Good work getting him out of the fray and then back to camp. Couldn’t have been easy.”

“It’s amazing what smearing someone’s face with their blood will do to disguise them,” Emerson waved it off. It actually had been quite a lot of work, and Emerson had ended up carrying both Nuri and another much more badly injured soldier back to camp at the same time, so that their forces would rush around him and relieve him of the dying man, and he could sneak the Prince in without so much scrutiny.

He felt a bit badly about it, as he’d made that man’s final moments so much more agonizing by half dragging him along, but. The man was going to die regardless.

“And what is your assessment?”

“Seems unnaturally curious about my mother,” Emerson said conversationally. “Actually, I was the main topic of discussion,” he preened.

“Ah, so he wasn’t actually lucid enough to hold his end of the conversation then,” Avery said dryly, and Emerson chuckled.

“He doesn’t seem to think his father or his country will want anything to do with him now that he’s crippled,” Emerson continued. “Typical Theren attitude- Death before the great defeat of a minor injury.”

“It’s not exactly ‘minor’,” Avery allowed. “And it isn’t as though we don’t share some similar sentiments,” he said, his left shoulder rolling reflexively.

The Prince of Greens, the legends said, was scarred and disfigured as a punishment from the gods for his deceits. But once he had proved his loyalty to Belmys thrice over, the scars were lifted, and no scratch upon his skin would ever fail to heal again.

“I suppose,” Emerson allowed.

“I thought you said they would want him back, though,” Avery said, confused. “Does he not know that?”

“My information indicates they are still trying to make headway into Ruhar’s succession dilemma, even as our war has progressed,” Emerson said with a shrug. “And they’ve already married Princess Meera, so- Perhaps he knows something we don’t. Or maybe he’s not so familiar with the inner machinations of his court advisors as he could be.”

Avery snorted at that.

“Trust me- No Prince is ever as familiar with the inner machinations of their court advisors as they could be.”

“No King, either?”

“Certainly not,” Avery agreed ruefully.

“Are you ready to meet with him, then?”

“I suppose I ought to,” Avery agreed, though he didn’t seem overly enthusiastic about the idea.

Emerson stood, and reached down to grab the King’s hand, pulling him up to standing. The two of them could barely both fit at full height.

“You should really get a nicer tent,” Emerson groused as they left, and Avery rolled his eyes.

“Take mine for example,” Emerson said, gesturing to the finer, more spacious tent that they walked to.

Avery had to agree that it was probably one of the more secure places in the camp to hide Prince Nuri, if only because none of their soldiers would dare to enter.

At least the rumors about their close friendship had some use.

Avery ducked inside, and nodded to Duncan who was sitting on an overturned crate and watching their prisoner with a persistent focus.

“Your Majesty!” Duncan startled, scrambling to feet and bowing deeply.

“You are dismissed for the time being. Emerson will take your watch while you get something to eat,” Avery told him, and the man left the tent, the flaps shutting behind him. The sunlight leaked in through the intentional gaps between the canvas walls and high ceiling, and fell down through the hole in the top canvas to spotlight the injured Prince Nuri.

Who was roused from his sleep by the loud Duncan to turn his gaze upon King Averett, not knowing who it was he was looking upon.

“Have we met before?” Nuri’s brows furrowed at the young man.

“Of course- We have crossed swords in battle,” Avery told him. It was the truth, if not the complete one. Besides, it wasn’t like they had ‘met’ all those years ago.

The Prince was considerably more handsome up close than Avery remembered him being from far away in the stands of the colosseum. His shirt riding up offered a glimpse of pale skin above his hipbone and Avery wondered idly what he might look like when he was healthy and well rested, his fine white hair mussed from sleep rather than captivity.

“That's not what I mean, but I think you know that.” Nuri responded, as if that they had the familiarity and candor to address each other as such.

Emerson, or perhaps Duncan, had wiped most of the blood from Nuri’s face before it had dried, but it still clung about his hairline and the edges of his face in flaking red patches.

Avery pulled a clean handkerchief from a pocket and poured a bit of water on it from his skin.

“That’s got to be itching you terribly,” Avery said as he knelt down to be level with the Prince.

“Do you mind if I help you with it?” The damp cloth hovered an inch from Nuri’s forehead.

“You might as well dump a whole bucket on me. That's the thing I hate most about war camps. Everything and everyone is filthy in it.” Nuri said by way of consent, rolling his eyes and scrunching his nose. At ease to stay laying down and rolled over. Belly up and vulnerable to a sworn enemy.

Avery chuckled softly. “That’s what you hate? I mostly hear complaints about the food,” he said, gently washing the shell of Nuri’s ear.

“That's a lie.” Admitted Nuri, “The worst part isn't the filth, it's keeping the men in line isn't it?”

“Hmm,” Avery considered. “I’d like to say ‘I wouldn’t know’,” he said. Except just recently he’d cut the hands of two of his soldiers, and the head off of another. “But I’m afraid that is a challenge amongst any group of people.”

He thought idly of his bickering nobility, and wished he could invoke the old punishments to cut off a few hands in his court as well.

“Ah yes, you're not just a General are you? You're a King. You have to find a way to control more than just warriors. Is it harder? It's all so much more straight forward outside of court isn't it?” Nuri poked and prodded around the King's temperament. Surprised at what he was finding. He was very different from what he was expecting, certainly different from Lord Emerson, whom he didn't trust a stone's throw to be even a little honest where it mattered.

“I am… More comfortable in a military setting. It’s what I was raised for,” he admitted with a shrug. “Is it not much the same for you?”

“No… that's not what I was raised for.” Nuri admitted disappointedly, but did not elaborate.

Avery paused in his ministrations. “Well. You certainly fight like it,” he said with a small smile.

Nuri smiled and scoffed, tilting his head to the side to hide it before coming back. “Well your majesty not good enough apparently.” Nuri raised a brow.

“I’m at your mercy.” He held up his shackled wrists and pretended to frown.

“I suppose,” Avery said, though his frown was not a pretense like Nuri’s.

“Are you merciful? I heard screams earlier. My men can't tell you anything of use.” Nuri asked tentatively, allowing the worry to seep in his voice. King Averett was so responsive.

“I have been told I am decidedly not,” Avery said. His tone was so neutral that it seemed forced. “But do not fret for the fate of your soldiers,” he reassured the Prince. “I was… Enforcing the laws I have chosen to rule by. ‘Keeping the men in line’, as it were,” he said.

And Nuri believed him, as shockingly unwise to trust the word of any man in an enemy camp was. Nuri had not gotten this far in life by being a poor judge of character. He did not delight in cruelty or dominance, did not seem overruled by ego, did not smart at the candor of those who should be groveling. Instead he was… earnestly cleaning the face of the man who not so long ago nearly killed him. A fact he had acknowledged despite Nuri carefully avoiding any show of strength or reminder of it.

He hadn't forgotten in the face of Nuri showing his belly and flirting with him, he'd just decided to not be cruel to him despite it.

And maybe the flirting helped. Probably it helped. But he still deserved the credit in Nuri’s opinion.

He let out a long sigh, “Thank you then. As much a ‘thank you’ can matter in this situation.” He shrugged, catching himself studying the King’s face unnecessarily.

He thought up a good excuse for that quickly.

“You really do look familiar, King Averett.”

“I never forget a face, I’m terrible with names but faces I always remember.”

There was a dagger handle sticking out of his majesty's boot. Nuri had noticed it for a while now.

“Hmm,” Avery said. “Can’t say I’ve been blessed with such a memory, for either if I’m being honest.”

With Nuri’s face much cleaner now, Avery moved to put his handkerchief away before his gaze landed on Nuri’s hands.

Not as bloody, but still crusted with grime. Avery wondered if Nuri really did hate the filth, or if the Prince had just been struggling to find something to discuss.

He poured more water on the cloth and turned over Nuri’s hand to wipe the dirt from between his fingers. The Prince obediently pliant to his ministrations.

The cuffs had a thick band, and with the cloth Emerson had wrapped about them, it was nearly impossible to get to Nuri’s wrists.

Avery sighed, reaching down into the open vee of his shirt and pulling out a long chain with several keys. He fit the smallest into the cuff on Nuri’s right hand, and it sprang open.

He wasn't looking at Nuri’s face, and so did not notice the look of guilt in his expression.

Without the cuff blocking his access, Avery ran his handkerchief between Nuri’s hand and forearm.

“Ah!” Nuri twitched and hissed when Avery pressed on a portion of his wrist.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that was sensitive-”

Quick as a whip and just as ruthless, Nuri’s supposedly injured hand shot out and grabbed the dagger in Avery's boot successfully.

He lunged forward, the pain in his leg forgotten as he toppled King Averett onto his back.

Avery fell to the ground, knocked back by the Prince’s weight as much as his own surprise. He’d been stupid to let his guard down, he knew, and if he wasn’t in the middle of a fight he might be imagining all the ways Emerson might berate him for it.

But he was in a fight, and he moved on instinct instead of dwelling on a future scolding. He caught Nuri’s wrist as the knife barreled towards his own throat, and used his larger mass to roll himself on top of Nuri, the chain tying the Prince to the tent pole tangling about both their ankles.

He shoved one knee between Nuri’s legs and bracketed the Prince’s left leg with his own right one, and squeezed his knees together so that the Prince’s fresh injury was caught between them. Causing a yell of frustrated pain inches from his face.

Prince Nuri’s arms weakened enough now to be dragged above his head, knife squeezed out of his grip.

Which was indeed done quite promptly by the newest addition to the scene brought in by the sounds of scuffle, Lord Emerson. The knife clattered to the ground where he threw it well out of reach, and he kept the Prince’s hands pinned in place as he assessed his King.

“Vee, you idiot,” he hissed. “Are you all right?”

The king raised his head, panting slightly. His dark hair had come loose from its tie, and fell about his face.

“Been better,” he admitted with annoyance. “Not the worst attack on my life to date, at least.”

If his hope had been to make his friend laugh, it didn’t work.

“Shit, you’ve got the chains tangled on your own feet,” Emerson pointed out. “Here, hold him while I undo that.”

Avery leaned forward across Nuri’s body and took over Emerson’s hold on the Prince’s hands. He looked down into the face of his attacker, eyes harder than they had been throughout their prior conversation.

“Don’t,” Avery told him, only inches away. “Try something so stupid with me again.”

“Or what?,” Emerson scoffed. He’d loosed the chain from around the tent pole and threaded it back around where it had been caught and was securing it again. “You’ll kill him? As if that isn’t half the point,” Emerson told him, and Avery’s eyes widened visibly.

Prince Nuri paused his grit toothed grimacing to bark out a laugh, “He catches on quicker than you do your majesty.” He panted, muscles still tense and not being easy to manhandle out of spite.

Spirits his leg hurt something fierce, Nuri would be impressed with that cheap shot if he wasn't so spitting mad about it.

“You Therens are obsessed with your noble deaths, aren’t you,” Avery shook his head. “Maybe,” he said, as Emerson clicked the cuff on Nuri’s hand back into place and Avery leaned away from the Prince’s face, “There’s more to life than dying.”

His hands rested on his thighs for a moment and then he stood, relieving Nuri of his body’s weight.

All the fight went out of him at that, he paled and felt clammy, no motivation to move anymore. The Prince’s energy spent in one short and futile burst. He felt his leg must be bleeding anew. His damn. Useless. Leg.

“Well it's you, or me, or my father. So you can't blame me for trying can you?” Nuri said, eyes closing.

Avery supposed he might have done the same in Nuri’s place, but he wasn’t going to say so.

“I’ll find the physician to rebandage his leg,” Emerson said with a sigh as he and Avery turned to leave.

“Just answer me one thing King Averett, what sense would it make for Theren to assassinate King Ellion when it was focused on Ruhar’s succession crisis? Do you have any idea how much time, gold, and planning that all took? Half of my life spent on it! Why would Theren start a costly war with Beleth right when it was all about to come into fruition? What sense would there be in instigating that!?” Nuri shouted after him, feeling half mad even asking.

