Chapter Fifty-Four: Devotion

Osmund didn’t put up a fight when the soldiers discovered Zeyni’s lifeless body and took him to Cemil’s tent to await judgment. Though like Bayram he’d become a prisoner, the others were clearly reluctant to handle him too roughly. They didn’t even bind his hands or feet—just left him alone to while away the hours. It wasn’t like he posed a threat.

Without sparing a thought towards escape, or what he might say in his own defense, Osmund sat down and waited.

The blue shades of evening had begun peering through the silken walls of the tent when at last Cemil appeared. At the entrance he stood, face grave. If neither of them moved—if the spell wasn’t broken—this moment might well stretch on into infinity.

“Did you find Emre?” Osmund recovered his voice to ask.

After several heartbeats, a reply. “Yes. He’s with us, resting now. He’ll live.”

Tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying left Osmund’s body in an relieved exhale. “Oh—I’m glad.”

There was still so much distance between himself and the Meskato prince. And not the kind that could be crossed simply by paces. “Will you take a ride with me?” Cemil suddenly said. It had an odd cadence. Not quite an offer, not quite an order.

Osmund blinked. Now? But he could tell no further clarification was coming.

“Yes,” he said at last. “I’ll go.”

They saddled Banu and Anaya in silence. Osmund didn’t ask where they were headed. He simply watched Cemil’s back and had Banu follow.

The night was getting darker, and the path alternately died and reared to life anew between the wild shrubs on this winding incline, but onwards they pressed. A kind of calm acceptance had settled its way into Osmund’s heart. He didn’t know exactly what fate awaited him, but as long as it was in Cemil’s hands, he knew he wouldn’t be made to suffer.

The hours went uncounted, but it was nearly pitch-black when Cemil said, “It’s here.” And they passed through a colonnade of trees upon one of the most sublime sights Osmund had ever seen.

Bright, wandering wisps flitted and flickered through the cold night air. Below lay a luminescent pool, the water so pristine it could only be straight from a fantastical rendering, in colors more vibrant than life.

“The fairy pond,” Osmund gasped, his voice barely breaching the swallowing stillness. He knew they’d been riding uphill, but hadn’t realized just how high they’d climbed.  Mesmerized, he slipped his way soundlessly out of the saddle, like his every muscle understood he was an intruder here. “To think we were so close.”

Cemil joined him after winding the horses’ reins around a hanging branch. About him remained that strange air, that silent resolve which had lingered over him throughout the journey. “Thank you for agreeing to come,” he said gravely.

“…Of course.”

A bright glint of steel shimmered in the darkness, a sword emerging from an unseen scabbard. “Do you know what I’ve come here to do?”

Osmund tried to slow his pulse. He wouldn’t be afraid. He’d foreseen this outcome already, alongside many others. “I understand.”

“I won’t come down the mountain until I see this through to the end. I’ll do what I must, no matter how it grieves me.”

“I-I know.”

Closing his eyes didn’t help. He blinked them open again, choosing the pond’s scenic beauty instead, and tried to reach that same tranquility within himself. He was thankful Cemil had brought him somewhere so lovely. He couldn’t think of a better place for anyone to spend their final moments.

“Wait,” he said, swallowing.

“Yes?”

“I-I know it may make it hard for you, but,” Osmund began, fretting, “I was wondering if I might…one last time, if I might, well…” He was going to put them both in an awkward position, but surely after all he’d endured on this endless day, he was allowed one request. “Could I kiss you?”

“…Can it wait until after?”

The baffled response was, itself, baffling. “You…want to kiss me after you’ve executed me?” Osmund said slowly, just to be sure they were on the same page.

Cemil appeared beside him. Even in the low light, Osmund could see the stupefied look on his face. “You thought I brought you here to execute you?” he repeated back. Osmund felt a bit silly all of a sudden.

“Y-you didn’t say anything on the ride up here, and you took me to such a secluded place in the middle of the night, and I thought—”

“…Nevermind.”

“I would’ve understood if you had,” Osmund rushed to add. “I-I betrayed you.”

The Meskato prince was making a face like he’d just eaten too much salt. “Nevermind, I said. No. That’s… I can’t believe you thought that.”

Osmund puffed out a breath. “What a relief! I really didn’t want—well.” He was making a royal mess of things. “I’m sorry. Whatever you’re here to do, I’m here with you.”

