Chapter Fifty-Five: Reflection

Time stretched languidly as they lay together on the grass. They’d dozed—an hour, or maybe three. The shadows grew longer in the unfurling dawn, and the wisps of fairies overhead had stopped their circling.

Neither of them spoke, until Osmund at last rose and went about collecting his clothes.

“Here,” Cemil said, breaking the silence to hand Osmund his belt, which had wound up half-strewn over a rock somehow.

“Thanks.” Osmund accepted the offering, though he couldn’t resist leaning down for a kiss while he did it. “Oh, I could really use a nice bath.”

“Don’t go near the fairy pool.”

“Honestly, I’m not so careless!”

His head was angled just enough to glimpse Cemil’s secret expression in response. There was so much fondness in that one small smile.

They went back to not speaking as they re-dressed. Osmund completed his task early and went to help Cemil with his layers and buttons—he had so many of both—and the Meskato prince, to Osmund’s delight, let him.

Cemil reached up and brushed a hand over Osmund’s shirt. “It’s dirty, I know,” the Tolmishman laughed.

“Only a little. Not as much as your back.”

“Whose fault is that?”

It was the closest they came to discussing their world-changing encounter, at least while still on the mountaintop. Osmund stole another kiss, then went to fetch Banu.

The horses had been well-behaved, even Anaya, who seemed to have found some nice wild grasses to munch. Osmund looked forward to giving them some tasty treats once they got back to camp. They all had a long day of riding ahead of them.

On the tree-lined path, painted warm in the new sun, he beheld the nature all around and was reminded of the night he’d spent in the woods with Emre. To ward off his exhaustion, he ended up recounting the tale for Cemil, who seemed interested in how Osmund had bandaged Emre’s wound for him, and how he’d made a big mess digging through his pack. He was an intense, but polite listener, who asked questions at the right times and had informative comments to add. Osmund had only intended to say a little on the subject, but Cemil kept him talking all the way down the mountain.

It wasn’t until the very last stretch, when they were leading the horses through the brush by hand, that Cemil started to say whatever had clearly been on his mind the whole journey.

“Osmund.” He sounded uncharacteristically nervous. “You know that I…”

The words dropped off. On his face was a shy, flustered look, which was so sweet and so rare on him Osmund wanted to find someone to paint it so he could gaze upon it for all time.

“You don’t need to say it,” he assured him with a smile. “I know how you feel.”

“Then let me say this,” Cemil amended, visibly grateful. “We’ve never given shape to what this is. What I want is to be your equal partner in life. So long as you’ll belong only to me….I’ll belong to you, too.”

It was nothing more than a romantic gesture, because they both knew Cemil could never fully give himself away in love, and Osmund knew they could never truly stand together as equals—not without exposing the lie and ruining what this was. He nodded. “Alright.”

“‘Alright’?” Cemil repeated back. “Then, that’s what you want as well?”

“Haven’t you known?” Osmund paused beside Banu, turning so the other man could see he was holding nothing back, at least in this. “There’s been no one else for me.”

Cemil stopped too, keeping his hands steady on Anaya’s reins even as his face moved with emotion. “I said terrible things to you, and the sword’s influence is no excuse.” His hatred for the memory was written on his face. “I’ve been a coward; I don’t know how to begin to apologize. Since we never discussed the terms of our relationship, there was no way you could have been unfaithful to me.”

“I understand,” Osmund was forced to admit. “Most princes are probably used to getting everything they want.”

“That isn’t who I desire to be,” Cemil returned quickly. “I wish to be better. I hope you can see that. How much I mean to try.”

Of course, Osmund knew. It was apparent from the way Cemil lived his entire life. He was a man who would never mildly accept cruelty from himself or those around him, who constantly fought back against every expectation and impulse that had been imprinted onto him from his upbringing. Osmund smiled back. “You make me want to be better, too.”

They resumed their walk, but he couldn’t resist capping it with a joke. “Anyway, you don’t have to be jealous. After all, now you’ve ‘deflowered’ me.”

Cemil made a choked sound. Osmund snuck a look at his face and couldn’t tell whether the memory—and all its, well, aftermath—was more disturbing or arousing for the Meskato prince. “I admit, you surprised even me.” There was an undeniable dusting of heat on his dark cheeks. “You’re…ahem, alright?”

“I’m perfectly alright. Better than alright. You gave me exactly what I wanted.”

The other shook his head. “Let’s be better prepared in the future. Even if you heal up…well, it isn’t a proper use for healing magic.”

It was endearing seeing his embarrassed concern now, but Osmund wouldn’t forget that look in his eye from the mountaintop anytime soon. Personally, he couldn’t wait to see which of them would surprise the other next. “Deal.”

The rest of the camp was already packed for the road, and had been saddling their mounts while they awaited their şehzade’s return. Osmund beamed and waved, noticing Emre, who rolled his eyes and immediately looked away. This was surely the beginning of a friendship for the ages.

There wouldn’t be a chance to stop and rest before the journey, but that was just fine. Osmund welcomed the familiar twinge that accompanied a good ride. The ache lived in his hips, back, and thighs, and he could nearly pretend they were reminders of Cemil’s touch, though every mark and trace had been healed away.

With the wind tousling his hair, the world felt wide as an embrace as he urged Banu up along Anaya. Then he noticed Cemil’s face. “Did something happen?” Osmund asked, concerned.