Avery turned to look at the shackled prince, his anger rising. Why should he expect this fool to understand? As if he and his aunt had not tried desperately to find anyone else to blame for his brother’s death, had not wanted to honor Elion’s dream of ending the war their father had started. As if factions of his own court had not used Elion’s popularity among the common people to stoke the kingdom’s fury, had not threatened to turn on their new monarch if he did not continue the attacks. As if-

He was being baited, Avery decided, and released a long breath.

“You forget yourself,” he told Nuri coldly. “I do not answer to you.”

The tent flap fell shut behind him, and Nuri was alone once more.

code by @fudgecakez

 

[The Witch Son]

Lord Chancellor Cromwell & King Averett & Lord Emerson
Theren
The War Rages On...

This Negotiation Never Happened...

Shame meant so very much to figures like a Prince or a King, but common born men had little use for it. Especially when it came to men like Cromwell.

And Cromwell had said as much when convincing King Gaius to let him negotiate for Prince Nuri’s release. A father wanted any loophole he could muster to get his son back and there Cromwell was, ready to do his dirty work and take the blame for it later. The blame and the reward. There was more at stake than the current conflict at hand.

Ruhar’s King would soon be dead and Cromwell had it on good authority that the reason he hadn't named an heir was because he was not capable of speaking at all. A fact that was well hidden while his Queen ruled regent.

Meaning that if they played their cards right, Theren could choose Ruhar’s next King. Pick an heir that suited them best, and send him heaps of gold and men to aid in seizing the crown. But that was only true if they could marry Prince Nuri to him.

That would in fact be what Theren would be focusing on right now had this thrice damned stupid thing with Beleth not broken out. War could not have come at a worse time.

Made further worse by Ruhar having every valid excuse not to honor their allyship.

It was all so hideously ironic, considering what war with Beleth had broken out over this time.

Cromwell deftly removed his riding gloves as he slid off his mount. He nodded to his men, they understood they were to stay where they were with their weapons. While Cromwell would leave his behind.

His men were nervous about this, but if Cromwell was, it didn't show. He hadn't even bothered to bring any armor.

In his mind there was little point in it, the armor would do him no good if he was weaponless. If the Belethan contingent meant to kill him they'd manage it. There was little to do about it other than post men further away who would ride and inform his second in command of it post haste.

Maybe if he was dead he could finally get some decent sleep. Cromwell mused about the lofty idea as he crossed a fourth a league of grass to get to the lone tent flapping in the strong wind.

Their rendezvous point was between camps, a clearing with little opportunity to hide men between them. Though that did not stop either side from having men there, Cromwell notably had far fewer. Such was his confidence in everyone’s intended goals. He would've been just as comfortable meeting alone if that wouldn't have been ludicrous.

Posterity existed for a reason.

He arrived and obediently stood still while he was patted down for anything sharp and hidden by a pretty redhead that he watched intently while he was vetted.

Another thing Cromwell hated about war, his needs had gone unmet for too long.

After a somewhat less than cursory pat down of the Lord Chancellor, the redhead nodded to the few men standing by the tent. Specifically to the one who stood in the middle, straight-backed in a light brown tunic with his dark hair tied back at the nape of his neck.

“All’s well?” Confirmed Cromwell.

“All is well,” agreed Emerson, gesturing Cromwell forward and walking towards the tent.

“Lord Chancellor Cromwell,” Emerson said. “This is King Averett of Beleth,” he said by way of introduction, and named the two flanking him as a general and a captain.

“And you may call me Lord Emerson,” he said of himself.

Cromwell bowed appropriately, “Your majesty.”

The King gave a nod of his head in acknowledgement. “Come. Let us talk,” he said.

Emerson held the flap of the tent open, and the three men went inside.

The interior was quite simple, with a table and some chairs. The King sat down on one side of the table, and gestured that Cromwell could sit on the other.

Emerson stood behind the King with a notebook.

“To be clear, as you were informed by my messenger, this negotiation can not have King Gaius's blessing in any public way. This can only ever be acknowledged as between the Belethan crown and myself. Negotiating with you is to be seen as an error in judgement on my part through our end. And shrewd opportunism through yours.” An annoying runaround, to be sure, but a favorable one for Beleth at least.

“I do not care for this arrangement,” Avery said, not one to hide his opinion on such things. “But I understand and accept it.”

“Now,” he continued. “I understand you would like His Highness to be returned to Theren.”

Not one to waste time on the niceties, it seemed.

“Yes, and how is the condition of his highness?” Cromwell pulled out his little black notebook and opened it to a page that had a list of names on it. Men who were considered of a certain rank who were currently unaccounted for.

Busying himself with ink and quill and taking not much notice of else, not expecting the answer he was to be given.

Emerson looked away briefly as Avery told Cromwell, “The physician believes his leg will bear his weight in time, and he will walk again with some practice. But he will likely carry the limp for the rest of his life.”

That gave Cromwell pause, his eyes popped up to stare into King Averett’s, checking to see if he was joking.

No.

The King stared back at him.

Cromwell sniffed and straightened, abandoning his quill on the table, caring not if ink pooled from the tip onto the wood.

“He’s been hobbled.” Cromwell stated, it was a question, but it came out too coldly to be registered as such.

Wrathful panic was swimming in his head, loud and thunderous, he battled against its currents to recalibrate.

“The Prince does not need to necessarily be whole to be married off, but it severely lowers his value. It quite possibly ruins our plans for him altogether. We were prepared to trade all thirty-score of the prisoners we currently hold, now he can not be worth more than half that.”

So Emerson was right, Avery thought. He was going to be insufferable about it. Theren wanted the Prince back so they could secure an alliance through marriage- Probably with Ruhar.

“And what of my soldiers? What,” Avery said slowly, “Is their condition?”

“Hail…” Cromwell stated, “Whole.” He folded his hands over his notebook and leaned forward, “And ready to be sold to the highest bidder.”

The flash of anger on the King’s face was unmissable, even to one as unfamiliar with him as the Lord Chancellor. But he looked away briefly, and his expression was schooled into polite neutrality when their gaze met again.

Cromwell's tone did not suggest guilting him was going to work, “Even the ones who aren't can still hold their market value, the colosseum loves to put use to the ones who can't last long against tigers. It stirs the crowd up for the real fighting.”

“And it feeds the tigers.” He noted dryly.

“Yes, I understand there is little Theren will not stoop to sell,” Avery told him.

“So it would appear that your soldiers are still useful, King Averett. Meanwhile I must make due with a broken Prince who can no longer serve their purpose. He’ll be as difficult to marry off as a bastard.” Bastards and broken things alike did not fare well on the noble marriage market. Which was, rudely put, pickier than the slave market.

“Had I known before coming here.” Cromwell paused, considering and calculating before leaning back, “This trade would not be happening.”

King Gaius would still want it to happen, but Cromwell would never allow it. He'd sabotage it. He'd send for the Prince to die a quiet death. Anything other than this disaster. Did anyone in this room besides him know how many innocent would have to die to make this right?

The least of whom were the contingent Beleth currently held. And for what? Any Prince of Ruhar would be a fool to take less than half their treasury to agree to this match. Demand men they did not have to spare, and be responsible for leading a coup on their own, only for Theren to be later undermined because what glory and goodwill would the Prince Nuri be capable of gaining now? No, there'd be other wives. If Prince Nuri could not be Ruhar’s champion what could he be?

“Oh, I think Prince Nuri can still serve some of his purpose, at least where it concerns what you want from him,” Avery said dryly.

“Remind me,” Emerson said from the corner. If he was out of line to speak, his King did not seem bothered. “How many cousins does the Prince have on his father’s side?”

“None who could bare heirs, lest we would be using them, and you would get nothing.” Cromwell nodded to the redhead. Surprised he was allowed to speak, but hardly interested in reprimanding him, yet anyway.

He looked to the King, “15 score. You can not have the 30 and leave me with little to show for it. This is already going to be a headache to fix.” Cromwell tapped the table for emphasis.

Avery did not particularly care about the Lord Chancellor’s headaches. “Twenty,” he returned flatly. “Staring with these men and their squads,” he said, gesturing to Emerson who quickly produced a piece of parchment. On it was a list of names- Children of lesser and even some upper nobility.

First among them was Lord Chester of Fremont, first born son and heir to his father’s duchy. Emerson had tried to warn his cousin off of going to war, even going so far as to stroke his ego over how important he was- But Ches was convinced of honor and glory, and had not been persuaded.

“The fifteen can include them or the twenty can not.” Cromwell said while he looked over the list.

“Lord Chester has been smart enough not to identify himself to us, nice to know I have a duke’s heir to bargain with.” He put the parchment down.

“You can't very well leave him with us can you?”

Emerson snorted from the corner and muttered something under his breath that sounded an awful lot like “Goddess, if only,” but turned it into a cough when Avery inclined his head in his friend’s direction with a frown.

“Well, it is possible he has been killed in action,” Avery mused, and Emerson looked like he wanted to repeat himself. “But I have reason to believe he is in your captivity, yes.”

The King paused in his consideration. “I believe we should pause to deliberate. If you’ll excuse us,” he said, standing and moving to leave the tent with Emerson behind him.

Cromwell nodded and sighed as they left him alone in the tent.

This King was painfully young and inexperienced. His father was far more difficult a man to deal with, he probably would've thrown something by now. He certainly wouldn't have given Cromwell that list so early. Considering it was Cromwell who was technically at the disadvantage here, and him being allowed to act as though he weren't.

Which was all well and good for Cromwell's head, and even King Averett’s personal reputation, but for Beleth…

When the two men returned, neither looked pleased.

“I met your father once, King Averett.” Cromwell noted as they entered.

“He would not have been possible to pull off my solution with. But done carefully, I believe we can all, here today, walk away with what it is we want.” Cromwell shifted in his seat to lean forward, his tone considerably lighter than before, betraying how pleased he was with himself.

“You, with your 30 score men, King Gaius, with the Prince Nuri, and me, with my reputation intact.”

Avery raised an eyebrow.

Cromwell held up the list, “Your Lord Chester will lead a prison break, staged and abetted by myself, and walk out with all 30 score men. He will return to you a hero, you will return the Prince, and I will keep my hands clean of this negotiation altogether. As though none of this happened.”

He let the list fall from his fingers, “But it is important, that this be as though none of this happened. I trust I can rely on you to take care of the contingent you currently hold. We can't have them talking about their length of time under your care.” Namely about the Prince, was left unsaid.

The King frowned at this, but Emerson interrupted before His Majesty could do anything as stupid as object to such a lucrative arrangement.

“This is certainly… A promising idea,” the red haired man said. “But won’t that seem suspicious- For us to release the Prince for ‘nothing’, and then for our men to free themselves? Perhaps we should formally exchange some amount of prisoners.”

“Not on our side.” Cromwell shrugged, “The Prince is thought to be dead but officially missing according to us. He will be miraculously found to be recovering in the care of some village by myself. As for you..”

He gestured apathetically, “He escaped, you had the wrong man, take your pick. I do hope you haven't been bragging that you have him however. You'll either have to sacrifice some fifteen score men or a piece of your reputation if you have.”

Avery shrugged. That was easy enough. Very few knew of Prince Nuri’s presence- Even the captain standing guard outside didn’t know what it was they were meeting about.

“However, your troops were treated well enough under our care, I am not ashamed to have them discuss it-” the King began to say, and Emerson coughed politely, but quite loudly. When Avery turned to look at him, the bastard lord tilted his head to one side and raised an eyebrow.

“No,” Avery said abruptly as he turned back to Cromwell. “That is not how Beleth treats men in our care, no matter if Theren thinks it to be acceptable-”

“Your Majesty,” Emerson interrupted smoothly. “It is not something you need to concern yourself with. It will be handled.”

“Emerson, I will not be complicit in this,” the King reiterated.

“Then it’s a good thing you won’t be,” Emerson said shortly. “It will be handled,” he said again, to both men.

