Hallowed

3

The prince disliked wine. He much preferred the honeyed beer of his country, but it did not stop him from continuing to consume the bitter liquid within the solitude of his rooms. Baptiste dutifully sat beside him as he downed goblet after goblet, peering over books he had stolen from the Ilysian king’s library. Well, not stolen, Baptiste thought, borrowed. It wasn’t as if the prince wasn’t going to give them back, though it was unlikely he would return them himself. It was more plausible to assume that he would put them in  a neat pile on a side table and let the servants take responsibility. The prince respected books more than servants. More than people.

“Haroma.” The prince murmured, squinting at a page of a book. When he drank heavily like this, he often got double vision. The fact that he liked reading, even when drunk, was a bad combination in Baptiste’s opinion. Still, it was often entertaining, and Baptiste relished what the gods gave him.

Even so, the prince had mentioned Haroma in passing during their journey to Ilyos. Just once, but enough for Baptiste to know that it was of importance. Reading a book on the island now, however, seemed odd, since Prince Heiko’s preparatory research verged on inexorable. On the other hand, this book was from an Ilysian perspective. It is likely to offer useful information. Not that Baptiste would know, since he couldn’t read Ilysian. The southern language had foreign characters, much different from Simo or his homeland, Burke. 

Instead, he scrunched his lips and pulled his gaze away from the prince and the book, scanning the room they had been given. The mattress was very large and covered in cottons and silks, dyed modestly. There were various golden embellishments around the room, but it still did not equate to the lavish chambers of Simo. There was a large open balcony behind the couch they sat on, blowing in warm night air. Their Simonese clothes were not proper for this weather, prompting them to change into the Ilysian ones set out for them. They were almost austere in nature, a tunic-like cloth called a chiton and no trousers beneath it - a very foreign concept to the Simonese. Even so, Heiko pulled the fabric on with not even a hint of disapproval. His skin was already flushed pink from the assault of southern heat, so Baptiste figured a reprieve from it was far better than aspersing the design. Still, it made sitting with legs folded in front of oneself impossible, so Baptiste was forced to sit on the couch with his legs tucked beneath him like a woman. 

But he soon found himself growing restless, which was curious, since being around the prince normally had a calming effect on him.

Maybe it was because they were in a strange land. Or because of that general. Prince Heiko metamorphosed into something dynamic when he was present, no longer a snake lying in wait, but a snake risen, swaying his head to gain more depth. It wasn’t a side of the prince that Baptiste had ever seen, though he was a smart child and it wasn’t hard to discern that Prince Heiko would possess such a side. He portrayed himself as arrogant, but that was just another of his numerous pieces of armor. And that armor was protecting a man who knew he knew nothing. Or, at least, a man who knew he didn’t know everything. And General Celestino was one of those things he did not know.

It didn’t hurt the Ilysian that he was handsome and solid, more arresting than even King Ingo, who was likely the most imposing figure in Prince Heiko’s life. It didn’t help him either.

That slight boost gave Baptiste the confidence to reach over and take his master’s golden hair in his hands, combing down the strays in hopes that it didn’t seem like an overstep.

His master stiffened, but that wasn’t necessarily indicative of a crossed boundary. Prince Heiko always tensed when he was touched, no matter by whom, so the boy didn’t hesitate. He gently unknotted the leather strip from the prince’s hair and smoothed out the flattening waves. When freshly washed, Prince Heiko had graceful curls, and each day of neglect resulted in weaker and weaker volume. It never got to be completely flat, since the prince was once a priest, and cleanliness is godliness.

He didn’t remove his gaze from the page when he asked Baptiste, “What has you so worked up?”

“Nothing.”

Silence rang out for a long stretch after that, making Baptiste wonder if he had blundered.

“If it was that princess, do not heed her words.” His fingers continued to flutter through the pages, as if they didn’t know his lips were elsewhere. “I know you are not the delicate child she wants to see. And it’s only my opinion that matters.”

Baptiste kept his eyes on his hands as they twined strands of his master’s hair together. Her words had only worked him up minorly, but to know Prince Heiko did not think of him as a mere child put a warmth in his belly.

“If,” Heiko continued, “It was the general, set your apprehension aside. He is certainly an obstacle, but I haven’t quite yet counted out his utility. He may prove to be an asset.”

If that was Baptiste’s concern, it would’ve been remedied, but it was not. 

