The Laws of Ilyria - 9/17
Title: The Laws of Ilyria
Author: radiogaga33
Pairing: Adam/Tommy, Adam/Kris (friendship)
Setting: Fantasy AU
Rating: PG-13 (NC-17 overall)
Word Count: ~7000
Beta: sweet_poeia
Disclaimers: No claims to any copyrights, trademarks, or any other intellectual property. I do not own these characters. They belong to themselves. This is purely a work of fiction. It never happened.
Author’s Notes: Sorry for the interruption. We now return to your regularly scheduled story. =)
Warnings: Pseudo-slavefic.
Summary: Adam is a conquering king hell-bent on revenge against the ruler who destroyed his life as a child. He ends up taking the ruler’s son, Tommy, as tribute after winning the war between the kingdoms. Events unfold.
The Laws of Ilyria
Chapter 9
A long time ago, a few weeks before his twelfth birthday, Tommy had gotten a bit reckless during a military training exercise and had dislocated his shoulder. For years, he would remember the excruciating pain of it, but more so, he would remember the unreserved and embarrassing way he had whimpered and cried and kicked and fought when the surgeon had come to reset his bones. He’d been terrified of the coming pain, a pain he had dreaded having seen other boys at the training school suffer through the same treatment. So, he’d struggled, legs kicking wildly, arms flailing madly in a bid to protect himself. In the end, two soldiers had to be called to hold him down long enough for the surgeon to do his work, pushing Tommy’s bones back into place with a swift, almost supernaturally fast motion that had earned a piercing howl from Tommy’s throat and a flashflood of tears. But the thing was-the thing Tommy would always recall afterwards was-that in the end, in the aftermath, he had been just fine. The absolute worst had happened to him; he had been held down and made to endure the mercy of the winds, and he had survived, shaky but whole, bruised but unbroken.
For reasons he was too exhausted to fathom, Tommy found himself caught in that memory as he moved slowly on the bank of the small river, slipping his undergarment and tunic over his wet body and tying his belt with a simple knot before leaning down to strap his sandals on. He sat down when he was done, oblivious to the dirt beneath him and the way the broadcloth clung to his skin. Tommy clasped his hands together in his lap, staring out at the water with unseeing eyes, every particle of his being focused on the memory of that long ago afternoon when he’d faced his worst fear-like he had this night.
Tommy bit down on his swollen lip in an attempt to stem the new flood of tears that threatened to break as the comforting haze that had settled over him in the water began to fade away. For as long as he could remember he had fought valiantly against his shameful desire. As a boy, he had stayed far away from that Batuuri slave, and as a man, he had ruthlessly stamped out all thoughts and fantasies about other men the instant they cropped up in his consciousness. He’d struggled and cried and kicked and fought, to please his father, to protect himself and in the end, he’d been held down just as before and made to face his fear. He’d been forced to face his desire, to face the truth of what he was, to face the indelible fact that beneath the dizzying madness, beneath the initial rush of fear, there had been pleasure, biting, hot. Undeniable.
Tommy’s lips parted as sheer willpower alone transformed a hitching sob into a soft gasp in the still of the night. Lord Lambert had stripped him of everything. He’d laid Tommy bare, left him with nothing to hide behind. Tommy resented him. Not for the pain-Tommy would have gladly welcomed it if it had been pain alone. He resented the king for the pleasure he’d given, for the pleasure Tommy had felt in his arms, for the pleasure that spelled the end of his lies, for the pleasure that meant Tommy was no longer the son his father demanded. He could accept anything else, leaving Troianus forever, being branded a slave, anything else but this. Who was he now, if he couldn’t be the son he’d tried so desperately all his life to be?
His willpower crumbled then, tears falling, body heaving silently in the night. He ached everywhere, his shoulders, his arms, his legs, between his thighs, and somewhere else too, somewhere deep in the core of him, a dull pain in the center of his chest. Tommy gave in to the feeling, wallowing in it for long minutes.
But in the end, he forcibly pulled himself together. Tribute or no, he was still a prince of Ilyria at heart. Princes did not sit in dejected heaps in the middle of the night lamenting accidents of fate. He had survived, hadn’t he? He was bruised, yes, but not broken. He felt shaky, like a man adrift in shifting sands, but he was whole. He’d survived his worst fear. But what now? the part of him that was content to wallow forever cried. What now? Escape was no longer a possibility. After his mad attempt tonight, they’d watch him night and day, Tommy was certain. And after his shameful performance in the king’s bed, he could never return to Troianus. No, there would be no more plans for escape.
Tommy stood up slowly, gasping as he straightened, the ache in his nether regions sharpening for a moment. He blushed hotly. There would be no riding with the hunting party tomorrow, that much was certain as well. Tommy clamped down hard on the hysterical laughter that threatened to burst out of him at the thought. He had to keep his wits about him if he planned to remain unbroken, if he planned to remain whole. This was no time to give in to despair and fear. He had faced the worst and survived. He was still Thomas Joseph, and if he had to spend the rest of his life deciphering what that meant in the aftermath of what he’d done with Lord Lambert, then so be it.
With that rallying thought, Tommy squared his shoulders and turned back towards the Elysian camp, an air of fragile but heartfelt determination surrounding him. By the time he reached his formation and slid into his cot, he was nearly unsteady on his feet, more exhausted than he had ever been in his life. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would begin the task of discovering who he was now that the worst had happened. Tomorrow…. Little more than a second later, he fell into a heavy and dreamless sleep.
His bruises looked even worse in the light of day, Tommy decided the next morning as he stared at his wrists and the matching, dark circles bracketing them. He knew without having to look that he was sporting similar visible marks around the back of his neck and the hollows of his knees. After packing up his cot, he went to the division chief of his section of the slave camp and requested a task for the day. Paranoia flared high in his belly as the Elysian soldier looked him over, eyes narrowing at the bruises marring his pale skin and eyebrows knitting in confusion to hear the prince asking for work in the slave camp after riding with the hunting party for the past two days. Tommy shifted nervously on his feet in the ensuing silence. Could he tell? Could they all tell? Could they all see that the king had taken Tommy last night, and that Tommy had enjoyed it, had reveled in it? Could they see beyond his flimsy pretense this morning to the truth of what happened the night before?
“Help douse the bonfires for the rear cavalry,” the soldier finally replied. Tommy breathed a shaky sigh of relief.
“And after?” he inquired.
“You can join the slaves pulling the third wagon for your formation. One of them fractured his arm yesterday.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, my lord,” the soldier replied before walking off, seemingly unaware of the irony of casually issuing orders to a man one moment and acknowledging his superiority in the very next breath.
Tommy did as he’d been instructed, hurrying back and helping to put out the rear cavalry’s bonfires before taking the empty spot by the third wagon in his formation. It was the most labor intensive task he had undertaken since the caravan began its journey through Ilyria but Tommy didn’t mind. He didn’t mind the ache in his arms as the day wore on, or the way sweat poured off him beneath the sun as he pulled the wagon laden with crockery, tools, and long swatches of broadcloth along with three other slaves. Tommy didn’t mind any of it-in fact, he welcomed it. He welcomed the way the hard labor shocked everything else from his mind, the way the sharp ache of pulling the cart distracted him from the dull ache between his thighs. For a few hours, he could simply exist, he could simply be a man, something other than the wrecked creature he’d been the night before, weeping on the riverbank.
And it worked. For the long, grueling hours between the start of the day’s trek and the midday meal, it worked. But the moment they stopped to eat, the moment he stopped pulling, the memories came tumbling back, hurtling about in his skull at light speed, colliding, igniting. He sat away from his formation, back pressed against a tree trunk. As he ate, random images would crystallize, blazing hot, and suddenly lust would grip his body tight. He saw himself lying astride the king, legs spread wide. He gripped the wooden utensil in his hand tightly as he recalled the way he’d been taken, hard, fast, deep, relentless thrusts into his body that made him moan and whimper and cry out shamelessly, desperately.
But that wasn’t all. On the heels of a carnal image would come a tender one, making Tommy tremble as he recalled the way the king had gentled him, hands stroking softly through his hair after that first orgasm had ripped through him. It’s alright. You’re alright. I’ve got you. And after it was all done, the way Lord Lambert had looked, like something had been ripped out of him. It made no sense. All of it, all together, disjointed images bombarding him, confusing him, infuriating him, until the bell had been rung and he could sink once again into the refuge of mindless labor.