“It should be handled before we leave to implement this ruse, Lord Emerson. Given you seem to be familiar with Lord Chester already.” Cromwell gestured to himself and the King’s pretty redhead with his long, pointed fingers. Excluding the King’s permission on this deliberately.

If they were going to hammer out the details of how this was going to go, then Cromwell needed assurances of loose threads cut, his own ‘hostage’ that was sufficiently important to King Averett, and someone competent to ensure Lord Chester understood his role in all of this.

Lord Emerson was quickly proving himself conveniently perfect in this role. And if Cromwell was being selfish in any way in his choice, he'd not deny the coincidences. If only because he sorely lacked shame.

“Ah. So it’s a ‘we’ endeavor,” Emerson noted, and Avery frowned.

“Lord Chester does not need a familiar face,” the King said. “Lord Emerson’s presence is unneeded.”

“That is hardly the only reason I am enlisting your Lord Emerson’s presence in this trade. A lot of… trust will be needed between all parties for this to go smoothly. This isn't a traditional trade, there are moving parts, and plenty of room for mistakes to be made in between those parts.” Cromwell pointed out.

This was… Fairly reasonable, Avery supposed. He would want the same reassurance if he was in Cromwell’s position. That didn’t mean he liked it.

“Besides, someone will need to lead your men through the safest route to you. What use would this all be if your freshly freed men met their end on their way to you?” Cromwell was fairly certain that Beleth had no inkling of where exactly Theren was holding prisoners. If they took the quickest route back they'd certainly meet their end.

Avery considered. “There are other men who can serve your needs. But,” he said, holding up his hand before his friend could interject and overrule him a second time. “I will allow Lord Emerson to decide.”

Emerson looked across the table, his head tilting ever so slightly to one side as he assessed the Lord Chancellor, his green eyes raking over the other man as though he might find some sort of tell.

“Sure,” Emerson said after awhile. “I’m game for anything,” he decided with a cocky grin.

code by @fudgecakez

 

[The Witch Son]

Lord Chancellor Cromwell & Lord Emerson & Lord Chester
Theren, Corinth Region
The Secret Prisoner Exchange...

The Ruse

“Hail! Who goes there!”

“Lord Chancellor Cromwell!”

Standing before the gates of a wooden wall twenty feet high, Cromwell and a patrol of 15 men, including a commander and captain of the first rank, waited to be let in.

This was no holdfast or keep, the wooden spikes at the base of the walls pointed in rather than out.

Lord Emerson sat in front of Cromwell on his great black destrier, Offran, his hands tied together and to the horse’s pummel. Such was the sheer size of the animal that if it noticed the added weight of the redhead it did not show it.

“You'll have to excuse a degree of roughness.” Cromwell whispered in Emerson's ear while they waited.

Emerson gave the slightest of nods. He understood what was required for the ruse.

The gates swung open for them, and they entered, dismounting in the yard of the slaveholding compound, a Ludus, in Corinth. This one in particular was called Ludus Dacicus, its owners were normally its master but having been commissioned by the crown to hold prisoners in exchange for ownership of those prisoners after the war, its master was now Ser Romulus, of House Antioch. He would oversee and defend Ludus Dacicus for their King.

And as he greeted the party now, it was clear that the Lord Chancellor's arrival was extremely unusual and worrisome.

“My Lord Chancellor,” Ser Romulus bowed hastily, “I trust your travels were…” He eyed the redhead atop the chancellor's destrier with confusion.

“You received my letter, yes?” Cromwell did not offer a bow back, nor even a nod, as he was busy untying Emerson, and he outranked Ser Romulus.

“Yes. Well… about that. Half of my cohort here is, well it's - you cannot be serious Lord Chancellor. That will only leave me with two hundred men to maintain over twice that in prisoners. How am I-”

“Ser Romulus, this is hardly the place to discuss this, I will be happy to explain in finer detail the King’s directive over supper.” Cromwell said, before abruptly yanking Emerson by the arm down from Offran.

“Do you have any chains?” He asked Ser Romulus, who's blubbering red face was only now beginning to calm down.

Ser Romulus gestured to a guard, who foresaw the need for a pair before they'd even entered.

He approached, meaning to place them on Emerson's wrists himself, but was intercepted by Cromwell, who deigned to place them instead, giving them an experimental yank flush against himself afterward.

Not having anticipated it, Emerson stumbled forward a step towards the Lord Chancellor, his fingers finding purchase in the other man’s chest.

“You take restraint rather well don't you?” He told rather than asked Lord Emerson. Enjoying for a second the freedom of the bold declaration. His stony expression and unreadable eyes got darker for a moment before handing the chains to the guard. Shut off again and all business.

It was helpful, during a ruse, when one didn't have to lie.

It was not a comment Emerson had been expecting, and if he felt a sudden spark of strange pride at Cromwell’s words, it did not show on his carefully composed face.

“Careful with that one, I mean to send for him later.” He dismissed the guard away and walked off, Ser Romulus trailing after him, leaving his horse and men to be taken care of by the stable hands.

“Commander Cretus and Captain Troy will handle the men, I’ve brought them with me. How soon can they leave?” Cromwell continued his brisk pace inside, pulling off his riding gloves as he spoke.

“On the morrow Lord Chancellor,-”

“Excellent. They need to ride for the border of Virgina as soon as possible, Lady Sofia’s been besieged.”

“Besieged? Can the Lady Sofia not hold them off for a time? Surely Brackhill can sustain for months-”

“Brackhill can sustain for years, but what do we do about the granaries Romulus.” Cromwell halted, whirling around and nearly causing Ser Romulus to slam into him.

“What do we do about the crop that will burn?” Cromwell turned his fierce glare on the man, daring him to argue.

“Of course… of course Lord Chancellor, I am not suggesting – it is just…” Ser Romulus gestured to the ludus grimly.

He would have to sacrifice the coverage on the wall, let alone the number of guards on rotation for the living stalls and mess hall. They would not survive an attack, even a small one.

“This ludus is remote, that is why it was chosen. A Belethan force would have to stumble upon it to find it,” Cromwell placed a hand on Romulus’ shoulder, “We aren't concerned about that. I understand your struggle Ser Romulus, but if Lady Sofia’s grain goes up in flames, we will truly starve. Even you and me.” Cromwell finished with a pat.

Ser Romulus was not given his post because he was a capable man, he was given the post because it was simple, and not likely to see action. However despite the simplicity of his charge he found himself under constant stress over it.

If his continuous letters to Lord Marcus complaining of the number of men he was given were any indication.

“... Yes, I suppose that is very dire.” Ser Romulus conceded.

He gestured forward, “This way. I still have many questions Lord Chancellor, I hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all Ser, that is why I am here.” Cromwell nodded, allowing Ser Romulus to take the lead this time.

—Later That Night

Emerson heard his name in the crowd, and he quickly used his cuff to erase the drawing of the slave pens that he’d made in the dirt.

“Wait, I still don’t understand-” Chester began, their bright red heads bowed together like flames leaning into each other’s warmth.

“Well, that’s an understatement,” Emerson told him dryly as the two straightened. “We’ll talk more when I’m back,” he assured his cousin.

The two were different- Chester was shorter and stockier, his hair cropped short about his squarer face- but clearly related, with the same bright hair and green eyes.

“That’s him, that’s who you’re looking for,” another prisoner said, leading a guard towards the pair. “The taller one. That’s… Emerson.”

“I’ll kill him for ratting,” Ches said, growling under his breath, but Emerson waved a bound hand in dismissal.

“It’s all according to my plan, remember,” he whispered, and Ches nodded through clenched teeth.

“Indeed, I am Lord Emerson,” Emerson said much more loudly, straightening to stand at his full height and look the guard in the eyes. “What can I help you with?”

“Lord Chancellor wishes to see you,” the guard grunted, and tugged at the chain between Emerson’s wrists so that he stumbled forward.

Chester lurched after them, grabbing at his cousin’s sleeve.

“If he hurts you-”

“Oh, let me worry about myself,” Emerson snapped at him with some annoyance. “I’ll see you soon enough. Whole and hail,” he promised.

He trailed along after the guard, away from the lights of the slave pens and towards those of the barracks. Despite what he’d said to his cousin, there was a somewhat nauseous feeling in his stomach that grew stronger with each step.

Well. Nothing to be done for it now.

Out of the barracks and through the mess hall, through the courtyard and into the master's holdings they went, up to Cromwell's quarters.

Three raps on the door and one shirtless Cromwell later, Emerson was being ushered inside and the guard that escorted him was being told to fuck off.

Which took a little too much convincing, especially to leave his keys, but a poor Lord Chancellor he would be if he was in the habit of losing arguments to a mere guard.

After shutting the door in annoyance Cromwell heaved a great sigh and sat down at the small table in his room. Rubbing his eyes and tossing the keys next to the bigger ones meant to open gates that he’d acquired.

“Make yourself comfortable. There's wine.” He pointed to the tea table next to the green chaise.

Emerson glanced around and sat on the chaise, ignoring the wine for now. The room was not overly large but not small and cramped either. There was room for the table, a chaise, and a bed meant for two people to fit comfortably. It was also decently decorated, with burgundy and green rugs and pillows, clearly meant for long term stay.

He did not dwell on the bed, or Cromwell’s state of undress.

He chose to take small comfort instead in the exchange with the guard- It had been annoying, perhaps, in light of the situation, but it at least indicated that Cromwell having prisoners as private guests was not within the ordinary scope of things.

“Do you want any,” Emerson asked, pouring some wine into a glass. The chains clinked loudly against the pitcher.

“Sure.” Cromwell agreed, might as well, he'd need it after the headache that was Ser Romulus.

Lady Ursula must be a saint. That, or just as fussy.

Emerson poured a second glass, and stood to hand it to the Lord Chancellor.

“Are your guards the type to linger at doors?,” Emerson asked softly when he had closed the distance between them, curious if they were able to talk freely.

“My guards are at the end of the hall. When we're done they will escort you back and plant false keys, so that all are accounted for.” Cromwell took the cup and a swig, not in the mood for dainty sips.

Emerson was a little surprised to hear that the Lord Chancellor’s guards were involved- He had suspected the man’s circle of trust was very small indeed.

“And the nearest occupied room is somewhere above us.” He gestured up at the plastered wood of the ceiling, whose floors were also covered in rugs.

They were quite alone.

“I take it you found Lord Chester?” Cromwell asked, setting his cup down.

“Yes,” Emerson confirmed, taking his own sip from his glass.”He is alive and as well as can be expected, and on board with our plan. Or, my plan, as far as he’s aware. Not that I don’t want to give you credit, of course,” Emerson said with a smirk. “But I thought you might appreciate as few people as possible knowing your involvement.”

“I do.”-- Cromwell noted, picking up both sets of keys and handing them to Emerson, –”appreciate discretion.”

“Don't be found with those.” Cromwell didn't think he needed to tell the seemingly competent redhead that, but it was indeed very important that he not be found with those keys.

“Let’s go over it again, for the sake of my sanity.”

Emerson nodded, unlocking his own cuffs.

Cromwell got up and started about the room, pointing to invisible things as he went on. “The men will leave with Commander Cretus and Captain Troy on the morrow, this is sooner than expected but that suits us just fine. Take the day to spread the word after they leave that only 200 guards remain, and to wait for nightfall. Tell them no more than this.”

Cromwell stopped and pointed at Lord Emerson. “You know how fools are. Only tell them enough to hold tight.”

Emerson nodded, as it seemed that the Lord Chancellor wanted this point acknowledged.

He resumed his pacing, “That night, after the guards retire to their barracks, work on their chains. Once enough are free, open the gates to the pens, and have a group acquire the rest of the keys enclosed on the floor above the pens. The guards don't keep an armory up there but there should be extra spears stored where the keys are. The prisoners of higher rank should be in cells on that floor, the same keys you have now should unlock them. It's tempting to attack the barracks but don't waste the time. The goal now should be to get everyone out of the Ludus. Once you're beyond the wall you won't be pursued. As there are far too few here to do so.” He stopped, folding his hands behind his back.