Cemil heaved a tired sigh, his concentration thrown. Then he shook his head, composing himself. “Come with me,” he said. And Osmund followed.

Together they stood several paces from the edge of the pool. Though his life seemed assured, Osmund grew nervous. What exactly had Cemil said? That nothing could escape the water’s pull? Something about how anyone who broke the surface would sink like a stone, their soul scattered to the winds?

Cemil pulled in another bracing inhale. That sword he’s holding, Osmund realized. It was the very sword Osmund had stolen from him—the cursed one which he’d entrusted to Emre. And now it was right back in Cemil’s hands.

But before he could trouble over it, Cemil flung the sword away in an arc. A whistling cry rose from the metal in the same instant it hit the water, mournful in a chorus of tones, somehow distant like the lament of a village on the horizon. The blade itself sunk, but wispy tendrils rose, smokelike, into the air.

Then it dissipated into the night. All became stillness once more.

Osmund stared at the weapon, lying dormant at the crystal-clear pool’s bottom. Though it looked close enough that one could roll up their sleeves to retrieve it, anyone who managed the impossible feat would be rewarded with none other than an ordinary sword. Steel, silver, and ivory, in a combination that was only as dangerous as the skill of its wielder.

“You did it,” Osmund whispered in awe, then, “You did it!” he exclaimed louder, throwing his arms exuberantly around Cemil’s shoulders. “I don’t believe it! Emre said—he said it was impossible for you to part with it on your own!”

Cemil leaned into his embrace, but his breaths were coming hard. The impossible didn’t come easy, even for the Meskato Empire’s finest prince. Osmund loosened his grip to let him breathe, instead resting his head on Cemil’s shoulder. And they breathed together.

A sense of sanctuary settled over the scene. Though they were out beneath the stars, these sheltering trees like the walls of the caravansary kept the world outside at bay. “This was all made possible by you.” Cemil spoke quietly into the space between them. “I don’t quite understand it myself, but…I’m beginning to believe my finding you on the street was no accident of fate.”

Osmund laughed, nervous. “Fate? …You mean, it was the heavens’ design?”

“I suppose. But that thinking robs you of your own courage. So I should say, thank you. Your devotion…long-gone princes better than myself have only dreamed of such like it.”

The word was a flutter in his chest. Yes…devotion. “I was the lucky one to find you,” Osmund professed. “No one in my life bothered to see anything worthwhile in me, until you. Even after I left you alone and betrayed you, you still chose to offer me your faith.”

The Meskato prince turned so that his mouth was angled against the other’s forehead, and Osmund thought he could feel that tiny smile. In a low voice Cemil replied, “Because I’m devoted to you.”

The plainly-spoken admission made Osmund shiver. He closed his eyes and made a sound into Cemil’s collar.

“The sword alone doesn’t account for my nature.” The words came slow and somber. “I can be a short-tempered, cruel, jealous man.”

“I know. And I’m a stupid, naïve coward.”

Without losing a moment, Cemil pulled back to face him. “Those words don’t describe you at all,” he contended passionately. “How can you claim that after you’ve risked your life for mine and others’? When you’ve learned an entire second language and culture in the span of a few months?”

“I was terrified and confused the entire time.”

“Yet you did it regardless.”

Osmund only smiled. “So you’re judging me by my actions,” he noted, taking Cemil’s callused hands delicately in his own. “Then, in the entire time I’ve known you, you’ve never used your strength against anyone weaker, even when they wronged you. You’ve shown gentleness and mercy anytime you could afford it. And when you thought being close to you would be bad for me, you tried to let me go.”

Cemil’s reply died in his throat. He swallowed, realizing now he’d walked right into this trap. “I love you as you are,” Osmund continued, putting the depth of his feeling into the words. “For all that you are. Not only halfway.”

Deep brown eyes fell shut. “You know this can’t last forever,” Cemil said, so quietly that it must’ve barely reached his own ears.

“…I know.”

“As much as I wish to avoid it, I must face the truth. To hold power as an emperor may mean having to marry, and sire children. It is the ultimate reason princes like myself are made.”

Osmund had figured this was the reality all along, though the sting wasn’t any less. “I know,” he repeated softly.

“And you still choose this?” A hand came up to cup Osmund’s jaw—so gentle. “This? With me?”

“Only with you,” Osmund vowed. “Yes.”