The Meskato prince’s brows were drawn. He’d just been in conversation with Lala Muharrem, whose aged face was equally grim. “We’re keeping it quiet until word reaches the palace,” he began, “but this morning, while we were gone, Bayram took his own life.”

“Oh.” The news washed over Osmund slowly, leaving him floundering in its wake. How should he feel? How must Cemil feel? “But…how?”

“He asked for the knife, as is his right.” Brown eyes regarded some unseen distance. “My father must appoint a new governor to replace him in those territories.”

Such a wicked word: replace. How did one replace a son? Out loud Osmund wondered, “But…I don’t understand, why? He really chose to die rather than live with one arm?”

“It’s not just the loss of his sword arm, though that’s no small thing. He suffered a humiliating defeat, and his allies abandoned him. He knew he had no chance left in the imperial contest. This was the most honorable course.”

It should have been a relief, knowing Bayram was dead and could never present a danger to either of them ever again. It should have been. But it wasn’t.

Attempting to distract himself, Osmund peered back over his shoulder at Emre, who was trying his best to ignore the mercenaries’ overtures of friendship. They were clearly having a lot of fun ruffling his feathers. It was enough to bring a grin to Osmund’s face, forgetting himself in the moment.

“So, you’ve destroyed two cursed weapons,” Cemil said beside him, bringing him right back.

Osmund laughed nervously, hoping he could deflect the topic. “I could’ve given it a try with yours too, I suppose.”

“Ha. Absolutely not.”

What was going through his mind now? Did Cemil suspect him? “It’s as you said, I suppose I have ‘hidden talents’,” Osmund said with a laugh.

Emre’s words echoed: When he looks at you, or me, or anyone he lets in, he doesn’t see someone with an equal share of destiny. It doesn’t even occur to him.

Cemil looked at him for a long while. Beneath that intensity, even a wyvern would have squirmed. It took all of Osmund’s might not to flinch away, burdened by the weight of his secret.

Then at once the tension broke. “Saying that I wish you’d stay out of trouble appears to be ineffective at this point,” the Meskato prince sighed. “Trouble seems to find you regardless of your intentions.”

Relief. Osmund laughed again, easier now. “That’s the story of my life!”

“So just promise this. No matter what happens, you’ll try your best to make it back to me.”

The words were solemn and serious. Fortunately, no one could’ve asked Osmund for an easier vow. “I promise.” This, he meant with his entirety.

They came upon the next caravansary without incident. This was a glorious occasion in itself—Osmund was already wondering how to celebrate. A hot bath, for sure, and a big meal! And he knew Nienos, Gudrun, and the others were dying to pester him about his dreadful misadventures. Thankfully they’d be easily re-directed into sharing stories from their own years as hired swords, and those were tales whose telling he could look forward to. If he didn’t pass out in the middle of dinner, that is!

In a steady flow, they entered the sheltered courtyard and dismounted. Out sauntered an elderly caretaker, his drooping face (and hunched back) both long-suffering victims of gravity. His presence was so unobtrusive that he only managed to get Cemil’s attention after they’d already begun boarding the horses.

“Welcome, Şehzade Cemil, you’ve arrived at a most convenient time for us,” warbled the old man, his voice naturally dreary and joyless in spite of his courteous greeting. “We’ve just had a troublesome bit of business—thank heavens you can resolve it in person. A signature on the report is all we require.”

Cemil nodded politely, though he couldn’t hide his eagerness to join the budding revelries. “Thank you for your welcome. Has there been some sort of incident?”

“Nothing but a drunken disagreement and a dead man, my prince,” their host moped. “Oh, the ways I have tried to stop the merchants peddling their wicked spirits! They don’t seem to realize we’re in the mighty Empire, not in the Felklands, or on the Isles.”

(How silly. Osmund happened to know that, at least on campaigns, the Meskato loved to drink at least as much as the Tolmish did!)

Cemil nodded again. This must be one of his blander gubernatorial duties—signing off on paperwork whenever unfortunate things like this occurred. It seemed soundly unfair that after all they’d just been through, he still had a job to do. “Alright. Show me the body.” To the others he said, “Settle in!”

The sweaty, spent soldiers were happy to comply. Osmund, meanwhile, fell in beside Cemil. “Are you sure you won’t join the rest?” the Meskato prince asked him as they walked, matching the caretaker’s surprisingly brisk stride. “You’ve been through enough in the last day.”

“We both have,” Osmund pointed out as he followed, steadfast. “I’ll go with you.”

At last they reached the little room, small, chilled, and dark. And within, the corpse.

“Here’s the documentation,” said the old man rotely, passing over the loose sheafs. “A trader from Izelan, he was. Nobody of particular note. We’ve already notified his kin.”

Cemil gave the documents a quick look. His restless gaze flicked to the body, then stopped cold. The Meskato prince inhaled sharply, and Osmund thought he knew why.

The dead man was—to Osmund, and to Cemil as far as he knew—a complete stranger. He was young, in his mid-twenties perhaps, of medium height and weight. There were mainly two things that stood out.

The first, of course, was that on his body there were no signs of a brawl. Only a cut throat, quick and lethal.

The second was that, with his shoulder-length blond hair, had he been alive Osmund could’ve mistaken him in passing for his own reflection.