“Your only conflict is at the wall, guards are posted there day and night in shifts. But there will be far fewer, and I take it a large cohort of 600 men can handle them.” He concluded.

It was almost amusing, to see the man- who seemed so hard to present cool neutrality in everything- in this state of anxious stress.

“If we can’t, then we hardly deserve to escape,” Emerson laughed. “It will go just as you have described,” he reassured Cromwell. And if it didn’t… Emerson had always been good at improvising. “We have enough respect from the troops between my cousin and myself that we can prevent a mob and focus them on the escape.”

“Then, after making my excuses to disentangle myself I ride for Blackheath, where Prince Nuri will be, at Hogshead inn.” Cromwell grabbed his cup and poured himself more wine.

“You have no idea the trouble Princes can be.” He took a drink, before considering, “Or maybe you do.” He noted.

“Very much so,” Emerson allowed.

“King Averett seems… different from his father.” Cromwell sat back in his chair, leaning back to get more comfortable.

Emerson laughed, loud and genuine. “An astute observation indeed.”

“I dealt with him face to face only the once, there were talks about sending ambassadors to each other's Kingdoms.” And he had not yet been Lord Chancellor, he'd been a mere clerk for his predecessor.

That pyrrhic rise had been swift and ruthless…

He pushed that set of memories down with another drink of wine.

“It failed miserably. Of course it did. But what I remember most about him is the way everyone–” He made a circle in the air, –“, orbited around him. Like they were acutely aware of his every change in mood. He was volatile and feared but in control of everyone's attention.”

“King Gaius holds his court’s attention with a similar degree of success, but they all like him considerably better.” Cromwell joked dryly.

Do they, Emerson wondered. Or do they just fear him less?

Cromwell put his cup down, considering carefully.

“What is it exactly that your King wants? Don't answer that, I already know what he wants. Rather, what would sate his court’s appetite for retribution? –Is a better question I think.”

Emerson did not feign confusion exactly, but avoided answering the second question all the same.

“I imagine he wants your surrender,” Emerson said idly. “Well- Not yours. The royal family’s. Not something brokered behind the scenes by a third party. But,” Emerson added, with a shrug. “Who am I to know the mind of a King?”

He sat with his unchained hands clasped in front of him, his right thumb resting over the raised skin where Avery had once carved the symbol of the Great Goddess into the back of his hand.

“Someone who would have been scourged for talking the way you do in his presence, were you someone who didn't know his mind. That or a fool, which you clearly aren't.” Lord Emerson did not hide the candid closeness between him and his King during their negotiations.

“He is ready to surrender. But the trouble is King Gaius knows nothing of King Averett and our Kingdoms do not have so much as an ambassadorship between us. So the conditions of said surrender are unknown.” He didn't feel he had to explain this, but if Lord Emerson was going to play ignorant then he’d lay it out for him in great detail, and find out how far Cromwell's crows flew, what crevices his snakes slithered into…

“Not that a war to silence Princess Graceling’s supporters, certainly Icolta, isn't an effective tool to secure his crown. And one King Gaius can even appreciate. But you've delivered quite the blow to his son. Which your King did not seem eager to capitalize on strangely enough. Which leaves us… confused.” Cromwell was well aware that Ruhar wasn't the only Kingdom with a succession crisis. Beleth’s was considerably less chaotic but the stakes were no less high. Cromwell's spies had whispered to him and he had whispered to King Gaius. They'd discussed it at length.

“Six hundred prisoners for the release of one combatant and the death of a score more is hardly a bad deal,” Emerson pointed out. “Do you think we should have sold the Prince to the highest bidder? Cut off his feet and made him dance for our entertainment? Mounted his head on a stake perhaps and waved it about at Delphi’s gates?”

‘Yes’, thought Cromwell.

“His Majesty has seen enough of how the world treats prisoners, to decide how he will treat his own,” Emerson said.

He said nothing of Icolta’s vocal support of the Princess’s claim to the throne- If that was as much as Cromwell knew, he’d prefer to keep it that way.

Cromwell nodded in thought, looking to the unfinished letters on his desk.

“So he wishes to be a different King from his predecessors. Interesting… I wonder how he will fare.”

“I think each one does, regardless of how foolish an ambition it may be,” Emerson warned.

“Funny how none of them ever get it quite right.” Cromwell agreed.

“Tell your King to send me terms, I will see to King Gaius. And we will find a way to end this. After all what we lack in food your King is probably lacking in money. He has that and some house cleaning to do. A war isn't enough to solve his problems, it can only go so far, he doesn't want this conflict to go another year.” – Cromwell shook his head, “And neither does King Gaius… money he can most certainly gain. And further if he agrees to sell us grain. Money in his Lords’ pockets and victory to begin his reign should suit him nicely.” Cromwell grabbed his cup and finished it off in one go.

Cromwell was certainly confident of himself, Emerson thought, and his ability to manipulate both of the Kings.

“You seem assured of His Majesty’s benevolence,” Emerson said, a small smile playing on his lips that suggested it may not be the wisest move.

“You don't have to trust in anything if you know what people want.” Cromwell pointed out.

“And you? From common born clerk to Lord Chancellor,” Emerson noted. “What else is it that you could possibly want from all this?”

Cromwell did not point out that he started out much lower than that before he ever touched the position of clerk, and became anybody of note.

“You would laugh if I told you.” Cromwell said instead.

“Never,” Emerson said sincerely, with a wave of his hand as if to dismiss the very idea of his amusement.

“I want the Kingdoms to be run well, peace and prosperity, the likes of which even a prostitute’s son may not have such a difficult life.” Cromwell held his hands up, as if it were that simple.

And it was. It was as simple as it was impossibly difficult to achieve. Hence his dark reputation.

“That is… A Noble goal,” Emerson decided. “And far more sincere than anything I could come up with. Most of mine are decidedly baser,” he admitted, taking a long drink from his wine glass as if to prove the point.

“Don't give me too much credit, Lord Emerson.” Cromwell gave a small smile, or what passed for one according to Cromwell. “I've not been successful after all.”

“Haven’t been successful, yet,” Emerson corrected him, raising his cup and knocking it against Cromwell’s.

code by @fudgecakez

 

[The Witch Son]

King Averett & Prince Nuri
Theren, Corinth Region
The Secret Prisoner Exchange...

Parting Words & Foreshadowing

He could stand.

That was a vast improvement to what a fortnight ago was an impossible task. It was a lot less painful now too, but Nuri often wondered if there was ever going to come a time when there would be none. Already he was losing memory of what that was like. To not even think about his leg.

He was such a good dancer, everyone said so.

The physician who came to see him occasionally stressed the importance of getting up and walking, but that was easier done when your legs were not chained together and dear Duncan standing post outside his tent had no doubt heard him fall more than once.

Sometimes he just laid there after he fell, in a really pathetic and self pitying way that he'd be mocked for if anyone saw it.

But he'd have to get up eventually, lest Lord Emerson came in for yet another of their chats.

Speaking of which, it'd been a while since he'd done so. Duncan refused to speak with him much and refused to tell him anything about anything going on. The bore. Prince Nuri wondered what Lord Emerson's absence could possibly mean and began feeling anxious about it. He loathed the man but he was also the only one he ever spoke to now.

Being a prisoner was an intensely boring and lonely task.

He was in another of his self pitying bouts now, about to fall asleep in it when someone entered the tent.

“You?” Nuri’s head popped up. It was not Lord Emerson. Who he was definitely getting sick of, but also was preferable to King Averett.

Something was going on.

“Me,” the King agreed. “I apologize I have not been to see you recently,” Avery said. In truth, he’d only visited a handful of times since the first unfortunate meeting, and left the majority of the Prince’s care to his friend, the physician and a few trusted guards.

But Emerson was gone now. Avery had seen the bastard lord off this morning and he’d noted the dirt under Emerson’s fingernails, and the empty pen where the Theren prisoners had been kept previously. He tried not to think of what his friend had been up to in the last few days since the negotiations.

“But we have reached an agreement with your Lord Chancellor,” Avery revealed. “To return you to Theren.”

‘Oh.’ Nuri’s head flopped back down.

“Cromwell? Hope you didn't sign away your soul to that viper too. He has a way of making people do that. It's why father likes him.” Cromwell proved daily that the smartest thing Gaius ever did as King was promote that blackheart. His Queen Agora his right hand, and Lord Cromwell the left.

“I don’t think it’s my soul he was interested in,” Avery said with a shrug. “He was quite keen to have you back.”

A bit too keen, in Avery’s opinion. He almost worried for the man in front of him.

“Does he know?” Nuri asked, assuming with certainty that Cromwell didn't.

Shrewd really, Nuri wouldn't have told the Lord Chancellor anything that he didn't really have to. He was almost looking forward to the look of horror on Cromwell’s face when he noticed his prized destrier was a cripple and no good to him anymore.

“Know what?,” Avery asked, but then his eyes fell on the crutch leaning against the bed.

“Your leg? Of course,” Avery said. “We’ve no desire for him to go back on his promises, and say they were made under false pretenses.”

Though, of course, with the deal they had ended up making… There would have been little for the Lord Chancellor to do but silently seethe at Nuri’s state, lest he reveal his own involvement in the escape of the Beleth soldiers. Which Emerson had pointed out once he and the King had a chance to speak alone.

But they’d had no way of knowing that Cromwell would make the offer he did, and Avery did not like to lie if he could avoid it, so what was done was done.

This news gave Nuri pause, Gwayne, Kay, Bors, he could picture none of these Princes accepting this situation. Or worse… one of them would, and then Nuri would spend the rest of his marriage being punished for it.

Maybe Gwayne wouldn't at first, but Bors already didn't like him.

“Anything else?” Nuri asked, sitting up and fixing the king with a glare, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

“Anything in particular you want to know?’” Avery asked.

“Duncan and Macklin will escort you to the town of Blackheath, where Cromwell will ‘discover’ you,” Avery told him. “The Lord Chancellor seems to think it best that no one know you were ever in our custody at all.”

Nuri scoffed, because really, did Cromwell think he was going to get away with that?

But then it hit him, he paused. Nuri sat up the rest of the way, bending his good knee as much as he could without bending the other.

He looked at King Averett with suspicion.

“That means… the cohort you captured.” Because there simply was no way that Sebastian Cromwell would trade for the lives of people who knew something he was trying to keep a secret.

Dead men tell no tales and give no recourse. Loose threads will ruin your whole shirt. Cut a rat’s head off before you have a whole ship of them. – All the many times Lord Cromwell had instilled in him the importance of being very careful of the choices you make. They held consequences for everyone you interact with.

Nuri knew they were probably dead the moment they were captured. But he'd started to hope. King Averett seemed…

Avery’s eyes closed briefly. “I am sorry,” he told the Prince. “I would have returned them, truly.. But his instructions were clear.”

“So you did sign away a bit of your soul to him after all, King Averett. That's a shame.” Nuri noted bleakly.

“A choice had to be made,” Avery defended himself. “It was a score of your soldiers, or hundreds of mine. I’ll sleep at night.”

Maybe not as well as he’d like for the next week or so, but that was war.

“That's war I suppose.” Nuri agreed, as if reading his mind.

“But one day, if I find out who it really was that killed your brother and his poor wife. I’ll ask you again if you can really sleep at night, knowing all this slaughter was for not.”

The King’s eyes went dark, and the hand at his side twitched as though he might raise in anger.

Instead, he only moved to push back a lock of dark hair that had fallen into his face.

“I wish you all the best with those investigative efforts,” Avery said harshly.

Did the Prince really think he could uncover something that pointed the blame of the assassination away from Theren, when Avery had his best people try the same? Not to mention- “I suspect you may be somewhat hindered, being trapped in Ruhar as some prince’s consort. Focus on the security of your own sleep. Even if whatever husband Cromwell and your father picks for you wins the throne, it will not guarantee your safety.”