For hours, Tommy marched along beside his fellow worker-slaves, mind blessedly blank while his muscles contracted and relaxed rhythmically as all four men labored beneath the sun. When the caravan made night camp, Tommy raced to the water basins to wash the sweat and grime from his arms and face. That was when they sprang up again, disjointed images layering one atop the other until they were all Tommy could see. As twilight gave way to dusk, panic set in. Tommy found himself starting with fear each time a soldier walked back from further up in the caravan formation or each time someone called out his name. He would tense, chest tight with dread for a long, suspended moment until the soldier passed by or some innocuous instruction or salutation was directed towards him.
He barely ate, picking at the meat and bread on his plate and nearly choking on the few morsels he attempted to swallow. Would the king summon him? Would he expect a repeat performance from Tommy? Would the king hold him down and force him to take the pleasure again? The questions whirled around in his brain at maddening speed, denying him even the briefest moment’s peace. They kept coming long after midnight had passed, long after it became clear that Lord Lambert would not summon him this night, long after he’d fallen into his cold, thin cot for the night. Would Lord Lambert ever summon him? When? How? Around and around they went, the questions and the memories, until exhaustion finally pulled him down into the relative comfort of dreamless sleep.
The next two days largely mirrored the first. During the day, Tommy pulled the wagon and during the evening, he sat alone, tense with fear that this would be the night that he would be summoned to Lord Lambert’s tent. But by the fourth night, it still hadn’t come. No soldier or slave and been sent to fetch him and Tommy found himself awash in confusion. Why hadn’t the king called for him? Would the king ever call for him? Tommy didn’t understand the continued silence. By the sixth night though, he’d learned to accept it.
That night, he lay awake long after midnight, lulled into a semi-lucid state by the night breeze and the muffled sounds of men talking and bonfires roaring. He thought of that fateful night, of everything that had happened from the moment he’d slipped into Lord Lambert’s tent with the stolen dagger until the moment he’d fallen into his cot in a bruised, exhausted heap. He thought of the heavy, pointed silence since then, six long days without the slightest hint of where he stood or what he could expect. Perhaps there would never be a message. Perhaps Lord Lambert had no intention of ever summoning Tommy to his bed. Tommy’s head ached until he pushed the thoughts from his mind. Maybe he’ll never call for me. Tommy pretended not to notice the undercurrent of disappointment that accompanied the rush of relief he felt at that last thought.
Enough. Tommy examined his arms and ran a curious finger across the sight of the cut on his lower lip. The marks were still visible, true, but they were vanishing. It was morning, seven days since that night and finally, finally it was enough. He was through with the helpless hand-wringing and the waiting around like a condemned man shivering in fear in some dark, cold corner of a cell. He made his intentions known to the division chief and began the journey up through the caravan formation. Tommy moved briskly, head raised, shoulders squared, ready to face down whatever he might discover at his destination. He ignored the fear twisting tight in the pit of his stomach. Tommy was done hiding.
When he reached the hunting party, he greeted the welcoming looks of the soldiers with a reserved but genuine one of his own.
“Prince Thomas, you have found us again,” the captain said, clapping Tommy on the shoulder. “Vice-Lord Allen had said you might.”
“I would like to rejoin the party, with your permission, captain,” Tommy said quietly, ignoring the offhand reference to the High General.
“Of course, my lord,” the man replied. He looked past Tommy to where the prince’s replacement stood watching. “Laurence, you may return to your former post. Give the prince the bow and arrows before you go.”
“Yes, captain,” came the reply.
The captain turned back to Tommy. “So, my lord, will you stay long, or will we lose you again in two days time?”
Tommy forced a cheerful smile. “That was my only disappearing act, I assure you. I mean to stay.” His face hardened. “No matter what.”
The captain nodded his head. “Excellent. It’s good to have you with us again, Prince Thomas.”
Tommy nodded and walked toward his replacement, gaze studiously averted from the direction of the king’s tent. One foot, then the other, he told himself, even after he felt the familiar heat that told him that he was being watched. He hasn’t called for me. He probably doesn’t even remember my name. A minute later, everything came to a screeching halt. Lord Lambert was approaching the hunting party, long legs cutting through the air as he practically ran towards them.
Tommy fell to his knees with the rest when the king stopped before the men and stood to his feet with the others when the king bid them rise. Tommy felt the fear in his gut begin to unfurl, rising cold and sharp in his chest, in spite of himself. And when the king called his name after the others had turned away, his heart joined in, pounding so loudly in his chest that Tommy was surprised the king couldn’t hear it. With some effort, he schooled his features into what he hoped was a look of confidence, or at least, indifference.
“Is there something you wanted, my lord?” Tommy kept his tone flat, unaffected.
“I…,” Lord Lambert began before trailing off into silence.
“My lord?” Tommy prompted.
“You haven’t joined the hunt in a week,” Lord Lambert said.
“I have been otherwise occupied, my lord.” There. He sounded steady and confident. Silently, Tommy congratulated himself. Perhaps there was hope for him yet.
“Of course.”
A short silence stretched between them.
“Is that all, my lord?” Tommy finally asked, breaking the protracted pause.
“I wanted to…to wish you luck on the hunt.” Tommy resisted the urge to frown in confusion. The king had come all the way here to wish him luck? It made no sense.
“Thank you, my lord.”
When no reply came, Tommy spoke again.
“Is there something else, my lord?”
“No.” Lord Lambert stepped back. “May the Oracle abide with you.”
Tommy felt a trill of surprise race through him at that. He stared up at the odd light in the king’s eyes and then down to his hands, taking in the way they were clenched tightly at his sides. He sounded like…like he had that night after he’d pulled out of Tommy’s body. Broken open. Once again, Tommy didn’t understand it. But once again, he chose not to probe further, too caught up in his own unwieldy emotions to attempt to decipher Lord Lambert’s. Tommy acknowledged the king’s benediction with a brief bow and turned away.
By the fourth day of his return, some of Tommy’s false confidence had become real. The king still came each morning, but he never asked for anything. After four days, Tommy began to think he never would and the thought bolstered him. Until-
“I wish to speak with you tonight, after the hunt.”
“Where, my lord?”
“In my tent. Alone.” Tommy felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Suddenly he found himself back in that tent, twisting, begging, crying out as the king worked his swollen flesh into Tommy’s body. His heart launched into a rapid, almost painful rhythm.
“Is that a command, my lord?” Tommy asked, his voice catching a little as he spoke.
“Would you come if it wasn’t?”
“No. I would not come.” Even in his agitated state, Tommy was shocked at the boldness of his reply.
“Then it is a command. What say you?”
Tommy felt like he was falling, sinking rapidly into some terrifying abyss. He drew a shuddering breath.
“I live to serve the king.”
Lord Lambert nodded his head in acknowledgement. Then he turned away and hurried back to his waiting horse, leaving Tommy standing there, shoulders slumped in defeat, a drowning man with nothing to hang on to.
Tommy was a wreck for the rest of the day. He was nearly useless on the hunt, scaring off animals by galloping too fast, missing clear shots by several yards. His head felt unnaturally heavy, filled with about a hundred conflicting thoughts and emotions. And when the hunting party began to journey to rejoin the caravan, Tommy bit back the urge to beg them to wait, to stop. Deep inside, he was screaming, words that no one could hear. Open me up, he wanted to say. Open me up and all you’ll see is a gallery of broken parts. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to go back to the safety of the slave camp. Why had he ever ventured back out? What self-destructive demon had pushed him into it?
Finally, they reached the caravan, and Tommy had nowhere to go but the king’s tent. So he went, steps heavy as he walked, mind ablaze with warring impulses. Obedience warred with self-preservation. Defiance warred with abject fear. It was going to happen again and there was nothing he could do to stop it. As he drew closer to the king’s tent, Tommy recognized that on some level, he didn’t want to stop it. On some level, he wanted that pleasure again. Shame washed over him as he moved. I’m beyond repair, just let me be. Tommy wanted to be left alone, long enough to fix his broken parts, long enough to decipher who he was now, now that he’d given over and let the weakness claim him.