It was about two hours later that Baptiste’s prince had finally fallen asleep, head on his arm, as he had leaned down to rest his tired, drunken eyes for a moment and, within seconds, dozed into what was now a deep slumber. 

Baptiste stood from the couch, careful not to disturb his master, before heading for the door. He did not eat enough at dinner, so he planned on sniffing out something to eat. Among other things. He figured if the prince could get away with sneaking into the palace library, surely a lowly servant could slip by without raising attention. 

His feet were bare and they padded along the cool stone of the hallway louder than he had thought they would. In Simo, the marble floors were always too cold to go barefoot, so doing so now was a welcomed experience – it made Baptiste feel whimsical.  Though, eventually he discovered that it also resulted in aimless wandering. Each time he turned down a new path, he seemed to be trudging deeper and deeper adrift. He didn’t mind, though; the palace of Ilyos had many courtyards, some filled with sand, some with beautiful gardens. 

It was an amusing adventure at first, but the slave severely overestimated his wakefulness. Both he and the prince rose at the same time - about an hour after dawn, and even though the wine helped put his master to sleep, he likely wouldn’t have lasted much longer anyway. Nor Baptiste, but there he was, wandering about deep into the night. He knew if he stopped for a break, he would fall asleep, and even though that would only bring trouble, he was drawn to a courtyard with a gurgling fountain, a large round pool around it to accept the flowing water. It was tiled with white and blue ceramic which glistened with the water and the moonlight in a lovely fashion. He sat himself on the bench that jutted out from it. It was thick, and clearly meant for respiting strollers. He tilted his head back, gazing up at the moon and the stars surrounding him. Baptiste was taught the constellations at a young age, but rarely had the opportunity to use the knowledge. The Simonese palaces were not open like this one. Simo knew of snow and cold and didn’t have such luxury. The only time to exploit his skill was when he went on hunts with his master and the other nobility. At night he would sneak out of the thick, furred tents and look up for hours. Or until Heiko grew irritated by his absence and demanded he return. 

It was when he spotted Trochta in the stars that his attention was brought back to earth by a voice he knew. He stiffened, looking around. There was no doubting it belonged to the Horned King. But surely Baptiste hadn’t wandered into the royal wing. Still, he was sure of the voice. There were no servants around and he wasn’t stopped by any guards. He debated, only momentarily, if he should hide, but in the end, he figured it would bode well for no one. And anyway, the king would know best how to get back to the guest rooms. 

Baptiste did what he could to look busy, to look as if he hadn’t heard the king and, unsurprisingly, General Celestino. The boy wasn’t sure why he hadn’t heard him, or why his voice alarmed him so much when he spoke softly, inquisitively,

“Baptiste?”

Because he learned from the best, the boy was able to put on a flustered mask.

“General?”

The general was younger than the king, or at least it looked that way - handsome, with a strong, square jaw covered by a close-cut beard. His hair was just as dark, wavy against his head. He, too, had kind eyes, like his king – the color of honey. 

“What are you doing in the king’s garden?”

King Vincente’s voice wasn’t as soft, but neither did it possess the same amount of pity. The Horned King was renowned for his even gaze, his steady, calm demeanor, and at that moment, he did not disappoint. He was Ilysian through and through, his features dark, sharp, his shoulders broad. If he wanted to be, he could easily become menacing.

“I’m lost,” Baptiste informed matter-of-factly.

The general furrowed his brow.

“Why were you wandering this late?”

“We had no pitcher of water to ease his pounding head in the morning. Nor bread. I went to fetch some.”

“He’s drunk?” The general asked, his face twisting into something Baptiste was not used to: pity. 

Baptiste bristled. 

“Asleep,” Baptiste corrected.

“Well, you’re far from your chambers. You’ve managed to meander to the other side of the palace.” Vincente said, smirking a little. 

Baptiste stood. “Then will you guide me back?” 

He didn’t like that smirk. One was full of pity, one was amused. Baptiste may have been a slave, but he was a proud one. 

“I’m tired.” He supplemented it with a bit of a bite. One perhaps only he had heard, since he had acquired such a subtlety with his emotions that tones which used to be sharp were now so dulled that they may not even be considered tones at all. Such was a necessity for the slave of Prince Heiko.

“Mm,” The general nodded. “Your eyes are red.” And then, “Were you crying?”