It was a low blow, but Avery had not appreciated the mention of his brother’s murder, and what he said was true- The court of Beleth was dangerous, but Ruhar’s was deadly.

“I am not afraid of death, King Averett. You haven't figured that out about me yet!?” Nuri seethed, aware enough to know his insecurities had been stabbed but not able to play it off as if they hadn't.

Avery had figured that out, in fact, though he suspected there were conditions- The death had to be honorable, for one thing. A life of fading away into nothing as some Ruharian prized pawn with danger closing in on all sides seemed a sad end for the Prince in front of him, Avery thought, a pang of something like anger in his gut.

“You had better hope me and my Prince win because if Arthur does, this won't be the first war Beleth fights during your reign.” Nuri hit back, both genuine warning and mockery.

“I shall ask the Goddess to watch over us all in the months to come,” Avery said, it was unclear if the comment was genuine or mocking.

“As for your immediate future- You will be escorted from camp tonight. I doubt I will be able to stop by a second time before then,” he said, as if Nuri might have spent his time in Beleth captivity looking forward to the King’s infrequent visits. “So this will likely be the last time we are to see each other.”

Nuri considered this a good riddance, as this man was shockingly gentle and genuine one moment and frustratingly obtuse the next. Nuri couldn't even feel good mocking him or justify rudeness. Absurd problem to have in an enemy.

Averett turned back to the Prince as he left.

“Good luck, in Ruhar. I hope h- it treats you well,” he said. There was a note of true sincerity in his words, and something bittersweet, too- As if he had his doubts, but wanted them to be wrong.

“...” Nuri had nothing to say, he just hoped for both of their sakes that this truly was the last time…

The silence stretched long after the tent flaps closed shut.

code by @fudgecakez

 

[The Witch Son]

King Averett's & Queen Meera's delegations
Theren, Outside of Delphi Gates
Theren has surrendered

Tributaries & Peace Treaties

While the exchange of prisoner and prince alike went smoothly. With Lord Chester hailed a brave hero and Prince Nuri a gritty survivor. Lord Chancellor Cromwell's every wish was in danger of becoming true. But lest a smile be put on the stoic man's face, something had to go wrong.

First came the terms for a surrender, just as Cromwell had asked for, and then came a second letter. This one more grim in nature.

The King was dead.

Cromwell had not been privy to King Gaius’s battle plans, an unfortunate oversight on his part. It was war after all, there was always that danger that the old King would be felled by the younger.

Princess… now Queen, Meera was not under the same type of influence that King Gaius had been. Rather, while she looked at Cromwell as a necessary part of the throne’s arsenal, it was her mother she deferred to first.

A thing the Queen regent no doubt took a snide joy in. Cromwell had to be very careful that he didn't step on her toes with her husband. But he was very aware that it chaffed her that there was someone other than herself that her husband had looked to for matters of state.

Still, both were under no delusion that Cromwell did not have his uses. The dirty work, the schemes, the blackmail, the impossible problems that required impossible solutions, all things they would be hard pressed to find in any other Lord. Especially any other Lord whose loyalties were naturally divided between house and throne.

Cromwell had no such division to him. And it was for this reason his voice still carried weight when he brought terms to Queen Meera. Taking advantage of the Queen regent's distress to strike.

It was agreed, they needed peace. But more importantly, they needed a lasting peace. Which is why by the time King Averett’s forces reached the outskirts of Delphi, their plans were as prepared as the great tents erected in what could only be described as a temporary village.

Not just for the janissaries to sleep but for merchants, food stalls, and pleasure houses too. While the monarchs negotiated Beleth would get a taste of what trade and allyship with Theren could offer its people.

Queen Meera left her grieving mother behind in the city’s walls. She was not as open to the idea of peace as Meera was.

Together with her husband, King Consort Basilius, Meera waited in procession for King Averett. Janissaries and trumpeters in line to greet the party.

_____


“Well, at least you have the one nice jacket,” Emerson said as he buttoned the collar on the King’s black coat. “I’m never going to forgive Brennan for failing to bring new outfits for you-”

“We are very lucky he was able to make it at all, and to have gotten notes from my aunt before he left,” Avery pointed out. Having both his Minister of War and his Minister of Trade here had not been guaranteed.

“Wouldn’t have killed him to bring your crown,” muttered Emerson and Avery sighed, catching his friend’s hand in his own.

“Would you stop? You being nervous is only serving to make me nervous, and I don’t appreciate it,” the King told him, and Emerson scoffed.

“I’m not nervous,” he said honestly. “I’m annoyed. This whole spectacle is…”

“Quite the spectacle indeed,” Avery agreed. Perhaps it would have been best to meet in a different location, where both parties could bring only what and who they needed. But there had not been a suitable destination for monarchs and their advisors to meet between Delphi and where King Gaius had fallen. “But I know you’re just pissed to be left behind.”

“You know I have things to do besides follow you around like a lap dog,” Emerson shot back. “Maybe I’ll actually get to some of it, with you off in meetings all day.”

Avery laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Just because you can’t be in the meetings, doesn’t mean I’m not going to rely on you. If anything, I’ll need you more, to be my eyes and ears among the tents-”

“And here I was, thinking I was free to enjoy some of these choice Theren delights,” Emerson said with a slight smile, and Avery laughed.

“No such luck,” he told the bastard lord.

“Your Majesty,” a voice interrupted. “We are ready to leave when you are.”

“Of course, Minister Pascal,” Avery replied, stepping out of the tent and into the sun.

He strode forward- He may not have been wearing a crown, but it was clear he was in charge by the way those in his path reacted to him. Ministers Pascal and Brennan flanked him on either side a step behind him, and guards angled themselves in a somewhat v-like formation around the three men.

As they proceeded through the Beleth tents, the soldiers rushed away from whatever they had been doing to salute him as he passed, and he tried to nod in response to as many as he could. His forces were proud of him, he knew, and he valued their respect.

But eventually the tents of Beleth soldiers thinned out, and their journey took them to the recently crowned Queen of Theren, and their procession. Who greeted them with the grating, if grand, sound of trumpets.

Once the racket stopped. One of the guards, who was also a minor noble, stepped forward.

“It is a pleasure to introduce King Averett of Beleth,” he said with gravitas. Avery gave a bow of his head in acknowledgement. “Minister Brennan,” who offered an actual bow, “And Minister Pascal,” who did the same.

“Hail! Standing before you is the Queen Meera, of Theren, the King Consort Basilius, the Lord Chancellor Cromwell, and Lords Cato, Verus, Horatius, Livius, Remus, and Lucius.” The usher announced, each member of the council giving their respective bows.

“Welcome to Delphi, King Averett, if you will follow me, we may get out of this sun and see to business in the shade.” With frivolities dispensed, Queen Meera opened her arms and beckoned the party. Returning to cradling her very round and very large belly as she led the way.

“I trust, King Averett, that you received our gifts of goodwill well?” Meera asked while they walked through the maze of tents.

She had sent a chest of gold, a fine chestnut destrier, two intricately carved boar spears, and a set of gold goblets inlaid with obsidian. Gifts enough to please two Kings. A show of Theren's wealth. All of this was a show of Theren's great wealth.

“Yes,” Avery replied, struggling for something significant to say. “They are handsome gifts indeed, and much appreciated.”

Meera smiled warmly at the glib response and continued to tell him of where the boar spears came, With Basilius interjecting information about Megara’s wood carvers.

Thankfully it was not a long walk, and the small talk did not last long as the party entered the large and spacious rendezvous tent.

It had inside of it a full long table made of oak, and chairs with purple silk cushions. Various rugs and tapestries decorated its inside, with wooden side tables and servants in the corners. Silver cups were placed at each chair, with one such servant standing at the ready to fill them.

Avery stood behind the center chair on one side of the table and waited for Queen Meera to take the opposite seat before sitting himself.

Minister Brennan sat to his right, with a secretary to his side who held the papers of their proposals. Minister Pascal was on his left, another secretary to his side who held a quill and was ready to take notes.

Avery was uncomfortably aware that he was outnumbered in this negotiation as the councilors - whose names he had already forgotten- took their respective chairs. He wondered if the Queen had brought them because her great houses had demanded it, or if she hoped to overpower his own voice by volume.

It was no matter, he assured himself. That he did not have a spouse to support him or his chief advisor to consult with or even his best friend to watch his back, it changed nothing. He had won the war, he reminded himself. Now he would win peace as well.

“Oof, alright men, the pregnant woman is finally seated, you may assure yourselves of your gallantry and sit.” Meera joked after the slightly long time it took to lower herself and adjust to some modicum of comfort. Which earned her a few smiles and a chuckle.

Basilius could hold her hand all day and fuss over her comfort, but he couldn't carry this particular burden himself. Even if he hovered too much though, Meera forgave him, for he was so sweet and enduring.

“Now, King Averett, I am happy to announce to you that the tributaries you have asked for are ready, for the most part, to be given in full.” Meera announced clearly and with easy cadence. As if she had not just agreed to an enormous expense. Including the mines Beleth and Theren had often fought wars over.

What's more, her council on either side of her nodded in agreement. It was only Cromwell who remained stony faced. As he had certainly not agreed to this particular course of action, but gave no fuss over it.

“That is good to hear,” Avery replied. He could practically hear Lord Pascal saying ‘We should have asked for more’. He noted Cromwell’s lack of enthusiasm, and the ‘for most part’ from the Queen. “But we have more to discuss- Theren will end its exclusive trading agreement with Zhong Guo.”

Lord’s Cato and Livius scoffed audibly, but they were, undoubtedly, the most quiet about this demand.

“Is that all?!”

“This sounds suspiciously like tithes and we're not even annexed. Sack the city while you're at it!”

“I take it you've asked Zhong Guo about this.”

“Do you even have any idea the years put into our relationship with Zhong Guo!? The marriages involved!”

“The pirates!”

The protestations were varied and with little regard to who was speaking first.

Cromwell was silent still.

“Councilors, councilors, please.” Queen Meera held up her hand, hushing her entourage, it took a minute and several more protestations.

The smallest of smiles twitched across Avery’s face. Perhaps it had not been so wise for the Queen to bring such an entourage, if she could not keep them in line. It made him think of his own nobility- He liked to think that his Ministers were well trained enough not to speak unless called upon, but if he had the representatives from the Duchies here… Well.

“That is quite the ask, King Avery, but I’m afraid that trade with Zhong Guo has all but halted, what with the rampant piracy plaguing our coast. Ships can hardly get through successfully, and Zhong Guo is rethinking its relationship with us going forward.” Meera stretched the truth neatly and without hesitation. Politely omitting that it was King Averett who had enlisted said pirates.

She glanced at Cromwell, who nodded back in affirmation. The conversation was steering in the direction that they had wanted it to. They could use this too in their hopes for snagging a Princess…

“A valid concern,” the King allowed. “But one that will be lessened in the coming months.” He gestured with a hand, and a secretary produced some papers which he slid across the table to the Queen.

“I believe I can have the pirates out of the gulf within three months time, if not less. Merid will of course reopen their ports as a place for Theren ships patrolling the area to use as a resting berth. For your exterior coast,” he continued, “I propose that Beleth ships patrol as indicated on the map for the next three months,” he said, pointing to the second piece of paper, a map in which various markings had been made in arcs in the ocean waters around major port cities. “Theren ships are welcome to be paired with them.”

King Consort Basilius took hold of the parchment and he and Meera looked over them.

“Cromwell…” Meera gestured, distracted and in full confidence that her chancellor could steer for a while.

The Lord Chancellor cleared his throat, “The piracy is not the biggest obstacle here for what you want, King Averett, despite being a literal obstacle.” He gestured to the map Meera was currently perusing

“We cultivated our relationship with Zhong Guo over the course of years and generations, this is not a thing done or undone with mere whim or tribute. The merchants of Zhong Guo value respect, they are a prideful sort that do not recognize nobility the way we do in this land, coast to coast. We've made marriage ties to them, the trade agreements we have are tied by familial trust as much as they are economic interest.”