Tommy entered the tent and stopped at the entrance, too terrified to go further. He didn’t move until Lord Lambert urged him closer.
“You hair…it’s longer than it was when we left Troianus,” Lord Lambert said.
“I can cut it if it displeases you, my lord,” Tommy murmured.
“No. It…it doesn’t displease me. I just…I mean, it just…it looks different, that’s all. I hadn’t really noticed until now.”
Tommy tucked his hair behind his ears in a futile bid to fade into the background. He tried to think of something else, anything else. But when the silence between them began to drag on, Tommy began to fidget a little where he stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“I called you here to…I wanted to…to….”
Tommy wasn’t listening. All he could hear was a muffled sound coming from miles away as his heart began to hammer in his chest and blood roared in his ears. He took several shallow breaths and raised trembling hands to the belt tied around his waist. He was still loosening the heavy fabric when the king’s voice broke through his haze.
“What are you doing?” Lord Lambert asked, nearly shouting.
Tommy flinched involuntarily. “I…I thought this is what you wanted, my lord.”
“What?”
“Is this not why you summoned me, my lord? To take me to bed?”
“No. I did not ask you to come here for that.”
Tommy frowned in confusion and dropped his hands to his sides, leaving his belt loose around his waist. “Then what did you summon me for, my lord?”
“I called you here because I wanted to tell you…I wanted to let you know how incredibly sorry I am for what I did to you. I…I took something that you weren’t ready to give, something you didn’t want to give. I took from you and I am truly sorry.”
Tommy froze with shock. What in the Oracle’s name was happening? He had come here expecting a repeat of that night only to be met with…an apology? Was this a game? Was Lord Lambert toying with him?
“You are king,” Tommy replied, voice resolute. “You can do whatever you want.” He wouldn’t fall victim to this new ploy, whatever it was.
“Not this. Not this. I had no right to do what I did to you. No one does.”
“You are king and I was given to you as tribute. You have every right to do what you wish with me.”
“No. Some kings of Ilyria may believe that, but not I. I had no right. I have no excuses for what I did and I won’t insult you further by making any. All I can say is that I wasn’t in my right mind. I wasn’t myself that night. If I was, I would never-believe me, Prince Thomas, I would never have done what I did. I did you a great wrong and I apologize and ask that you give me a chance to earn your forgiveness.”
Tommy was stunned. It wasn’t a game, of that much he was certain now. There was something in Lord Lambert’s voice, something in the way he spoke that made doubting him impossible in that moment. But Tommy didn’t understand it. Why was the king apologizing to him? In Ilyria, a king’s will was second only to the Oracle’s. A king had the right to take anything and everything he wanted. Tommy sounded the depths of his memory, trying to recall a time when he had heard his father or his brothers or even himself apologize to a commoner-let alone a slave. There was nothing. Not one instance came to mind. In Troianus, Tommy had been kind, but even he had never done anything as untoward as apologizing to a slave and yet here, Lord Lambert was, doing just that. It made no sense. He had tried to kill the king and yet he was asking for Tommy’s forgiveness. It made no sense.
“There is nothing to forgive, my lord.” Tommy said finally. “I tried to kill you. You could have demanded a death-price for my crime and yet you didn’t. That alone makes it so that I have no right to complain of anything you may have done instead.”
“I don’t believe that. I don’t care what happened beforehand. It’s no excuse,” the king replied. When Tommy stood speechless, unable to do anything but stare, the king continued. “I know that I hurt you and I’m sorry.”
“My lord-”
“Give me a chance to earn your forgiveness. Please. Please.”
Tommy’s entire body tightened with shock to hear Lord Lambert beg. “A king does not beg.”
“But a man can. If he has committed a wrong, if he wishes to atone, a man can beg, can’t he?”
What was happening? How had everything shifted so completely, so decidedly? He had walked in here expecting the worst, expecting to beg and yet here he was, the one with all the power suddenly, with Lord Lambert playing supplicant to him. Tommy’s hands curled into clenched fists at his sides. And then finally-
“Yes.”
“So I ask you, as a man, not as a king, let me atone, give me a chance to earn your forgiveness for what I did to you.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. All I ask is that you give me leave to try. Please.”
Tommy gave Lord Lambert a long, measuring look. The king’s eyes were unnaturally bright, brilliant with desperation and sincerity, so different from the confidence he had grown accustomed to seeing there, a confidence he had thought unshakeable until now. The expression on Lord Lambert’s face did something to him. It made him question everything, his own feelings, his scattered, wild thoughts, even what happened that night. He needed to think. He needed to face the memory head on and parse through it. He needed time and opportunity to unravel this unexpected mystery. And there was only one way to get it.
“Alright.” It was the softest of whispers, so low that Tommy couldn’t be certain that Lord Lambert had actually heard it.
“Do you mean it?”
“My lord, I seldom say things I do not mean.”
Tommy watched Lord Lambert’s face transform upon hearing his words. He watched happiness displace the stark look on his face and for some unknown reason, Tommy felt like smiling at the thought that he was the reason for the king’s joy. But when Lord Lambert stepped forward suddenly, instinct kicked in and he reacted without thinking, shrinking back, muscles still alive with the memory of that night. Lord Lambert’s happiness vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. Tommy watched the king turn away and sink into a chair, shoulders slumped in defeat. He hated the sight.
“My lord-”
“You may go.”
“Shall I return tomorrow, my lord…or on a different night?”
Adam turned to him. “Only if you want to. You shall have no more orders from me.”
Tommy stared at him for a long moment, his forehead creased with concentration, weighing every word Lord Lambert had said tonight. What did it all mean? What did it portend? The questions confounded and infuriated him in equal measure. He needed time. He needed to think. Alone. After several moments of silence, Tommy finally moved, bowing briefly and mumbling some parting words before slipping quietly out of the tent.
He walked back to the slave camp in a daze, feet moving of their own volition, movements heavy and slow. If anyone spoke to him as he walked, Tommy would never know. All he could hear was Lord Lambert’s voice, echoing madly in his skull. He wasn’t faring any better when he fell into his cot for the night. For hours, he lay there, tossing and turning, mind blazing with memories and half-formed thoughts. Why had the king apologized to him, when he had done nothing more than exercise the privilege of a ruler of Ilyria?
For the first time since that night, Tommy forced himself to examine the entire incident slowly, carefully, and with as little emotion as he could. The king had apologized that night as well, he remembered now. He had stared at Tommy the same way he had tonight, lost, broken, horrified, like he couldn’t believe what he had done. I’m sorry. He had sounded the same tonight, voice low and tight with true remorse and even now, far away from him, the memory of it pulled at something inside Tommy.
Who was this man? The man Tommy had imagined Lord Lambert to be would never seek the forgiveness of a slave. And yet, the king had done just that, had begged for it in fact, had pleaded to be given the chance to earn it. What did it all mean? Tommy didn’t know. And after a long, restless night spent tossing and turning and only sleeping for about half an hour put together, he was no closer to an answer. Reluctantly, he rose to his feet when he heard the morning bell and began his morning ablutions. When he was done, he grabbed a piece of bread and hurried up through the camp, chewing rapidly as he went.
Tommy was strapping on his quiver of arrows when he caught sight of the king. Instead of turning away when the king’s gaze caught his own, Tommy held the stare deliberately, watching, waiting to see what Lord Lambert would do. Even when the king approached the hunting party, Tommy held it, breaking the stare only when he fell to his knees along with the soldiers. He remained behind after Lord Lambert bid them rise, staring, appraising the man standing before him, the man who had begged his forgiveness for doing something that the laws of Ilyria dictated was his right as king. Who was he? Tommy was suddenly desperate to know.
“Good morning, Prince Thomas.”
“Good morning, my lord.”
“I…I trust you slept well?”
“No, my lord, I did not sleep well.”
Tommy watched concern tighten the king’s face. Lord Lambert was worried about him? Yet another surprise to add to the expanding inventory.
“Why not? Is everything alright? Did something happen?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Tell me.”
Tommy wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it. But he said it all the same.
“You, my lord. You happened.”
Tommy watched the king freeze, shocked speechless. After the surprises of the night before, it was a pleasant change to have the other man be the one rendered speechless.
“May the grace of the Oracle abide with you,” the king said when he finally found his voice.
Tommy didn’t answer. He stared for another long moment. Then he nodded briefly and walked away, leaving the king to his own devices.