The question was gentle and soft. Baptiste did what he could to restrain the twitch of his left brow.

“No.” Baptiste wanted to tack on how he never cried, because he wasn’t a stupid child, but he refrained. “I’m simply tired.”

And slightly buzzed with the wine, Heiko slowly fed him throughout the banquet. It was wearing off, but it still had an effect on him. Perhaps that was why he got lost so easily. He often had trouble gauging how gone he was, since he was obliged to make sure an even more gone master was served. 

The general walked over and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. 

“You must be hungry. Join us. The king and I were just about to enjoy a spread of fruit.”

Baptiste looked over to the king, who’s smirk turned tender. So General Celestino was a close friend as well as an advisor. Otherwise, inviting another to eat the king’s food would be a punishable offense, at least in Simo. 

He gave a nod. It gave him a chance to steal one and bring it back for his master, to appease him should he find out about this absence. The prince favored sweet things. He said that there were as many different kinds of sweets as there were astronomical bodies orbiting in the heavens. Baptiste didn’t know how many that was, but he assumed it was numerous. 

That and the slave was hungry. 

“Come,” the general said, placing his hand on Baptiste’s upper back, guiding him towards an open room, whose entrance was on the far side of the courtyard. The chambers beyond were simple, like the rooms given to the prince, but unlike theirs, this room was vibrant with far more pillows and cushions lining the floors and the couches. It was evident that these rooms were meant for comfort and easy discussion. Simo had chambers like these, but they were accompanied by pipes with which one could smoke the calming and galvanizing neisa plant. There were no such vessels here.

There was a large, hammered silver tray already placed on a table between two facing lounging couches. There were also two goblets and a clay pitcher, most likely filled with wine. The room had been prepared for them. 

The general crossed for a couch and sat, adjacent to the king, who was already lounging on a broad, silk chaise. Baptiste lingered for a moment, unsure which man he should sit beside, or whether he should at all. Slaves often weren’t allowed on such fine furniture unless they were pleasure slaves, and he was a pleasure slave for no one, especially an Ilysian. And if anything was tried, Heiko would kill them for their insolence. It wasn’t the first time. What belonged to Prince Heiko, could not be touched by others. 

“Sit,” The general said, patting the cushion beside him. “You needn’t be on edge.”

It was a sudden paradigm shift in thought that made Baptiste feel like a fool. He sat down. These men were like wolves, as they should be, as leaders of their state. They shouldn’t care for the slaves of foreign diplomats unless it served them. But if they thought Baptiste would divulge any information about Prince Heiko, they were terribly mistaken. Still, the situation had the potential to be useful for him. 

He pushed his knees tightly together, placing his hands on top of them in a subservient manner, his eyes on the stone floor. 

“Aren’t you hungry?” The king asked. 

“I cannot stay long. I must return to my master.” Baptiste spoke deliberately. 

“He’s a slumbering drunk, no?” The general countered. “He’ll be asleep until the sun is high in the sky.”

Baptiste kept his face expressionless. There were times such things occurred. There were also times when he awoke before the sun, as angry as the pounding in his head. There was no telling which would rear its head this time.

There was no reversing the clock, either. Baptiste was there. He might as well indulge. He reached for a slice of apple, it’s skin as red as a ruby. 

“Does Prince Heiko drink often?” Vincente asked, his tone casual, as he reached for a round fruit, uncut, with orangey pink skin. He bit into it, unabashedly dripping juice down his chin. “He is so young.”

“Little puts him to sleep like wine and beer,” Baptiste replied. The former swifter than the latter, but rarely utilized, since his master found it so bitter. 

He could see the crease of the general’s scowl, but perhaps that was okay. Men thought little of drunks, so if the Ilysians considered his master among them, they would severely underestimate him. If Baptiste had learned anything from his time serving Prince Heiko, it was that many victories were lost by misjudgment. 

“How long have you been Prince Heiko’s slave?” 

Vincente leaned back and considered Baptiste the way he had considered which fruit to choose.

“One year.” 

It was his best estimate. The time after his capture was foggy and vague, right up until the very moment he laid eyes upon the fair prince. He reached for another slice of apple while scanning the plate, wondering if his prince would enjoy the juicy, fuzzy fruit that King Vincente had just eaten.

“I’ve heard he is a reckless person.” 

General Celestino had grabbed a handful of grapes, picking them from his palm leisurely. “Is that true?”