The council leaned in, anticipating the delivery of Cromwell's main course.

“If you wish to do trade with Zhong Guo, King Averett, then you must do trade with us, and tie yourself in familial bond to Theren. So that we might properly vouch for you and your interests.”

“Beleth shares your interest in mutual trade,” Avery agreed. Despite being neighbors, both countries had historically not much economic overlap, and Avery thought a strong trade relationship between them would do much to reduce future conflict. He wasn’t sure what they meant by a ‘familial bond’, it sounded as if-

“What better way to open that relationship than through marriage!” Queen Meera put down the parchment she was holding to interject, “The Princess Graceling is of age is she not?”

King Avery’s face went from his best attempt at open and genial to stony in a moment.

“No,” he responded cooly. “I’m afraid she is not.”

His little sister was still half a year shy of being eighteen, and while it wasn’t uncommon for people to get engaged or married earlier than that- much earlier, sometimes- they needed the approval of their head of household.

Minister Brennan took a breath as though he might speak- perhaps to point this out- but then seemed to think better of it.

Good, Avery thought. Nice to know his Ministers were leashed better than Theren’s council.

The sound of the outside bustle cut the silence.

Meera’s widened eyes blinked several times.

“Treaties and alliances are typically made with marriages, King Averett.” Cromwell said carefully.

“My own mother is of Ruhar.” Meera pointed out, “I’ve an aunt made Queen in Allaria…”

“And your own marriage,” Avery said flatly. “What treaty did that solidify?”

Basilius twitched, but Meera’s hand covered his own and he remained silent.

“Theren and Beleth have pointedly never tied themselves in marriage before. If we are to have a lasting peace and working relationship with one another…” Lord Livius added.

“Perhaps Beleth does not wish to tie itself too closely to Theren.” Lord Remus ‘tsked.

Queen Meera did not correct him.

“That could not be further from the truth,” Minister Brennan said, stepping in with a smooth and soothing voice, knowing that his King was dangerously close to losing his temper. “But the Princess is young still, and is beloved by both her people and her brother. One of the few remaining members of His Majesty’s family,” Brennan pointed out, lingering on that statement for a bit.

Because Elion and Ysmena and their child had been killed, he did not say.

Avery considered as the silence stretched on. He knew what Brennan and maybe Emerson and perhaps even Grace would suggest if they were in private- That Grace have a long engagement, or that she stay a season in Theren to see if she liked her betrothed, and the court, and the climate.

“... And who would you suggest to become Princess Graceling’s new spouse?,” Avery asked, as though he might actually be thinking over the idea.

Queen Meera perked up and answered, “My late uncle Prince Magnus married a Lady Feona of House Corinth. Their eligible son is Ser Hector, thirty years of age, hail and handsome, gallant, all the things the spouse of a Princess ought to be,” – Meera squeezed her husband's hand, –“And he is here in this camp if you wish to observe him or speak to him.”

Cromwell did not share his Queen's optimism.

“What if Ser Hector resided in Beleth?” He tested his growing theory.

“Oh excellent suggestion! Yes, the Princess Graceling need not part with you at all. Hector could reside in Beleth.” Queen Meera clapped her hands together, as if the matter had all been resolved.

Minister Pascal might have laughed. He had butted heads with his new King quite often since Avery’s coronation- though not quite as much as he had with his idealistic brother- and it was nice to see someone else on the receiving end of the King’s displeasure.

“I have no need to speak with him,” Avery decided after a moment. “I am sure he is a fine man. But he will not marry my sister,” he said firmly.

Ser Livius had the nerve to sigh, but the rest of the council just slumped back into their seats, suddenly interested in their wine. All save Cromwell, who was mentally recalculating.

“If you wish for a wedding and marriage and children to cement our peace,” Avery continued. “Then I propose you find a match for me. Perhaps you have a suitable cousin,” he continued thoughtfully, knowing full well they did not. “Or… I believe Prince Nuri is unattached?”

That finally irked the Chancellor enough to show on his stony expression.

After all Cromwell had done to get the Prince back, Avery was sure Theren would not give up their crucial pawn. They would be forced to concede to peace without a wedding.

“Nuri?!” Meera was shocked the King would even consider that option.

She looked to her husband, and then to her council.

They were at a stalemate. And the way you fix a stalemate is…

“Let us break for a time. You can enjoy what Delphi has to offer while we see what enquiries can be made about a suitable bride for you, King Averett.” And mayhaps some revelry might even lessen his sour mood.

“Of course,” Avery responded pleasantly, as though he had not just purposefully stalled out their negotiations after less than half an hour at the table. “I look forward to meeting again soon.”

He stood and left the tent, his retinue in tow.

code by @fudgecakez

 

[The Witch Son]

Queen Meera's Delegation
Theren, Outside of Delphi Gates
Theren's delegation licks its wounds

Theren's Council is Notoriously Irritating

“He’s his father in the making, that pettiness and snobbery. See what it gets him!” Lord Remus gestured, wine in hand.

They had been throwing insults to the Belethan delegation back and forth for the past quarter of an hour, their Queen patiently allowing the release of steam from their tempers. More wine and less tension always helped the council focus better.

“We’d all better hope not, my Lord.” She finally interjected.

“Zhong won't have it. We gave them a Princess, do you think Beleth could bare to lay themselves so low?” Lord Lucius agreed with Lord Remus, as per usual.

“Maybe that is why he does not intend to marry Princess Graceling to us. He has only the one right now, when he spends her he’d better spend wisely.” Lord Livius, more astute than the rest, pointed out.

“Most likely.” Queen Meera once again congratulated herself on the wisdom and good sense (and perhaps a lot of luck) she had to fall in love early and choose her husband herself.

“If I may…” Cromwell looked to his Queen, not wishing to be impertinent and correct her so overtly.

The rest of the councilors may have leave to speak their mind and opinion in full, but Cromwell represented no Lord’s fiefs. His title was an empty one.

“You may as well.” Meera sighed, wondering what Cromwell could possibly say to make this situation any better.

“He does not think like a King, at least not yet. He was raised to serve in Beleth's military exploits, expected to command armies for his brother, not to rule himself…” Cromwell pointed out, tapping the table pointedly.

“Go on.” He had her attention now.

“He and his sister come from the same mother. With all the rest gone, I imagine he feels…” Cromwell looked to the ceiling, uncomfortable with describing the emotional attachment and struggling to find the right words.

“Sen-ti-men-tal!?” Lord Remus barked, laughing and turning to Lucius, who joined him.

The nervous chuckling that followed from the rest of the council denoted that none were really comfortable with that possibility.

“How are you sure of all of that conjecture, Lord Cromwell?” Lord Livius poked at Cromwell.

“Father had him negotiate with him towards the end Lord Livius, you know that.” Meera rolled her eyes and took a nice, long, drink of wine. Patience gone for Lord Livius’ very personal agenda against her father’s chancellor. Her chancellor now.

“What does it matter either way? Looks as though whether it's for sentimentality or politics we're not getting anything more than a signed treaty.” Lord Horatius pointed out hurriedly, attempting to cover for Lord Livius, throwing him a look.

“Because, my Lords, politics you can negotiate, sentimentality is less reasonable.” Meera's irritation showed in her voice, explaining slowly, as if to children.

“I’ll work on confirming which it is.” Cromwell leaned back, unaffected by the pettiness going on around him.

“And how will you do that?” Livius’ voice dripped with venom.

“The same way I do everything that you are unable to, Lord Livius.” Cromwell answered, quick and infuriatingly nonchalant.

“Enough!” – Meera slammed her hand down on the table, –“I have told you all before that if you wish for me to name a new Chancellor then you'd better show yourselves to be at least half as useful as Cromwell is!”

The council was begrudgingly chastened at this, because she was right, and because they were not supposed to be stressing the Queen out when she was with child. They had spoken of it extensively. Theren needed its heirs, and every physician in Theren always cautioned that stress poisoned the child.

And with her past miscarriages… it was a wonder another child had not been lost with all that had happened as of late.

The Queen should be relaxing in the soft waves of the maidens pools under the castle, not corralling her council and negotiating the end of a war after losing her father.

Lord Livius grimaced in realization of this, “Forgive me, your Majesty, I was not being mindful.”

“This is not the time for dissent amongst our own. We should instead discuss both the possibility that we confirm there will be no marriage with Princess Graceling and the possibility that the pot just needs to be sweetened.” Basilius steadied his irritated wife with a hand on her back and some focus of the conversation.

“Our ambassador of Zhong, we could send him to them. We could waive the need for a dowry.” Lord Cato threw out, off the top of his head.

“Commit 200 Janissaries to Ser Hector, for Beleth's use.” Lord Verus tossed in.

“Good suggestions.” Meera acknowledged.

“And we can refuse them Zhong altogether if they do not wish to wed. Though more to the point on that end, after this thing is done we should send Prince Nuri to Prince Kay with janissaries of his own, with haste. King Gaius exercised caution and we all agreed with him but there comes a point where one must strike. Lest the time for victory pass altogether.” Cromwell noted.

Lord Livius scoffed but corrected his tone halfway through, remembering himself, “Prince Kay, it is Prince Gwayne we need to back, he has the better claim, he's older.”

“His grace has a better and more influential relationship with Prince Kay.” Cromwell stressed, were they going to argue this point forever? This was half the reason there was delay in sending the Prince to do his duty.

Who had more or better backers, which faction was more likely to win, it all changed with each new piece of information they received. It seemed that any one move they made risked all they had worked for no matter who they decided to back. And they had been waiting for a clear victor to show himself.

Save for Prince Arthur’s faction. None wished him to take the throne.

“Prince Bors–”

–“Is backing up Prince Arthur's faction, he’s given up.” Meera interrupted Lord Remus, “We will send him to Prince Gwayne once our negotiations with Beleth conclude. Send word to the castle, he’s to be ready to leave within the week. And so are the janissaries we're sending with him.” Some small, though not insignificant, portion of Meera did not wish for her brother to marry someone he liked. She’d deny it to anyone’s face, but she knew. She knew she wished to punish him. To keep him lower than her.

“So it shall be done.” Cromwell acquiesced, bowing his head.

“Now, back to the matter of Zhong Guo…”

code by @fudgecakez

 

[The Witch Son]

King Averett's Delegation
Theren, Outside of Delphi Gates
Beleth's delegation celebrates winning the day's negotiations

Beleth Is Victorious

Once the flaps of Avery’s personal tent had shut behind the trio of men, Minister Pascal broke into a hearty laugh.

“Oh! Their faces,” he said with a guffaw.

“You’re back so soon,” Emerson said, jumping from the chaise he had been idly occupying, with his thoughts elsewhere. “How did it go?”

“His Majesty has expressed a sudden desire to be married,” Pascal told him, still smiling.

“You what?,” Emerson asked incredulously.

“They want a wedding to seal the alliance,” Brennan explained. “And Princess Graceling is apparently off the table in that regard.”

“Of course she is,” Avery said a bit testily.

“So His Majesty offered himself in her place. Even proposed he might marry Prince Nuri,” Brennan told Emerson.

“That was… Almost quite clever of you,” Emerson said, tilting his head to the side in consideration. “You’re assuming they won’t be willing to give him up?”

“Why would they? They went through so much effort to get him back, and they need him if they want the influence in Ruhar they’ve been scheming for a decade,” Avery said with a shrug.

“Well. The Lord Chancellor Cromwell went through that effort,” Emerson pointed out. “Under the presumptive orders of King Gaius. This is a new regime.”

“Ah- So that is why you said ‘almost’ clever,” Avery said with a scowl. “You think Queen Meera has different plans for her brother?

“I think… That we can make a good guess at her plans. But we can’t know them with certainty,” Emerson replied. “And your aunt would caution against making an offer you aren’t actually willing to follow through on.”

“Well, a good thing his lady aunt isn’t here then, eh,” Pascal said, clapping Emerson on the back as he crossed to the table and began pouring wine for the party.