For the following week, Tommy barely slept. Each night he would lay awake in his cot, staring up at the night sky, thinking about Lord Lambert. Through long, sleepless hours, he parsed through the events of that night, turning over every detail in his mind despite the embarrassment and shame it caused him. He didn’t hate the king-that much he’d decided early on. If anything, he hated himself, for giving into the weakness, for failing to live up to his father’s standard.
There had been pleasure, Tommy acknowledged grudgingly on the third sleepless night. There had been pain, at the beginning, but more than anything else, there had been pleasure, relentless, sharp, incredible. Lord Lambert had given him that. And yet he’d apologized. And he kept apologizing. Each morning, when he approached the hunting party, he apologized. Tommy could see it in his eyes, the way the blue irises shone bright with guilt and remorse. He could see it in the tension in the king’s shoulders, the way his eyes darted away from Tommy’s sometimes as he spoke, as if he couldn’t bear to look at him directly. Lord Lambert seemed so…vulnerable, the uncertainty he displayed in front of Tommy completely at odds with the way he was with everyone else.
Something about it called to Tommy, pulled at him. By the morning of the sixth day, it was all he could do not to rest a reassuring hand on the king’s shoulder. A suicidal impulse, that, Tommy thought wryly that morning as he watched the king walk away after yet another blessing before the hunt. Why hadn’t he given up yet? Even though Tommy never spoke a word in reply or offered any encouragement, Lord Lambert kept coming. Later that evening, Tommy stared up at the night sky, sleepless once again, mind fixated on the king. Reluctantly, he dragged the memories of that night out of the dark corners of his mind and into the light of introspection once again.
There had been pleasure. But there had been pain as well, at the beginning. Had it made any difference to the king? If there had been nothing but pain, if Tommy had hated it, if he’d gotten no pleasure from it, would Lord Lambert have let him go or would he have done it anyway? Suddenly, Tommy had to know. But how? Even though the king had said he could return to the tent, Tommy hesitated. He weighed the implications of voluntarily going to the king’s tent. How would Lord Lambert interpret it? What if he took it as an open invitation? What if he touched Tommy again, pushing him into the weakness once more? Tommy blushed hotly where he lay. If the king touched him, he would fall. He would hate himself for it, but he would fall into it once again. There had to be another way to get the answer he needed.
It came to him the next morning as the hunting party rode away from the caravan for the day’s adventure. Of course. If he caught the best prey, he could go to the king’s tent with none of the implications he feared. So, he tried his best, moving stealthily, aiming carefully. And while he felled a worthy amount of prey, he captured nothing big enough to be considered the best of the day. He was groaning in frustration at the end of the day when he saw it, a large elk in the distance. Tommy drew the bowstring taut and shot. The arrow hit its mark but the animal didn’t go down. Damn it. Even though it was getting dark, even though he knew it was reckless, Tommy gave chase. He had to get Lord Lambert alone. He had to.
“My lord, wait!”
“Prince Thomas, let it go!”
Tommy ignored the cries of the soldiers near him and galloped away, chasing the elk through the woods. He didn’t see the overgrown roots beneath him until he’d fallen to the ground and injured his leg. The pain was sharp, debilitating almost. His leg throbbed and burned all the way back to the caravan and when they carried him down from his horse at the night camp, Tommy had to bite his lip to suppress a pained groan. He tried to get the soldiers to disperse, but his efforts to lessen the crowd only drew a larger one. Surely the king wouldn’t miss the commotion. He didn’t want the king to see him like this, to see how stupid and reckless Tommy had been. If he’d been less distracted by the pain, he might have noticed the oddity of that, how much he suddenly cared about Lord Lambert’s opinion of him.
Eventually, the king came, eyes blazing, voice blaring, cutting and severe with everyone else and yet so careful, so gentle when he bent low to Tommy, concern written plainly across his face. Tommy almost forgot the pain later in the king’s tent when Lord Lambert sat on the ground in front of him, hands moving gingerly over Tommy’s wound. Tommy watched him, shocked and amazed. It was one thing to apologize for that night, but to do this, to touch Tommy like he was a precious, treasured thing? It was something else entirely. Tommy gaze traced over the king, settling over the tense planes of his face before moving down to his raised shoulders. He cares. Lord Lambert genuinely cared about him? Yet another surprise.
“I should have them all punished for letting this happen.”
Tommy’s hand flew down to grip the king’s shoulder.
“It was my fault. Please don’t punish them for my recklessness, my lord.”
Lord Lambert didn’t reply. He squeezed the tin in his left hand, seemingly frozen beneath the weight of Tommy’s hand on his shoulder. I’m touching him. The moment he realized what he was doing, Tommy gasped and snatched his hand back rapidly, faster than he would have if he’d touched an open flame. He held his breath until the king began to apply the salve once more. When the king asked him why he’d been reckless, Tommy bowed his head and told him the truth.
Lord Lambert nodded in response. For long minutes, he concentrated on dressing Tommy’s wound. It was only when he’d tied off the final bandage that he set Tommy’s foot back onto the floor, stood to his feet, and finally spoke again.
“So, now that your wound is taken care of, I would like to know what it is that you wanted to ask me so badly that you were willing to risk life and limb for the chance to do it.”
“I wanted to know if…if you meant what you said a week ago about seeking my forgiveness, about how sorry you are for what happened that night.”
“I seldom say things I do not mean, Prince Thomas.”
“So it was true then? All of it?”
“Yes. I’m sorry for what I did. I’m sorry for causing you pain.” Lord Lambert’s voice broke a little on those final words and once again, Tommy felt something in him stir to hear the vulnerability in it.
“The thing is…it wasn’t all pain. There was hardly any pain after the beginning. There was pleasure as well, more so than anything else. You gave me pleasure.”
“It makes no difference,” the king replied, his voice heavy and hoarse. “It isn’t any better to force pleasure on a person than it is to force pain. I know how it was. I remember. I was there. I saw you. I heard you. I felt you. I know that I gave you pleasure but still I apologized, and I will keep apologizing because I was wrong.”
Tommy stared, speechless. Who was this man? Tommy had just confessed the truth and still he apologized.
“Is that all you wanted to know?” Lord Lambert asked. “I don’t mean to insult you, Prince Thomas, but my answer hardly seems worth risking your life to hear.”
“That wasn’t all. I’ve yet to ask my real question,” Tommy replied.
“By all means, please do.”
“What I wanted to know was-I mean, what I want to know is…if there had been no pleasure, if I’d only been in pain, if you had truly been hurting me, would you have stopped?”
“I don’t know.” Lord Lambert sounded lost, helpless.
Tommy’s eyes narrowed. He stared at the king for a long minute, retracing the memories of that night, weighing every word and action since then, measuring the man standing in front of him. Lord Lambert could have done the easy thing. He could have given Tommy the obvious answer. He could have said “yes” but he hadn’t. He’d meant to, Tommy knew. There had been something in his eyes that first instant, something instinctive and sure. It had been brief, but it had been there, before a maelstrom of other emotions had chased it away. Even so, it was enough. Tommy had his answer.
Three days later, when Tommy finally rejoined the hunting party, he felt his breath catch in his chest as the king approached. So many surprises. The continued apologies, the king’s concern for the slaves in his caravan, the realization that the king genuinely cared for him. Tommy had lain wide awake all three nights since the accident, turning them over in his head, the image of Lord Lambert on the floor, tending to Tommy’s wound never far from his mind’s eye. And now here he was again.
“Do you remember what I said to you the other night?” Lord Lambert asked, worry wrinkling his brow.
“I shall be careful, my lord,” Tommy replied immediately.
The king nodded. “May the grace of the Oracle abide with you.”
“And also with you, my lord.”
The reply had been on the tip of his tongue long before now, Tommy was finally willing to admit. Watching the king’s eyes widen with shock and then with joy was an unexpected reward. It made Tommy drop the mask of indifference he’d carefully cultivated for weeks now, face relaxing into a brief smile before turning away.
As he rode off into the woods, the pounding of hoofs filling his ears and the weight of his arrows heavy on his back, Tommy couldn’t help but smile again as he thought of Lord Lambert. I like him. The thought flashed through him, simple yet fraught with a dozen complexities. In three weeks of endless surprises, it was the biggest one of all.