“Reckless?” Baptiste asked. 

He was. The prince very often riposted towards his elder brother, causing a multitude of consequences – one such being this negotiation trip. If this journey proved unfruitful – if Prince Heiko failed – then he would be exiled. This was the prince’s last hope of ever being an honored brother. So far, it seemed to Baptiste that they would both be exiled very soon. 

“Reckless,” The general repeated. “I’ve heard a few things.”

King Vincente hummed in concurrence, lips quirking. 

“Cliff jumping, trick riding, and I believe he learned the art of the northern war blade, no?”

Baptiste saw the general look to his king, as if he was unaware of the extent. Curious, the slave thought, that the king would know and not his closest advisor. And more than that, there was no doubt Vincente had a spy in the north, but who?

“And what was that other one?”

Vincente tapped his chin, as if trying desperately to recall. 

“Of yes! A dabbler of sorcery.”

“There are many rumors about my prince.” Baptiste replied diplomatically, though he could recall the exact moment that sourced that final rumor. The prince’s lips and teeth were coated with blood, and the scream of Queen Ethel made his ears ring for hours afterward. Entirely worth it, though, just to hear his magnificent laugh. “It doesn’t surprise me that such wild ones have reached the ears of an unallied neighbor.”

King Vincente smirked, studying the boy. “Unallied for now, or isn’t this a meeting of accord?”

Baptiste did not answer.

“Does Prince Heiko plan to negotiate?” The king furthered calmly.  

It was an honest question. Thus far, they had been in Ilyos for two days and the prince had yet to speak of politics. Instead, he demanded a wrestling spectacle. 

Baptiste sighed. He was unsure how to answer King Vincente. Prince Heiko was as unpredictable as the ocean. No mortal creature could discern his mind. Well…maybe one. Baptiste suddenly felt sick.

“This is a negotiation meeting,” Baptiste replied eventually. 

“He seems to be a cruel man,” The general returned his hard gaze to the slave. “For one to be so loyal to.”

It was spoken in an even tone, but there was a clear question attached. Baptiste wondered how they expected him to respond. Coming to the prince’s defense, perhaps? Or maybe breaking down in tears begging them to protect Baptiste from the horrors of Prince Heiko? 

“He can be.” Baptiste nodded. It was true. Servants were terrified of him, as he had high expectations that they couldn’t possibly meet. And, of course, such ineptitude was punished. But there was something honest in the prince’s rending, as it wasn’t reserved for only one class. Heiko very often had noblewomen storm off from a conversation with undertones of insults, unable to slap a prince. Or noblemen, trying but failing to defend themselves from Heiko’s silver snake tongue, which had a natural habit of degradation. But that was something these men would not understand until they experienced the cutthroat nature of the Simonese courts.  

Without a hint of warning, the general reached over and took a strand of Baptiste’s hair between his fingers. It was a familiar gesture, and, despite the status and vigor of the man, a chaste one. Like a father or an uncle. Baptiste found himself relaxing fractionally and hating himself for it.  

“You ought to be in a temple,” Celestino spoke quietly. 

Baptiste looked over, brow pressed in shock.

“A temple?”

“Slave or royal, those with the beauty of the heavens are given to the temple of the sun god,” Vincente said. He had moved on to wine, sipping it slowly.

“I…” Baptiste stumbled, suddenly uncomfortable. A blush was threatening his pale cheeks. 

“These bruises are an insult to the heavens.” The general continued, and the king nodded. “And the man who inflicted them ought to be smitten by the gods.”

“My master thought so as well.” Baptiste bit sharper than intended, pulling back from Celestino before standing and offering a bow. “Thank you for your generosity.”

He could see the general’s face furrow with perplexity.

“You’re master-”

“I must be getting back now.” Baptiste said, grabbing a fuzzy fruit before rushing off. 

He made it back to his room with a pitcher of water and the fruit as the sun began to turn the sky pink. He may have been in a rush to get away from the Ilysian men, but he was still lost, and now perturbed at the general for foiling his only surefire plan of returning to the rooms in a timely manner. But his frustrations didn’t change the fact that he had left his prince’s side without permission. His pulse quickened in anticipation as he pushed open the wooden door to a deathly quiet chamber. He looked around and noticed the prince was no longer on the couch where Baptiste had left him. Then there was no getting around it - he already knew.