Cemil made a noise from his throat. And then, before another breath could pass, they’d come together.

It was a smothering kiss. They were drowning each other—drowning in unison. Osmund clawed at him, the need so deep, so suddenly roused from slumber he felt it thrumming in the marrow of his bones. In a daze he noticed the ground coming up behind—no, beneath him.

He moaned as Cemil loomed over, kissing his neck, nipping his clavicle where it vanished beneath his collar. Osmund stopped long enough to cast off the offending garment, tossing his tunic and belt aside, and then Cemil was seizing his hands and guiding them to his own clothes—to his caftan, to the buttons of his undershirt. Osmund was on a mission now, his mind nothing but heat and desire, claiming with his touch every bit of skin revealed.

“Cemil, you’re so,” he rambled aimlessly. There were those markings, conspicuous as they were, yet as natural and beautiful a part of him as a birthmark. He went dizzy with affection at the sight. “Heavens, you’re so…”

He was vaguely aware of the bright specks of light drifting around them. Those wisps—the fairies. Weren’t there a lot more of them than before? Come to think of it, Cemil had said they liked a good show, hadn’t he?

“An audience,” Cemil murmured, noticing his gaze. “Does that bother you?”

Osmund responded by tugging at the rest of Cemil’s clothes. This fever inside had full control. “Take this off,” he begged, and Cemil rushed to obey a command of Osmund’s faster than anyone had since he’d left Valcrest Castle. “Yes—I want to see you.”

“I want to see you,” Cemil said, and Osmund raised his hips, leaning back on his elbows as Cemil started in on his trousers, working them off together with his smallclothes in a few determined actions. The Meskato prince’s intent was clear as he leaned in towards that exposed and aching place, but Osmund instead pulled him up and trapped him in another kiss, keeping him desperately close. There was grass and dirt beneath his bare back, and above, a warm body covering his own. Not a single human invention or layer of artifice remained between them.

He raised one leg, curling it around Cemil’s waist. “Please,” he caught himself whining. “I want you like this, please.”

Though Cemil’s expression was troubled, his irises black with arousal betrayed him. “Not like this, it’ll hurt you. Not without—”

“Just use your magic on me,” Osmund continued to babble. He could tell Cemil’s self-control was crumbling, he only needed one more push. “I’ll be okay. I want it. Please.”

How long now had they been at each other’s side? Long enough that Osmund knew—whatever he wanted, all he needed was to ask. Ask, and receive.

Cemil swore in Meskato. Then he was spitting into his hands.

Osmund’s vision pulsed and blurred, light mixing, sweat dripping from his brow. He pulled deep breaths into his lungs and felt pressure on the backs of his thighs, his knees pushed until they were level with his chest, and he held his own legs open as he finally, finally gave himself into Cemil’s care.

There was nothing else but this. It was every sensation at once, it was too much, it was everything. And he felt Cemil’s magic too, fingers splayed over his abdomen, the pleasure emanating from that spot in all directions, each twinge of pain deep inside vanishing as soon as it registered, his muscles going loose and relaxed without his input.

A cry came from his own throat. He didn’t spare a single thought to holding it back, or the next one, or any of his punched-out noises as the rhythm picked up.

“Please, oh,” he heard in his own voice. “Please, oh, just like, ah, ah,”

He was going to lose himself. There was only Cemil in him, around him, in every direction. His back dragged along the dirt and leafy debris, tiny cuts and scrapes opening and sealing shut again in the same breath. It was rough, there was so much resistance. It was brutal. It was perfect. He was going to come. It was too soon. He had to.

He felt a hand close around him and didn’t know if it was Cemil’s or his own. “Cemil,” he pleaded, his voice a devastation. He didn’t know what he was asking for, but Cemil’s mouth moved from Osmund’s shoulder and closed around his beating pulse. And Osmund let go.

It was a climax like none he’d ever experienced. Every sensation exploded in a burst of heat: pleasure, pain, gentleness, ruthlessness. Osmund crested this insurmountable wave. With Cemil, he wanted all of it, he wanted everything on offer, every injury, every happiness. He couldn’t get enough.

For dear life he held on with his arms, his locked ankles, with whatever vigor remained in him. He felt his own mouth moving, restless words coming like a river. Then came his own name, spoken choppily near his ear. “Osmund, I,”

“Yes,” he prattled, because he would have said yes to anything that followed. “Yes, yes, please, yes.”