Author: radiogaga33
Pairing: Adam/Tommy, Adam/Kris (friendship)
Setting: Fantasy AU
Rating: PG-13 (NC-17 overall)
Word Count: ~7000
Beta: sweet_poeia
Disclaimers: No claims to any copyrights, trademarks, or any other intellectual property. I do not own these characters. They belong to themselves. This is purely a work of fiction. It never happened.
Author’s Notes: Sorry for the interruption. We now return to your regularly scheduled story. =)
Warnings: Pseudo-slavefic.
Summary: Adam is a conquering king hell-bent on revenge against the ruler who destroyed his life as a child. He ends up taking the ruler’s son, Tommy, as tribute after winning the war between the kingdoms. Events unfold.
The Laws of Ilyria
Chapter 9
A long time ago, a few weeks before his twelfth birthday, Tommy had gotten a bit reckless during a military training exercise and had dislocated his shoulder. For years, he would remember the excruciating pain of it, but more so, he would remember the unreserved and embarrassing way he had whimpered and cried and kicked and fought when the surgeon had come to reset his bones. He’d been terrified of the coming pain, a pain he had dreaded having seen other boys at the training school suffer through the same treatment. So, he’d struggled, legs kicking wildly, arms flailing madly in a bid to protect himself. In the end, two soldiers had to be called to hold him down long enough for the surgeon to do his work, pushing Tommy’s bones back into place with a swift, almost supernaturally fast motion that had earned a piercing howl from Tommy’s throat and a flashflood of tears. But the thing was-the thing Tommy would always recall afterwards was-that in the end, in the aftermath, he had been just fine. The absolute worst had happened to him; he had been held down and made to endure the mercy of the winds, and he had survived, shaky but whole, bruised but unbroken.
For reasons he was too exhausted to fathom, Tommy found himself caught in that memory as he moved slowly on the bank of the small river, slipping his undergarment and tunic over his wet body and tying his belt with a simple knot before leaning down to strap his sandals on. He sat down when he was done, oblivious to the dirt beneath him and the way the broadcloth clung to his skin. Tommy clasped his hands together in his lap, staring out at the water with unseeing eyes, every particle of his being focused on the memory of that long ago afternoon when he’d faced his worst fear-like he had this night.
Tommy bit down on his swollen lip in an attempt to stem the new flood of tears that threatened to break as the comforting haze that had settled over him in the water began to fade away. For as long as he could remember he had fought valiantly against his shameful desire. As a boy, he had stayed far away from that Batuuri slave, and as a man, he had ruthlessly stamped out all thoughts and fantasies about other men the instant they cropped up in his consciousness. He’d struggled and cried and kicked and fought, to please his father, to protect himself and in the end, he’d been held down just as before and made to face his fear. He’d been forced to face his desire, to face the truth of what he was, to face the indelible fact that beneath the dizzying madness, beneath the initial rush of fear, there had been pleasure, biting, hot. Undeniable.
Tommy’s lips parted as sheer willpower alone transformed a hitching sob into a soft gasp in the still of the night. Lord Lambert had stripped him of everything. He’d laid Tommy bare, left him with nothing to hide behind. Tommy resented him. Not for the pain-Tommy would have gladly welcomed it if it had been pain alone. He resented the king for the pleasure he’d given, for the pleasure Tommy had felt in his arms, for the pleasure that spelled the end of his lies, for the pleasure that meant Tommy was no longer the son his father demanded. He could accept anything else, leaving Troianus forever, being branded a slave, anything else but this. Who was he now, if he couldn’t be the son he’d tried so desperately all his life to be?
His willpower crumbled then, tears falling, body heaving silently in the night. He ached everywhere, his shoulders, his arms, his legs, between his thighs, and somewhere else too, somewhere deep in the core of him, a dull pain in the center of his chest. Tommy gave in to the feeling, wallowing in it for long minutes.
But in the end, he forcibly pulled himself together. Tribute or no, he was still a prince of Ilyria at heart. Princes did not sit in dejected heaps in the middle of the night lamenting accidents of fate. He had survived, hadn’t he? He was bruised, yes, but not broken. He felt shaky, like a man adrift in shifting sands, but he was whole. He’d survived his worst fear. But what now? the part of him that was content to wallow forever cried. What now? Escape was no longer a possibility. After his mad attempt tonight, they’d watch him night and day, Tommy was certain. And after his shameful performance in the king’s bed, he could never return to Troianus. No, there would be no more plans for escape.
Tommy stood up slowly, gasping as he straightened, the ache in his nether regions sharpening for a moment. He blushed hotly. There would be no riding with the hunting party tomorrow, that much was certain as well. Tommy clamped down hard on the hysterical laughter that threatened to burst out of him at the thought. He had to keep his wits about him if he planned to remain unbroken, if he planned to remain whole. This was no time to give in to despair and fear. He had faced the worst and survived. He was still Thomas Joseph, and if he had to spend the rest of his life deciphering what that meant in the aftermath of what he’d done with Lord Lambert, then so be it.
With that rallying thought, Tommy squared his shoulders and turned back towards the Elysian camp, an air of fragile but heartfelt determination surrounding him. By the time he reached his formation and slid into his cot, he was nearly unsteady on his feet, more exhausted than he had ever been in his life. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would begin the task of discovering who he was now that the worst had happened. Tomorrow…. Little more than a second later, he fell into a heavy and dreamless sleep.
His bruises looked even worse in the light of day, Tommy decided the next morning as he stared at his wrists and the matching, dark circles bracketing them. He knew without having to look that he was sporting similar visible marks around the back of his neck and the hollows of his knees. After packing up his cot, he went to the division chief of his section of the slave camp and requested a task for the day. Paranoia flared high in his belly as the Elysian soldier looked him over, eyes narrowing at the bruises marring his pale skin and eyebrows knitting in confusion to hear the prince asking for work in the slave camp after riding with the hunting party for the past two days. Tommy shifted nervously on his feet in the ensuing silence. Could he tell? Could they all tell? Could they all see that the king had taken Tommy last night, and that Tommy had enjoyed it, had reveled in it? Could they see beyond his flimsy pretense this morning to the truth of what happened the night before?
“Help douse the bonfires for the rear cavalry,” the soldier finally replied. Tommy breathed a shaky sigh of relief.
“And after?” he inquired.
“You can join the slaves pulling the third wagon for your formation. One of them fractured his arm yesterday.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, my lord,” the soldier replied before walking off, seemingly unaware of the irony of casually issuing orders to a man one moment and acknowledging his superiority in the very next breath.
Tommy did as he’d been instructed, hurrying back and helping to put out the rear cavalry’s bonfires before taking the empty spot by the third wagon in his formation. It was the most labor intensive task he had undertaken since the caravan began its journey through Ilyria but Tommy didn’t mind. He didn’t mind the ache in his arms as the day wore on, or the way sweat poured off him beneath the sun as he pulled the wagon laden with crockery, tools, and long swatches of broadcloth along with three other slaves. Tommy didn’t mind any of it-in fact, he welcomed it. He welcomed the way the hard labor shocked everything else from his mind, the way the sharp ache of pulling the cart distracted him from the dull ache between his thighs. For a few hours, he could simply exist, he could simply be a man, something other than the wrecked creature he’d been the night before, weeping on the riverbank.
And it worked. For the long, grueling hours between the start of the day’s trek and the midday meal, it worked. But the moment they stopped to eat, the moment he stopped pulling, the memories came tumbling back, hurtling about in his skull at light speed, colliding, igniting. He sat away from his formation, back pressed against a tree trunk. As he ate, random images would crystallize, blazing hot, and suddenly lust would grip his body tight. He saw himself lying astride the king, legs spread wide. He gripped the wooden utensil in his hand tightly as he recalled the way he’d been taken, hard, fast, deep, relentless thrusts into his body that made him moan and whimper and cry out shamelessly, desperately.
But that wasn’t all. On the heels of a carnal image would come a tender one, making Tommy tremble as he recalled the way the king had gentled him, hands stroking softly through his hair after that first orgasm had ripped through him. It’s alright. You’re alright. I’ve got you. And after it was all done, the way Lord Lambert had looked, like something had been ripped out of him. It made no sense. All of it, all together, disjointed images bombarding him, confusing him, infuriating him, until the bell had been rung and he could sink once again into the refuge of mindless labor.