“Nice of you to join me this morning.”

The slave bristled, searching for his cool voice and finding him sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes sharp, an irritated smirk on his lips. 

“What stole you from my bed?” He continued as Baptiste stepped into the chamber, closing the door behind him.

“I noticed we had no water.” 

He would see right through it, but Baptiste was tired. Much too tired to be on high alert as he should’ve been. 

The prince appraised him as he took confident steps nearer, presenting the fuzzy fruit in his palm. 

“A peach,” The prince said in surprise, his brow arched. “Where did you get this?”

“The kitchen.” 

If the prince knew that Baptiste had a secret, midnight engagement with the king of Ilyos, then it would surely be a bad day. And maybe lying would have been worse, but Baptiste was feeling temerarious. Until, of course, his master’s blue gaze settled on him, sad and distant, drilling guilt deep into his gut. 

“Peaches are from across the sea.” The prince broke his gaze on the slave eventually, leaving something bitter in its wake, as he sank his teeth into the fruit. As with the others, juice ran down either side of his chin, a sight that would’ve stirred Baptiste if not for the lead ball weighing his belly. “I’ve had them only once in Burke.”

“Burke?” 

He didn’t mean to sound as alarmed as he did, but he was distracted and drowsy, and his prince was wickedly skilled at toppling any guard a man could mold.

The prince looked up, studying his slave’s expression.

“Yes,” he said, using the corner of a blanket to wipe his mouth. “Burke had connections across the sea. You’re Burkean, didn’t you know?”

Of course, he knew that his country had trade routes across the seas – it was only natural for master voyagers. It took the slave by surprise that Prince Heiko had visited. And granted, it sounded silly to think that a Simonese prince wouldn’t visit their neighboring allies, but growing up, Baptiste lived in the capital city. In all his years, he had never heard news of Simonese princes visiting. Not even the then Prince Ingo. 

The prince considered Baptiste for a moment more before extending the fruit to him, close to his mouth.

“Try it.” 

Baptiste stole a quick gaze at his master’s expression, before sinking his teeth into the soft skin and softer meat. The sticky juice did not spare him. It dripped down the front of his chin and onto his chiton. It was sweet though, delicious - worth the mess. 

“There’s a pit in the middle.” The prince said. “It’s a seed. It can be planted.”

Baptiste watched his master as he polished off the small fruit, exposing the dark brown pit.

“We’ll have it planted back in Simo.” 

Prince Heiko stood and slid it into a riding bag, not bothering to wrap it. He turned to his slave and parted his lips to speak, before noting the stain on his collar.

“Truly a child. Running around the palace at night, stealing sweets, dirtying your clothes. You’re lucky I’m kind to children.”

Baptiste was too tired to even blush at the comments. 

“Undress and bathe,” his master commanded, pointing to a tub that must have been delivered sometime that morning. It was constructed of wood with cloth lining it. 

He nodded and quickly stripped, stepping into the lukewarm water.

“Wash your hair, it’s tangled beyond assistance, at this point.” 

The prince exhaled and crossed to the couch. He picked up the book on Haroma that he had fallen asleep to. 

Without having the eyes of his master on him, Baptiste made quick work of yanking the snags from his hair. His body was treated much more tenderly, even though bruises were beginning to fade to a jaundiced yellow. 

“There’s scented oil beside you for your hair,” his master informed without looking up. “I will not have you smelling like a slave. Or an Ilysian.”

Baptiste was quite used to oils. It was one of the prince’s more impertinent habits. Perfumes were for those of high status in Simo - or at least perfumes of high quality. For guessable purposes, slaves of the palace were allowed a numbered variety of scents. And for even more guessable purposes, Prince Heiko ignored that etiquette. 

He reached for the glass vial and pulled the stopper from it, pouring some floral scented oil into his palm and massaging it into his hair, helping the curls bounce and reform. 

Satisfied that he was clean, he stood and grabbed a cloth to wrap himself in. He crossed to the couch and sat beside the prince, yawning.

“Stupid boy.” The prince said, shaking his head slightly before reaching over and cupping the side of his slave’s head, guiding it down to his lap. “The wrestling spectacle is in two hours. Sleep while you can.”

Baptiste didn’t fight him. He inhaled the scent of the prince - an intoxicating amalgam of talcum and an element of sweetness Baptiste had yet to source - and quickly submitted to sleep.