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ladyinbooks · 2 years

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@etherealysis created the most gorgeous pieces of Samiel artwork. I’m not going to lie: since then, I’ve been pretty much staring at them non-stop.

However, they also got me thinking about Samiel in a high-society setting, being a politely dramatic murder boy and, well, a little ficlet happened.

So, @etherealysis this is for you (and I still can’t thank you enough for your art)!

Title: To the Death Warnings: None Summary: It’s the ten-year anniversary of the Songbird Pact, and Daimion Athannus makes the mistake of inviting his son to the celebrations...

The tenth anniversary of the Songbird Pact comes around much too fast.

Daimion, who has spent the last half a year trying to ignore the approaching festivities, finds that his week has been fully booked without anyone consulting him.

It’s probably for the best: if his assistants had let him know exactly how much he was duty-bound to do, they are clearly aware he would have fled. Hiding out at Eleusia sounds far more preferable to dealing with a host of politicians and diplomats.

So far, the only saving grace of the whole enterprise has been his personal guests.

The throne room is crowded. The high ceilings echo with the sound of quiet conversation. The marble floors have been polished to gleaming slickness, and the Lenian court has turned out in all its finery for today’s event. The humans, too, have come in their best, and the palace is a sea of opulence.

Looking over the shoulder of the diplomat who has accosted him, it takes Daimion a long moment to find who he is looking for.

It’s Kate’s hair he spots first, and it’s still as obnoxiously red as the first time he met her. She stands, towering in her heels. The dark cut of her clothes look surprisingly elegant, when he knows she much prefers comfortable practicality.

Venndred has an arm wrapped around her waist. He’s cheerfully oblivious – or wilfully ignorant – to the disapproving looks he’s getting. In contrast to his wife, he’s kept to low, neutral colours; his robes classical, even though they’re no longer the white of his order.

It makes Daimion glad to see that he hasn’t abandoned all traditions.

When Venndred had resigned – when he’d left in pursuit of a calling Daimion could not deny was a greater one – he had discovered he missed the man. Frequent visits notwithstanding, Venndred’s careful, cheerful competence as Psyke had been a steadying hand during Lenia’s turbulent transition to Daimion’s rule. He’d been a useful ally, and a friend.

So, he has missed Kate and Venndred; surprisingly so. But more than them, he has missed –

His son leans over, and whispers something in Kate’s ear. Whatever he says, it makes the pair of them grin at one another – an appalling breach of etiquette.

Samiel is dressed in his finest, today. Neck to foot in black. He had never formally resigned from the Severne order, despite being given leave to go, and Daimion had granted him special dispensation to wear the dress uniform today. He isn’t wearing a mask though, and his face is painfully bare for all to see.

The sight of his son sends a small, bittersweet ache through Daimion’s chest. He’s not a boy any more. No longer even the young, headstrong man he was ten years ago. Samiel has matured and grown; settled into his bones, and the space of his own body. There is still that mischievous spark in him – Daimion doubts it will ever leave: a legacy from Aoide – but he’s calmer.

A little kinder, perhaps.

He’s holding a glass of wine in one hand, but the other rests on the hilt of his salzon. He still stands as though he is half expecting an ambush at any moment. Daimion doubts that instinct will ever leave him. Samiel will always be on guard, protecting the thing he cares most about.

And Jason Lane doesn’t seem to notice, or to care. He never has, and something in Daimion softens at the sight of his son’s husband, accepting that protection without question.

Jason looks as well as Samiel. Neat, sharp formal wear; his hair not as much of a beacon as Kate’s, but he still attracts attention in his own way. The man has always appeared powerfully competent, and if nothing else, Daimion can respect the way he wields that competence as a weapon in turn to protect Samiel.

The pair of them orbit one another, not touching – not quite – but so intimately close, there can be no mistaking what they are. There is an easy familiarity to the way they move: Jason stepping into Samiel’s blind spot; Samiel half-turning to keep his husband in view.

It warms Daimion’s heart, to see them so.

As he watches – ignoring the oblivious diplomat who has begun chattering in front of him – he spots Kate turn. She pauses as her eyes meet Daimion’s, and from across the crowded room, she winks.

It’s a horrendous breach of etiquette. Were she anyone else, she would almost certainly be arrested on the spot. As it is, no one is paying attention, and Daimion is far too used to her antics to take any personal offence.

“We’re also considering opening up a new colony on –” Daimion’s diplomat continues, and Daimion stifles the slow-burning urge to strangle the man.