For hours, Tommy marched along beside his fellow worker-slaves, mind blessedly blank while his muscles contracted and relaxed rhythmically as all four men labored beneath the sun. When the caravan made night camp, Tommy raced to the water basins to wash the sweat and grime from his arms and face. That was when they sprang up again, disjointed images layering one atop the other until they were all Tommy could see. As twilight gave way to dusk, panic set in. Tommy found himself starting with fear each time a soldier walked back from further up in the caravan formation or each time someone called out his name. He would tense, chest tight with dread for a long, suspended moment until the soldier passed by or some innocuous instruction or salutation was directed towards him.
He barely ate, picking at the meat and bread on his plate and nearly choking on the few morsels he attempted to swallow. Would the king summon him? Would he expect a repeat performance from Tommy? Would the king hold him down and force him to take the pleasure again? The questions whirled around in his brain at maddening speed, denying him even the briefest moment’s peace. They kept coming long after midnight had passed, long after it became clear that Lord Lambert would not summon him this night, long after he’d fallen into his cold, thin cot for the night. Would Lord Lambert ever summon him? When? How? Around and around they went, the questions and the memories, until exhaustion finally pulled him down into the relative comfort of dreamless sleep.
The next two days largely mirrored the first. During the day, Tommy pulled the wagon and during the evening, he sat alone, tense with fear that this would be the night that he would be summoned to Lord Lambert’s tent. But by the fourth night, it still hadn’t come. No soldier or slave and been sent to fetch him and Tommy found himself awash in confusion. Why hadn’t the king called for him? Would the king ever call for him? Tommy didn’t understand the continued silence. By the sixth night though, he’d learned to accept it.
That night, he lay awake long after midnight, lulled into a semi-lucid state by the night breeze and the muffled sounds of men talking and bonfires roaring. He thought of that fateful night, of everything that had happened from the moment he’d slipped into Lord Lambert’s tent with the stolen dagger until the moment he’d fallen into his cot in a bruised, exhausted heap. He thought of the heavy, pointed silence since then, six long days without the slightest hint of where he stood or what he could expect. Perhaps there would never be a message. Perhaps Lord Lambert had no intention of ever summoning Tommy to his bed. Tommy’s head ached until he pushed the thoughts from his mind. Maybe he’ll never call for me. Tommy pretended not to notice the undercurrent of disappointment that accompanied the rush of relief he felt at that last thought.
Enough. Tommy examined his arms and ran a curious finger across the sight of the cut on his lower lip. The marks were still visible, true, but they were vanishing. It was morning, seven days since that night and finally, finally it was enough. He was through with the helpless hand-wringing and the waiting around like a condemned man shivering in fear in some dark, cold corner of a cell. He made his intentions known to the division chief and began the journey up through the caravan formation. Tommy moved briskly, head raised, shoulders squared, ready to face down whatever he might discover at his destination. He ignored the fear twisting tight in the pit of his stomach. Tommy was done hiding.
When he reached the hunting party, he greeted the welcoming looks of the soldiers with a reserved but genuine one of his own.
“Prince Thomas, you have found us again,” the captain said, clapping Tommy on the shoulder. “Vice-Lord Allen had said you might.”
“I would like to rejoin the party, with your permission, captain,” Tommy said quietly, ignoring the offhand reference to the High General.
“Of course, my lord,” the man replied. He looked past Tommy to where the prince’s replacement stood watching. “Laurence, you may return to your former post. Give the prince the bow and arrows before you go.”
“Yes, captain,” came the reply.
The captain turned back to Tommy. “So, my lord, will you stay long, or will we lose you again in two days time?”
Tommy forced a cheerful smile. “That was my only disappearing act, I assure you. I mean to stay.” His face hardened. “No matter what.”
The captain nodded his head. “Excellent. It’s good to have you with us again, Prince Thomas.”
Tommy nodded and walked toward his replacement, gaze studiously averted from the direction of the king’s tent. One foot, then the other, he told himself, even after he felt the familiar heat that told him that he was being watched. He hasn’t called for me. He probably doesn’t even remember my name. A minute later, everything came to a screeching halt. Lord Lambert was approaching the hunting party, long legs cutting through the air as he practically ran towards them.
Tommy fell to his knees with the rest when the king stopped before the men and stood to his feet with the others when the king bid them rise. Tommy felt the fear in his gut begin to unfurl, rising cold and sharp in his chest, in spite of himself. And when the king called his name after the others had turned away, his heart joined in, pounding so loudly in his chest that Tommy was surprised the king couldn’t hear it. With some effort, he schooled his features into what he hoped was a look of confidence, or at least, indifference.
“Is there something you wanted, my lord?” Tommy kept his tone flat, unaffected.
“I…,” Lord Lambert began before trailing off into silence.
“My lord?” Tommy prompted.
“You haven’t joined the hunt in a week,” Lord Lambert said.
“I have been otherwise occupied, my lord.” There. He sounded steady and confident. Silently, Tommy congratulated himself. Perhaps there was hope for him yet.
“Of course.”
A short silence stretched between them.
“Is that all, my lord?” Tommy finally asked, breaking the protracted pause.
“I wanted to…to wish you luck on the hunt.” Tommy resisted the urge to frown in confusion. The king had come all the way here to wish him luck? It made no sense.
“Thank you, my lord.”
When no reply came, Tommy spoke again.
“Is there something else, my lord?”
“No.” Lord Lambert stepped back. “May the Oracle abide with you.”
Tommy felt a trill of surprise race through him at that. He stared up at the odd light in the king’s eyes and then down to his hands, taking in the way they were clenched tightly at his sides. He sounded like…like he had that night after he’d pulled out of Tommy’s body. Broken open. Once again, Tommy didn’t understand it. But once again, he chose not to probe further, too caught up in his own unwieldy emotions to attempt to decipher Lord Lambert’s. Tommy acknowledged the king’s benediction with a brief bow and turned away.
By the fourth day of his return, some of Tommy’s false confidence had become real. The king still came each morning, but he never asked for anything. After four days, Tommy began to think he never would and the thought bolstered him. Until-
“I wish to speak with you tonight, after the hunt.”
“Where, my lord?”
“In my tent. Alone.” Tommy felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Suddenly he found himself back in that tent, twisting, begging, crying out as the king worked his swollen flesh into Tommy’s body. His heart launched into a rapid, almost painful rhythm.
“Is that a command, my lord?” Tommy asked, his voice catching a little as he spoke.
“Would you come if it wasn’t?”
“No. I would not come.” Even in his agitated state, Tommy was shocked at the boldness of his reply.
“Then it is a command. What say you?”
Tommy felt like he was falling, sinking rapidly into some terrifying abyss. He drew a shuddering breath.
“I live to serve the king.”
Lord Lambert nodded his head in acknowledgement. Then he turned away and hurried back to his waiting horse, leaving Tommy standing there, shoulders slumped in defeat, a drowning man with nothing to hang on to.
Tommy was a wreck for the rest of the day. He was nearly useless on the hunt, scaring off animals by galloping too fast, missing clear shots by several yards. His head felt unnaturally heavy, filled with about a hundred conflicting thoughts and emotions. And when the hunting party began to journey to rejoin the caravan, Tommy bit back the urge to beg them to wait, to stop. Deep inside, he was screaming, words that no one could hear. Open me up, he wanted to say. Open me up and all you’ll see is a gallery of broken parts. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to go back to the safety of the slave camp. Why had he ever ventured back out? What self-destructive demon had pushed him into it?
Finally, they reached the caravan, and Tommy had nowhere to go but the king’s tent. So he went, steps heavy as he walked, mind ablaze with warring impulses. Obedience warred with self-preservation. Defiance warred with abject fear. It was going to happen again and there was nothing he could do to stop it. As he drew closer to the king’s tent, Tommy recognized that on some level, he didn’t want to stop it. On some level, he wanted that pleasure again. Shame washed over him as he moved. I’m beyond repair, just let me be. Tommy wanted to be left alone, long enough to fix his broken parts, long enough to decipher who he was now, now that he’d given over and let the weakness claim him.
Tommy entered the tent and stopped at the entrance, too terrified to go further. He didn’t move until Lord Lambert urged him closer.