“Who says I’m not willing to follow through on it?,” Avery asked defensively, and Emerson looked at him curiously.

“Would you?,” Brennan asked.

“I mean- Well. It hardly matters. They aren’t going to accept it.”

“Well, then they may not accept us trading with Zhong Guo,” Minister Brennan pointed out, accepting a glass from Minister Pascal. “Which may not seem too important in the grand scheme of things, but is rather desired by myself, your aunt and all your nobles.”

Avery ran a hand across his face in consternation. “I know, I know.”

“What are we to do in the meantime,” Emerson asked. “Just wait for them to call on you again?”

He did not like the idea of the Beleth delegation at Theren’s beck and call.

“I believe we were instructed to ‘enjoy what Delphi has to offer’,” Minister Pascal said with a bright smile. “And I saw quite a few offerings I’d like to enjoy. Care to join, Your Majesty?”

“No, not at this time,” Avery said, as though he might change his mind later in the day.

“There was some rather delicious looking food about,” Minister Brennan said. “I may sample some of that, but I imagine I’ll return to my tent afterward- I’d like to look over the details of from where Theren will be sourcing the lumber.

“I trust someone will find me if I’m needed?,” Pascal asked.

“We shall follow the sight of empty barrels and the sounds of ecstatic pleasure,” Emerson assured him with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Pascal left, and Brennan turned to the redhead. “Perhaps you could stop by my tent later, if you have the time,” he suggested. “I would appreciate your insight on some figures.”

“Of course,” Emerson agreed, and Brennan left with a small smile on his face.

Avery sat heavily in one of the chairs, tipping his head back and looking at the canvas ceiling for a moment.

“You know, you can drop that particular pretense,” he told his friend after a beat. “It isn’t as if I don’t know.”

“Hmm,” Emerson said, taking a long drink from his own glass. “But everyone likes to think they can pull one over on a King, don’t they?”

“Well,” Avery said, righting his head to look in front of him again. “Let’s hope not.”

code by @fudgecakez

 

[The Witch Son]

Lord Cromwell & Lord Emerson
Theren, Outside of Delphi Gates
News from Ruhar interrupts the intermingling

Fate Strikes

“Lord Chancellor, there is a Lord Emerson here to see you.” Dominic, Cromwell’s manservant stopped in front of him to say.

Cromwell was pouring over letters and maps at a small table in his personal tent, forgoing the much more comfortable option of laying down on any of the many cushioned surfaces in it this time of night.

Especially given his shirt was already off.

“Let him in.” Cromwell nodded, getting up and stretching to clear the headache forming around his temples.

A few more rustles of tent flaps and Cromwell put his arms down, taking a deep breath and looking over his guest.

“I’d offer you wine but I presume you've had your share today.” He joked.

“Yes, I think I have,” Emerson allowed. Another part of him disagreed quite strongly, and he stifled it.

“Just came from Minister Brennan’s,” Emerson said, handing a sheath of papers to the Lord Chancellor and trying to look at the man's eyes instead of his bare chest. “You have his approval on the lumber shipments.”

“Good, Minister Brennan is quite competent, refreshingly so.” Cromwell tossed the papers onto his makeshift desk, to look over later.

“But I take it that isn't your main reason for being here.” Cromwell turned back around, crossing his arms.

“Even if I wish to flatter myself in thinking this to be a personal visit.” Cromwell made his second joke, a record on humor for the man as of late.

Emerson smirked a bit, this time letting his eyes roam over Cromwell’s form a little too long not to be noticed. “Why? Were you expecting a personal visitor- You seem to be in the state for one,” he noted. “The few times we’ve met, you’ve been shirtless twice.”

“You do tend to visit in the night, my Lord Emerson.” Cromwell gave a small smirk, noting that he was not the only one the redhead had visited… that minister…

Best think of that later.

“But we seem to do our best work that way, even if some of it goes awry.” Cromwell's smirk fell, but his expression was not harsh, he was more sorry than anything that he could not prevent the end of the war in a less dramatic way.

“Nonsense,” Emerson scoffed. “Well- Maybe for you. My work never goes awry. Though,” he said somewhat conspiratorially. “I don’t actually do much work, if I’m being honest. Curry favor with the right people,” he continued. “And you can become an indispensable letter carrier to the rich and powerful. You should try it- Much less stress, that way.”

Cromwell snorted, “Less stressful to be sure. But not nearly what I’m good at. And one must hail one’s calling.” He shrugged.

“Speaking of which, there has been some debate on our side of whether the King is too sentimental about his sister to marry her off, or if he's saving her hand for some other purpose. If it's sentiment… and truly not a thing he will reconsider, he can't get trade with Zhong.” Cromwell's face shuttered once more, back to business his mind turned.

Well. That was a loaded question, Emerson thought. Or a statement, at least.

He debated over how much of the truth to tell. On the one hand, he could get Cromwell to agree to additional promises in exchange for a marriage with the Princess. On the other… He suspected that unless Grace herself burst out of a carriage and told her brother she was desperately in love with Ser Hector, Avery would be against their wedding. And maybe even then, too.

Perhaps a degree of honesty might actually be the better option, for once.

“I’m not sure if you know this,” Emerson said, throwing himself down across several cushions and pulling on the tie that held back his hair so it fell across the green silk. “As I suspect you may not have paid close attention to news from Beleth, more than a decade ago. I know I didn’t,” Emerson allowed with a laugh.

“But,” he continued. “Princess Graceling was kidnapped, once. In a market square in Kokinos. They killed her guards, and vanished without so much as a ransom note. In fact,” he continued, his eyes fluttering shut and the warm light of the lamps casting the shadow of his long lashes across his freckled face. “There was no word of what had happened to her for nearly two days.”

“I see…” Cromwell took this to mean that this was in fact sentiment. He poured some wine in a clean cup and some more in the one he'd been nursing.

Meandering over and judging a distance that was not too far but not too close, he bent down and handed Emerson a cup before sitting cross legged himself.

“So he's not just naturally protective of the Princess… Which means we are looking at a signed treaty and not much else. That's a shame.” Cromwell sighed and got this far away look in his eyes.

“Listen,” Emerson said with a sigh, taking a drink without even bothering to check if it was water or wine. “Maybe he could be convinced, by the right argument from the right person with the right incentives. I’m not saying one way or another- Who am I, to know the mind of a King?”

He chuckled suddenly, thinking of surprising things Kings did at times.

“What, you think Queen Meera won’t agree to marry her brother to Beleth?”

“He’s going to back one of the Princes as soon as this thing is over.” He gestured to their general surroundings. Prince Kay was not off the table, no matter what the council or his Queen thought.

Better to ask forgiveness than permission in that matter. He would tell Prince Nuri to follow his gut and pick which one he thought best. He was the one who had to be married to the man after all. Might as well make it one that was enamored with him still.

He took a swig of wine, “We've sunk too much money and time to delay any further. And no matter how much any of us want a lasting peace with Beleth, we can not offer the King a match not made for him. He should be marrying a well liked Lady from Beleth by the way, that'd suit his needs far better.” Cromwell offered the advice, free of charge.

“There are not many well liked Ladies from Beleth,” Emerson mused as he drank perhaps more deeply than was wise, thinking of the many vultures and their scheming parents who had been circling the king.

This broke a noise that could be best described as half a laugh out of Cromwell.

“You are sure Theren will not give up their exclusivity deal with Zhong Guo without a marriage?,” Emerson asked. “It would be good for the entire continent,” he pointed out.

“Besides,” he said with an idle sigh. “Even their ambassador isn’t pressuring us for a marriage.”

“I don't think anyone is interested in giving Beleth any advantages. The nobles were sick of the conflict but now there's very real anger there.” Cromwell pointed out.

“And don't take everything that ambassador says at face value. He isn't going to ask outright for things like that. We make offerings, the occasional noblewoman raised for the express purpose of marrying overseas, and they make offerings back. King Consort Basilius’ mother was from Zhong.” She had been raised to speak their language and learn their customs, in much the same way an appointed Theren noble would raise their daughter to speak Zhong and understand their manners.

“Yes, that sounds familiar,” Emerson acknowledged. He hadn’t really paid too much attention to the heritage of Princess Meera’s new husband a decade ago, but the detail rang a bell.

“He isn't going to ask outright to be made whole either. Your King has directly harmed the Zhong’s bottom line, caused them profit loss, which is a worse offense than anything King Garrett said or did to make them dislike him.”

Emerson made a humming noise of agreement, his eyes fluttering shut again. He seemed to have gotten bored of political talk for the time being. “This is good wine,” he said, lifting his glass in a small gesture. “And the food has been quite good, too. Have you gotten to enjoy any of it, or do you just spend all your time cooped up with your papers, shivering in the cold without any shirts to keep you warm?”

A puff of air escaped Cromwell’s nose as he drank deeply. His eyes considering Lord Emerson’s flushed face.

“Some would say the cold suits a man like me.” He leaned to the side, being coy himself.

Maybe if he had someone to keep him warm.

“I’m sure a man of your considerable talents could find someone to help you keep warm,” Emerson said, as if he were aware of the thoughts spinning in Cromwell’s head. “Why, there’s a plethora of beautiful ladies within walking distance,” he said with a wave of his hand towards the front of the tent. “Saw some men, too, if that’s more your type.”

Perhaps he couldn’t read Cromwell’s thoughts after all.

“I’m afraid, my Lord Emerson, that I’m a horribly picky person.” Cromwell’s gaze followed where Emerson gestured, but returned to him readily. Serious as could be.

Emerson’s eyes opened again, meeting the Lord Chancellor’s heated stare. If his face flushed a bit deeper, it was certainly just the wine. He sat up a bit straighter, no longer lounging so languidly across the cushions but with his legs still spread open.

“I’ve met some rather particular folks in my time, I’m sure we can find someone to your liking,” Emerson assured him. “What’s your preference?”

Cromwell should really have more restraint.

But if Lord Emerson was leaving as soon as negotiations were over. He’d have no other chance…

He reached over and brushed a lock of hair out of Lord Emerson’s face, tucked it securely behind his ear. His movements slow and deliberate, perfectly ready to pull back if unwanted, “Redheads. Theren doesn't have very many redheads.” Cromwell’s voice deepened an octave.

“Oh,” Emerson breathed out. If his head leaned slightly into the warmth of Cromwell’s hand, that was his business. His nose at Cromwell’s wrist, he breathed in deeply. And out again.

“The dangerous thing about picky people,” Emerson said after a long moment, raising a finger to Cromwell’s lips and tapping twice as if in admonishment. “Is that once they’ve finally found what they wanted, they can be quite… Insatiable.”

Quick as a snake, Cromwell caught Lord Emerson’s wrist, the movement giving an audible little ‘slap’ of skin. He held it firmly in place, before turning his head to hover his mouth over the lovely little freckles on Emerson’s knuckles.

“You really do look lovely with your wrists bound, Lord Emerson.” He breathed, very guilty, horribly guilty, of being insatiably–

–“My Lord Cromwell!” A sweaty cloaked man, followed closely by Dominic, burst inside. Splashing a bucket of cool water over the pair.

Cromwell sat bolt upright, his wine spilling onto the cushions.

“I tried to stop him, my Lord forgive me!” Dominic bowed hurriedly, realizing he had just interrupted, and probably embarrassed, the chancellor of the realm.

Emerson was equally caught off guard by the sudden interruption, though with his wine cup on the ground he avoided making a mess.

“My Lord, I rode day and night on Ser Nero’s orders, to deliver you this.” The panting young man held out a scroll, sealed in wax.

Cromwell got up, striding over and waving Dominic off before tearing open the letter.

“The situation is…” The envoy glanced at Lord Emerson, not recognizing him and unsure if he should say more.

Cromwell held up a finger, indicating that he should shut his mouth, upon pain of death.

Which was probably wise. Even in his inebriated state, Emerson was thinking of the name ‘Nero’ with some degree of recognition.

A few seconds ticked by, Cromwell cursed and folded the scroll, looking around. He wanted to throw something.