“You hair…it’s longer than it was when we left Troianus,” Lord Lambert said.
“I can cut it if it displeases you, my lord,” Tommy murmured.
“No. It…it doesn’t displease me. I just…I mean, it just…it looks different, that’s all. I hadn’t really noticed until now.”
Tommy tucked his hair behind his ears in a futile bid to fade into the background. He tried to think of something else, anything else. But when the silence between them began to drag on, Tommy began to fidget a little where he stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“I called you here to…I wanted to…to….”
Tommy wasn’t listening. All he could hear was a muffled sound coming from miles away as his heart began to hammer in his chest and blood roared in his ears. He took several shallow breaths and raised trembling hands to the belt tied around his waist. He was still loosening the heavy fabric when the king’s voice broke through his haze.
“What are you doing?” Lord Lambert asked, nearly shouting.
Tommy flinched involuntarily. “I…I thought this is what you wanted, my lord.”
“What?”
“Is this not why you summoned me, my lord? To take me to bed?”
“No. I did not ask you to come here for that.”
Tommy frowned in confusion and dropped his hands to his sides, leaving his belt loose around his waist. “Then what did you summon me for, my lord?”
“I called you here because I wanted to tell you…I wanted to let you know how incredibly sorry I am for what I did to you. I…I took something that you weren’t ready to give, something you didn’t want to give. I took from you and I am truly sorry.”
Tommy froze with shock. What in the Oracle’s name was happening? He had come here expecting a repeat of that night only to be met with…an apology? Was this a game? Was Lord Lambert toying with him?
“You are king,” Tommy replied, voice resolute. “You can do whatever you want.” He wouldn’t fall victim to this new ploy, whatever it was.
“Not this. Not this. I had no right to do what I did to you. No one does.”
“You are king and I was given to you as tribute. You have every right to do what you wish with me.”
“No. Some kings of Ilyria may believe that, but not I. I had no right. I have no excuses for what I did and I won’t insult you further by making any. All I can say is that I wasn’t in my right mind. I wasn’t myself that night. If I was, I would never-believe me, Prince Thomas, I would never have done what I did. I did you a great wrong and I apologize and ask that you give me a chance to earn your forgiveness.”
Tommy was stunned. It wasn’t a game, of that much he was certain now. There was something in Lord Lambert’s voice, something in the way he spoke that made doubting him impossible in that moment. But Tommy didn’t understand it. Why was the king apologizing to him? In Ilyria, a king’s will was second only to the Oracle’s. A king had the right to take anything and everything he wanted. Tommy sounded the depths of his memory, trying to recall a time when he had heard his father or his brothers or even himself apologize to a commoner-let alone a slave. There was nothing. Not one instance came to mind. In Troianus, Tommy had been kind, but even he had never done anything as untoward as apologizing to a slave and yet here, Lord Lambert was, doing just that. It made no sense. He had tried to kill the king and yet he was asking for Tommy’s forgiveness. It made no sense.
“There is nothing to forgive, my lord.” Tommy said finally. “I tried to kill you. You could have demanded a death-price for my crime and yet you didn’t. That alone makes it so that I have no right to complain of anything you may have done instead.”
“I don’t believe that. I don’t care what happened beforehand. It’s no excuse,” the king replied. When Tommy stood speechless, unable to do anything but stare, the king continued. “I know that I hurt you and I’m sorry.”
“My lord-”
“Give me a chance to earn your forgiveness. Please. Please.”
Tommy’s entire body tightened with shock to hear Lord Lambert beg. “A king does not beg.”
“But a man can. If he has committed a wrong, if he wishes to atone, a man can beg, can’t he?”
What was happening? How had everything shifted so completely, so decidedly? He had walked in here expecting the worst, expecting to beg and yet here he was, the one with all the power suddenly, with Lord Lambert playing supplicant to him. Tommy’s hands curled into clenched fists at his sides. And then finally-
“Yes.”
“So I ask you, as a man, not as a king, let me atone, give me a chance to earn your forgiveness for what I did to you.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. All I ask is that you give me leave to try. Please.”
Tommy gave Lord Lambert a long, measuring look. The king’s eyes were unnaturally bright, brilliant with desperation and sincerity, so different from the confidence he had grown accustomed to seeing there, a confidence he had thought unshakeable until now. The expression on Lord Lambert’s face did something to him. It made him question everything, his own feelings, his scattered, wild thoughts, even what happened that night. He needed to think. He needed to face the memory head on and parse through it. He needed time and opportunity to unravel this unexpected mystery. And there was only one way to get it.
“Alright.” It was the softest of whispers, so low that Tommy couldn’t be certain that Lord Lambert had actually heard it.
“Do you mean it?”
“My lord, I seldom say things I do not mean.”
Tommy watched Lord Lambert’s face transform upon hearing his words. He watched happiness displace the stark look on his face and for some unknown reason, Tommy felt like smiling at the thought that he was the reason for the king’s joy. But when Lord Lambert stepped forward suddenly, instinct kicked in and he reacted without thinking, shrinking back, muscles still alive with the memory of that night. Lord Lambert’s happiness vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. Tommy watched the king turn away and sink into a chair, shoulders slumped in defeat. He hated the sight.
“My lord-”
“You may go.”
“Shall I return tomorrow, my lord…or on a different night?”
Adam turned to him. “Only if you want to. You shall have no more orders from me.”
Tommy stared at him for a long moment, his forehead creased with concentration, weighing every word Lord Lambert had said tonight. What did it all mean? What did it portend? The questions confounded and infuriated him in equal measure. He needed time. He needed to think. Alone. After several moments of silence, Tommy finally moved, bowing briefly and mumbling some parting words before slipping quietly out of the tent.
He walked back to the slave camp in a daze, feet moving of their own volition, movements heavy and slow. If anyone spoke to him as he walked, Tommy would never know. All he could hear was Lord Lambert’s voice, echoing madly in his skull. He wasn’t faring any better when he fell into his cot for the night. For hours, he lay there, tossing and turning, mind blazing with memories and half-formed thoughts. Why had the king apologized to him, when he had done nothing more than exercise the privilege of a ruler of Ilyria?
For the first time since that night, Tommy forced himself to examine the entire incident slowly, carefully, and with as little emotion as he could. The king had apologized that night as well, he remembered now. He had stared at Tommy the same way he had tonight, lost, broken, horrified, like he couldn’t believe what he had done. I’m sorry. He had sounded the same tonight, voice low and tight with true remorse and even now, far away from him, the memory of it pulled at something inside Tommy.
Who was this man? The man Tommy had imagined Lord Lambert to be would never seek the forgiveness of a slave. And yet, the king had done just that, had begged for it in fact, had pleaded to be given the chance to earn it. What did it all mean? Tommy didn’t know. And after a long, restless night spent tossing and turning and only sleeping for about half an hour put together, he was no closer to an answer. Reluctantly, he rose to his feet when he heard the morning bell and began his morning ablutions. When he was done, he grabbed a piece of bread and hurried up through the camp, chewing rapidly as he went.
Tommy was strapping on his quiver of arrows when he caught sight of the king. Instead of turning away when the king’s gaze caught his own, Tommy held the stare deliberately, watching, waiting to see what Lord Lambert would do. Even when the king approached the hunting party, Tommy held it, breaking the stare only when he fell to his knees along with the soldiers. He remained behind after Lord Lambert bid them rise, staring, appraising the man standing before him, the man who had begged his forgiveness for doing something that the laws of Ilyria dictated was his right as king. Who was he? Tommy was suddenly desperate to know.
“Good morning, Prince Thomas.”
“Good morning, my lord.”
“I…I trust you slept well?”
“No, my lord, I did not sleep well.”
Tommy watched concern tighten the king’s face. Lord Lambert was worried about him? Yet another surprise to add to the expanding inventory.
“Why not? Is everything alright? Did something happen?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Tell me.”
Tommy wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it. But he said it all the same.
“You, my lord. You happened.”
Tommy watched the king freeze, shocked speechless. After the surprises of the night before, it was a pleasant change to have the other man be the one rendered speechless.
“May the grace of the Oracle abide with you,” the king said when he finally found his voice.
Tommy didn’t answer. He stared for another long moment. Then he nodded briefly and walked away, leaving the king to his own devices.
For the following week, Tommy barely slept. Each night he would lay awake in his cot, staring up at the night sky, thinking about Lord Lambert. Through long, sleepless hours, he parsed through the events of that night, turning over every detail in his mind despite the embarrassment and shame it caused him. He didn’t hate the king-that much he’d decided early on. If anything, he hated himself, for giving into the weakness, for failing to live up to his father’s standard.
There had been pleasure, Tommy acknowledged grudgingly on the third sleepless night. There had been pain, at the beginning, but more than anything else, there had been pleasure, relentless, sharp, incredible. Lord Lambert had given him that. And yet he’d apologized. And he kept apologizing. Each morning, when he approached the hunting party, he apologized. Tommy could see it in his eyes, the way the blue irises shone bright with guilt and remorse. He could see it in the tension in the king’s shoulders, the way his eyes darted away from Tommy’s sometimes as he spoke, as if he couldn’t bear to look at him directly. Lord Lambert seemed so…vulnerable, the uncertainty he displayed in front of Tommy completely at odds with the way he was with everyone else.
Something about it called to Tommy, pulled at him. By the morning of the sixth day, it was all he could do not to rest a reassuring hand on the king’s shoulder. A suicidal impulse, that, Tommy thought wryly that morning as he watched the king walk away after yet another blessing before the hunt. Why hadn’t he given up yet? Even though Tommy never spoke a word in reply or offered any encouragement, Lord Lambert kept coming. Later that evening, Tommy stared up at the night sky, sleepless once again, mind fixated on the king. Reluctantly, he dragged the memories of that night out of the dark corners of his mind and into the light of introspection once again.
There had been pleasure. But there had been pain as well, at the beginning. Had it made any difference to the king? If there had been nothing but pain, if Tommy had hated it, if he’d gotten no pleasure from it, would Lord Lambert have let him go or would he have done it anyway? Suddenly, Tommy had to know. But how? Even though the king had said he could return to the tent, Tommy hesitated. He weighed the implications of voluntarily going to the king’s tent. How would Lord Lambert interpret it? What if he took it as an open invitation? What if he touched Tommy again, pushing him into the weakness once more? Tommy blushed hotly where he lay. If the king touched him, he would fall. He would hate himself for it, but he would fall into it once again. There had to be another way to get the answer he needed.
It came to him the next morning as the hunting party rode away from the caravan for the day’s adventure. Of course. If he caught the best prey, he could go to the king’s tent with none of the implications he feared. So, he tried his best, moving stealthily, aiming carefully. And while he felled a worthy amount of prey, he captured nothing big enough to be considered the best of the day. He was groaning in frustration at the end of the day when he saw it, a large elk in the distance. Tommy drew the bowstring taut and shot. The arrow hit its mark but the animal didn’t go down. Damn it. Even though it was getting dark, even though he knew it was reckless, Tommy gave chase. He had to get Lord Lambert alone. He had to.
“My lord, wait!”
“Prince Thomas, let it go!”
Tommy ignored the cries of the soldiers near him and galloped away, chasing the elk through the woods. He didn’t see the overgrown roots beneath him until he’d fallen to the ground and injured his leg. The pain was sharp, debilitating almost. His leg throbbed and burned all the way back to the caravan and when they carried him down from his horse at the night camp, Tommy had to bite his lip to suppress a pained groan. He tried to get the soldiers to disperse, but his efforts to lessen the crowd only drew a larger one. Surely the king wouldn’t miss the commotion. He didn’t want the king to see him like this, to see how stupid and reckless Tommy had been. If he’d been less distracted by the pain, he might have noticed the oddity of that, how much he suddenly cared about Lord Lambert’s opinion of him.
Eventually, the king came, eyes blazing, voice blaring, cutting and severe with everyone else and yet so careful, so gentle when he bent low to Tommy, concern written plainly across his face. Tommy almost forgot the pain later in the king’s tent when Lord Lambert sat on the ground in front of him, hands moving gingerly over Tommy’s wound. Tommy watched him, shocked and amazed. It was one thing to apologize for that night, but to do this, to touch Tommy like he was a precious, treasured thing? It was something else entirely. Tommy gaze traced over the king, settling over the tense planes of his face before moving down to his raised shoulders. He cares. Lord Lambert genuinely cared about him? Yet another surprise.
“I should have them all punished for letting this happen.”
Tommy’s hand flew down to grip the king’s shoulder.
“It was my fault. Please don’t punish them for my recklessness, my lord.”
Lord Lambert didn’t reply. He squeezed the tin in his left hand, seemingly frozen beneath the weight of Tommy’s hand on his shoulder. I’m touching him. The moment he realized what he was doing, Tommy gasped and snatched his hand back rapidly, faster than he would have if he’d touched an open flame. He held his breath until the king began to apply the salve once more. When the king asked him why he’d been reckless, Tommy bowed his head and told him the truth.
Lord Lambert nodded in response. For long minutes, he concentrated on dressing Tommy’s wound. It was only when he’d tied off the final bandage that he set Tommy’s foot back onto the floor, stood to his feet, and finally spoke again.
“So, now that your wound is taken care of, I would like to know what it is that you wanted to ask me so badly that you were willing to risk life and limb for the chance to do it.”
“I wanted to know if…if you meant what you said a week ago about seeking my forgiveness, about how sorry you are for what happened that night.”
“I seldom say things I do not mean, Prince Thomas.”
“So it was true then? All of it?”
“Yes. I’m sorry for what I did. I’m sorry for causing you pain.” Lord Lambert’s voice broke a little on those final words and once again, Tommy felt something in him stir to hear the vulnerability in it.
“The thing is…it wasn’t all pain. There was hardly any pain after the beginning. There was pleasure as well, more so than anything else. You gave me pleasure.”
“It makes no difference,” the king replied, his voice heavy and hoarse. “It isn’t any better to force pleasure on a person than it is to force pain. I know how it was. I remember. I was there. I saw you. I heard you. I felt you. I know that I gave you pleasure but still I apologized, and I will keep apologizing because I was wrong.”
Tommy stared, speechless. Who was this man? Tommy had just confessed the truth and still he apologized.
“Is that all you wanted to know?” Lord Lambert asked. “I don’t mean to insult you, Prince Thomas, but my answer hardly seems worth risking your life to hear.”
“That wasn’t all. I’ve yet to ask my real question,” Tommy replied.
“By all means, please do.”
“What I wanted to know was-I mean, what I want to know is…if there had been no pleasure, if I’d only been in pain, if you had truly been hurting me, would you have stopped?”
“I don’t know.” Lord Lambert sounded lost, helpless.
Tommy’s eyes narrowed. He stared at the king for a long minute, retracing the memories of that night, weighing every word and action since then, measuring the man standing in front of him. Lord Lambert could have done the easy thing. He could have given Tommy the obvious answer. He could have said “yes” but he hadn’t. He’d meant to, Tommy knew. There had been something in his eyes that first instant, something instinctive and sure. It had been brief, but it had been there, before a maelstrom of other emotions had chased it away. Even so, it was enough. Tommy had his answer.
Three days later, when Tommy finally rejoined the hunting party, he felt his breath catch in his chest as the king approached. So many surprises. The continued apologies, the king’s concern for the slaves in his caravan, the realization that the king genuinely cared for him. Tommy had lain wide awake all three nights since the accident, turning them over in his head, the image of Lord Lambert on the floor, tending to Tommy’s wound never far from his mind’s eye. And now here he was again.
“Do you remember what I said to you the other night?” Lord Lambert asked, worry wrinkling his brow.
“I shall be careful, my lord,” Tommy replied immediately.
The king nodded. “May the grace of the Oracle abide with you.”
“And also with you, my lord.”
The reply had been on the tip of his tongue long before now, Tommy was finally willing to admit. Watching the king’s eyes widen with shock and then with joy was an unexpected reward. It made Tommy drop the mask of indifference he’d carefully cultivated for weeks now, face relaxing into a brief smile before turning away.
As he rode off into the woods, the pounding of hoofs filling his ears and the weight of his arrows heavy on his back, Tommy couldn’t help but smile again as he thought of Lord Lambert. I like him. The thought flashed through him, simple yet fraught with a dozen complexities. In three weeks of endless surprises, it was the biggest one of all.