“My Lord Emerson, I’m afraid I have yet more work to do tonight. Apologies… but I can not accompany you any longer.” Cromwell said, business-like tone clipped and cold. That's the way his anger ran through him, not a raging fire but a frigid storm.

It was a markedly different man than the one whose heated words had sparked a fire below Emerson’s somersaulting stomach, though he found the sudden change did little to damp the flames.

“I- Of course,” Emerson said. “I understand. Duty calls, and all that,” he said with a wave of his hand as he stood and dipped his head in farewell, leaving the way he had come.

That had been… Probably not the best idea, Emerson reflected as the tent fell shut behind him. He had to be more careful, he decided.

For Beleth, and for his King. It was… Inappropriate, he told himself, to fall to his knees for someone they were negotiating with. Cromwell had certainly been using him for information on Avery’s relationship with his sister, and while in this case it had been prudent to give it, that may not be the case next time-

Next time, Emerson berated himself. There wasn’t going to be a ‘next time’. They would finish negotiations in the coming days and go home to their respective cities, and Emerson would do well to leave the Lord Chancellor alone until that happened.

Still… He considered, as he walked through the camp past the beckoning open tents belonging to Theren’s most esteemed pleasure houses, considering what to do about the pressing situation between his legs, and his future plans. The Queen was having a child, and their countries would be allies soon. Perhaps he could suggest to Avery that they send a gift, one Emerson might deliver personally…

code by @fudgecakez

 

[The Witch Son]

The Delegations of Beleth & Theren
Theren, Outside of Delphi Gates
King Averett and Prince Nuri are to be married after all

"Yes."

“I tried to tell you before that you lost Ruhar the moment that sword went through my leg. But none of you listened!” Nuri shouted in retaliation to the accusing look his sister, the Queen, was giving him.

“And you all wanted to send me anyway. Can you imagine? A cripple champion striding in with a cane to save the Prince and win him the throne!” – Nuri chucked his cane across the tent, hitting something that clanked around. – “A joke for the ages. I probably would've just died in some embarrassing way.” Nuri spat.

“Well at least then you'd have gained back your honor! Actually DONE something for this house and gained a debt from Ruhar!” Meera fired back. It was the wrong thing to say, and she regretted it the minute she said it.

They both panted loudly over the silence, the realization hitting them both like a brick.

“Why did father wait so long?” Meera asked, ugly anguish crossing her face. Mourning both his loss and the gutting pain of consequences he left her with. So many consequences.

She covered her face in shame.

“I kept trying to tell them I needed to go. But no one listened to me.” Nuri’s voice broke a little, “No one ever listens to me.”

“I- I didn't mean it Nuri, that was an ugly thing to say. I’m just so–” Meera shook her head.

“Stressed, I know. You're stressed.” Nuri made the excuse for her, knowing full well in the back of his mind that it was still true that she had meant to send him before he was fully healed to most likely die in pursuit of a throne he was no longer suited for.

It wasn't really like she had much of a choice.

“It’s not good for the baby Meera… look, I’ll…” –He got up and and limped over to her, – “I’ll marry him. Or offer to anyway. I’ll give it my best shot.” Nuri grimaced, taking her hands in his and comforting her.

Meera shut her eyes and breathed deep, allowing herself to be led to a chair.

“I want mother to be here,” She gave a broken scoff, “But if she were she would just argue with me over my decision!” Teardrops fell from Meera’s eyes and she began to sob, leaning into her brother's chest.

“There, there, get it all out.” –As they say, when the clouds fill with too much water, it spills, so too does this happen to the body.

Nuri part her back, “I’m afraid as monarch, sister, you kind of signed on to be argued with for the rest of your life.” He joked grimly.

Wet laughs wracked out of Meera, her shoulders shaking with the effort, “You're not helping,” She shoved him a little.

“Well, as soon as you’re done crying the council and everyone else can come back in and tell me what I need to know so I can help you.” Nuri gave a rueful smile.

They had all scurried out of the tent like bats out of hell when Meera started shouting at Nuri. And despite the thin walls of the tent, he had found himself thankful for the privacy.

___________________________


“Ow…” Prince Nuri, long suffering but obedient and sitting still, complained at his sister's pinching of his cheeks.

“You should've just worn rouge like I told you.” Meera said as she and her delegation, sans her husband, stood around and waited in the negotiating tent.

“I’m not wearing rouge. I’m a man.” Nuri whined under his breath, finally jerking his face away from his sister's mean little boney fingers.

“I've seen you wear rouge Nuri. It looks good on you, brings some color to your parlor.” Meera switched to fussing with his powder blue doublet. It was in the Ruharan fashion. All his best clothes were in the Ruharan fashion, and doublets suited him better than the airy cottons and silks Therens wore anyhow.

“When pretty ladies decide to hold you down and paint your face, a man doesn't sit still because he's excited about looking good in rouge sister.” Nuri defended himself.

That got a bawdy laugh from the room, especially Lord Remus, the old lecher.

“We’ve missed a joke, I see,” King Averret said as he strode into the room. His dark eyes landed on the new presence at the table, but did not seem surprised to see Prince Nuri had joined them.

He looked… Well, Avery thought. Or at least, much better than he had as Beleth’s prisoner. The way he leaned on the cane suggested his leg was still healing, but there was a pink in his face that Avery did not recall, and the doublet he wore brought the pale blue gray of his eyes to an almost silver hue.

In truth, he was curious about the Prince’s arrival. Emerson had revealed that the Lord Chancellor had received some sort of missive from Theren’s ambassador to Ruhar the night prior, and the Beleth party could only assume something had changed regarding the political situation. Perhaps whatever Prince they’d hoped to snare had agreed to marry Prince Nuri and now the man was here to reject him in person.

Despite his comment, the King did not seem overly interested in whatever the source of the humor had been- Avery wondered if it might have been about him.

“Shall we be seated?,” he asked, once again waiting for Queen Meera to take her place before he did his. This time her brother helped her down.

“Boys are always making bawdy jokes, your Majesty, no matter how old they get.” She fixed a look and tight smile towards her council, who did not seem particularly ashamed.

A few even nodded in agreement.

“Now, to start with this morning, you asked for us to produce a suitable match for your grace and even gave a suggestion.” She looked to Nuri, and so did several other eyes.

And he could really only look to his sister in turn in pleasant neutrality. Lest he look to the floor like he really wanted to do. A bit embarrassing to be accepting a marriage proposal not given in seriousness after all.

“And we are happy to inform you that we are prepared to acquiesce. Your marriage to our dearest Prince Nuri will solidify a bond between our two Kingdoms, and Prince Nuri will personally see to your relationship with Zhong. Ensuring that Beleth can gain what Theren has enjoyed all these years.” Meera's voice sounded pleased, but forced and a bit tight. She was trying very hard to seem natural.

They all were.

The ministers on either side of the King froze, their faces still half lifted in smiles at the idea of bawdy jokes between boys.

“That is wonderful news,” the King said pleasantly, as though he were discussing a promising change in the recent weather. His eyes, though, were fixed on the Prince.

Who was doing his best impression of a polite bystander, a wall of disassociation between him and the man leveling him with a stare.

A stare so intense and searching, what was it he wanted from him? Nuri wondered, searching desperately himself so he could give it already and the King could cease holding him hostage.

Who says I’m not willing to follow through on it?, Avery’d asked just yesterday, when Emerson had pointed out that he shouldn’t have made an offer he might not be willing to follow through with.

But. Who was to say the Prince was willing?

Meera’s plastered smile faltered, looking bemusedly between the King and her brother.

Avery rested his elbow on the table, his index finger resting against his cheek and the rest of his hand curled in front of his mouth as he considered.

“I think,” he said after a long moment of silence stretched through the tense air of the tent. “That I should like to speak with Prince Nuri.”

His hand came away from his face and he made a casual but clearly dismissive gesture. “Alone.”

His steady gaze still hadn’t left the Prince’s face.

“Of course. Your Majesty,” Minister Brennan said with a nod after a few beats, the first to rise. Minister Pascal quickly did the same.

Queen Meera kicked her brother’s heel under the table, startling him into standing up and helping her up. She communicated with him silently, with quizzical looks and suspicion.

But the prince simply had no answers to give her.

She left him with her retinue, quite lost.

The prince could do nothing but sit again, across from the King. His King, maybe…

Alone in the tent, the King and the Prince sat across from each other until Avery spoke.

“As I’m sure you suspect, I made the offer to marry you in hopes of forcing your sister’s hand. Not yours,” Avery began. “But I hold myself to my word. That being said,” he continued. “I will not hold you to it as well.”

Nuri’s mouth opened, then closed. He wasn't sure what to make of that. Yes he'd been aware, but he was so arrested at the King's consideration.

The same way he had been when he’d been his prisoner. As if Nuri had a say. As if he'd listen.

Avery sat back, pushing a hand back through his chestnut hair.

“I have had you maimed and imprisoned. I have killed your father. I am not going to force you to marry me.”

It would be a blow to his honor and his pride- and Beleth’s as well- to be seen reneging on what he had promised. But he would rather suffer the embarrassment now, than endure a hateful marriage for the rest of their lives.

“You…” Nuri let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

He hated how honest this man was. It forced Nuri’s own conscience to suffer too much guilt to treat him with anything but the same.

If he was going to marry him. And if King Averett was going to offer to listen to him in the matter. Then he had to know before he agreed to this.

“They're taking you for a ride, King Averett. Ruhar… Arthur is King. We had word last night. Word might reach you by the time you return to Redhill. My matches are spent.”

The King nodded thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said. “I thought something must have happened on that front- Some reason your councilors no longer found you useful in their plans for Ruhar.”

Nuri shook his head, shrugging, “I’m the most ineligible Prince on the continent right now. I’m 29 years old and past the ideal for child bearing, and as it stands you could ask for any Princess from any Kingdom and you'd get her. You've gained distinction early on in your reign.”

“Yes, I am prepared to marry you. I am prepared to deliver you trade with Zhong Guo. But you should consider your options with all of the facts. Not half of them.” He finished, not sure if this honesty was the wisest course of action. But it was the one he could perhaps live with the easiest.

“Prepared is not the same as willing,” Avery said, unsatisfied with Nuri’s words. “And you should not be so hard on yourself- You are hardly ‘the most ineligible Prince on the continent’, when you’ve had a proposal from a King,” he said with an amused lift of his eyebrows.

Nuri’s own brows shot up.

“Tell me,” Avery asked suddenly. “What will happen to you, now that Arthur is King and Theren cannot interfere in Ruhar?”

“Oh you know, put out to pasture… but I think a life of obscurity might not suit me, my King. Rest assured I am willing.” Nuri gave a small smile, disbelieving his ears. The King was interested in him..

“You are right, I think,” Avery said, still thinking things through. “That any Princess might be pleased to marry me. Except, of course, that I currently have nothing to gain from marrying a woman from Ruhar. Even less, a woman from Allaria- My eldest sister will either be Queen Consort someday, or wife of the Prime Minister. Eldergaard… Well.”

Eldergaard was famously isolationist, and married almost exclusively within the ranks of their nobility.

“Other countries… The world gets smaller every day,” Avery admitted. “But I still believe they are largely too far and too foreign to be advantageous. So, if you were one of my advisors,” he asked. “Who would you suggest I marry?”

Ahhhh, Nuri understood his aim.

“I thought you were putting your foot in your mouth for a moment there. But you mean to say. Marry a Belethan Lady, and make one family happy. Marry me, and make them all happy to have what I can bring. What you bring with your choice.” Nuri smiled, thinking that quite clever indeed.

“It will not be easy,” Avery warned. “Beleth is not… The most forgiving of places. Our politics can be… Prickly. But if you and I are both willing and find it to be advantageous to ourselves and to the peace between our countries, I see no reason we should not proceed.”

He offered a small, somewhat unsure smile.

“Shall I reconvene our retinues, so that they might hash out the particulars?”

“Yes.” Nuri committed.

code by @fudgecakez