He is just about to open his mouth – just about to make excuses and remove himself – when he sees his Decime, making her way across the floor towards the little group clustered in the corner.

And this?

This is precisely what Daimion did not want happening today.

It has been ten years, and Pyrrhine Medala has never quite forgiven Samiel and Jason for snatching her victory from her. She has worked well with Daimion; has grown and matured – so much so that he is confident her rule will be strong – but he knows she will always hold a grudge against his son.

Pyrrhine is clever, and she has had time to nurse her resentment towards all four of them. Daimion doubts she would cause a diplomatic incident today of all days, but that doesn’t mean she won’t try to wound his family.

“Excuse me,” he says, over the diplomat’s chattering, and knows it’s unspeakably rude. He doesn’t give the man time to respond, just shoulders gently past him.

It is slow-going across the room, not least because he is stopped every two feet by another well-wisher, or politician, or courtier. It makes him want to scream: it’s precisely the reason he never wanted this role in the first place. He has no patience for it.

By the time he makes it over to Samiel, it is too late.

“It’s not exactly in keeping with the message we are trying to send,” Pyrrhine is saying quietly. “Perhaps it might be better if –”

Samiel’s expression is like stone. Next to him, Jason is watching with raised eyebrows, as he looks between the pair of them.

“No.”

Carefully, Pyrrhine clasps her hands together. She isn’t attracting attention, not yet, but Daimion is painfully aware that it wouldn’t take much for the focus of the entire gathering to swing in their direction.

“I’m only suggesting,” Pyrrhine says delicately, “that you remove your salzon for the duration of these celebrations.”

“No,” Samiel says again, and this time his voice is harder.

Daimion watches as his son curls a hand around the hilt of his blade, and says, “Perhaps we should take this discussion elsewhere? It might –”

Pyrrhine tilts her head. “I could ask one of our Severne to take it from you.”

It’s a goad, and they all know it. Her deliberate overruling of Daimion, and the insinuation she has the power to strip Samiel of his salzon are both gently antagonistic.

Daimion sees the way Samiel’s hand tightens on the hilt of his blade. Sees too, the way his knuckles begin to turn white with the pressure, and the slow-creeping frost in his expression.

“I,” Samiel says slowly, “would like to see them try.”

It’s not a threat. Not quite. But were he anyone else, it would certainly be enough to have him removed from the room. He knows it and Pyrrhine does too, if the way she stills is anything to go by.

“Don’t threaten me,” she says, very softly. “You will not like the outcome.”

This is the point Daimion could intervene – should intervene. But doing so is likely to attract more attention. At the moment, they are a small group holding a conversation. If he opens his mouth and gives an order, either Samiel or Pyrrhine will react badly.

Equally, he’s interested to see where this goes; to discover if Pyrrhine has any intention besides making a point. There is also a small, ill-tempered part of him that would very much like to see her come unstuck, after the rudeness of her behaviour. And if anyone is capable of making her regret it, it will be Samiel.

Jason clears his throat. “Is there a point in coming over here, Decime?” When Daimion glances at him, he shrugs ruefully. “Beyond antagonism, of course.”

“I’m not antagonising anyone,” Pyrrhine says, without looking at him. She is still staring at Samiel, and he at her; the pair of them fixed on one another. “I’m only asking if Samiel feels it is appropriate that he continues to carry –”

“I do.”

“You are not –”

“I am,” Samiel says, interrupting her a second time in a horrendous breach of etiquette.

There are murmurs of interest behind them, and Daimion winces. This debate is starting to attract attention after all, and the last thing this event needs is his heir and his son verbally brawling in public.

“My salzon is my word,” Samiel says. “My bond.” He tilts his head. “You’re not taking it from me.”

“It was your oath to a woman that no longer exists.”

“It is my oath to something far greater.”

And there it is.

Daimion nearly breaches etiquette himself, by laughing at the look of sheer frustration that flickers briefly across Pyrrhine’s face.

“You swore your oath to Deneira Callios,” she says, and although her voice is not sharp, Daimion suspects if she were anyone else it would be. “That blade is a reminder of your loyalty to a woman who is remembered as nothing more than a murderer.”

Samiel tilts his head. The beginnings of a smile lurk in the curve of his lips. It makes Daimion’s heart thump painfully in his chest. In his defiance, his son looks so much like his mother that the resemblance is uncanny.

If she could see him now, he thinks, and it only hurts a little.

“Samiel –” Jason begins.

Samiel ignores him. “My salzon is a promise,” he says to Pyrrhine. “A vow. Its service is dedicated to protecting the only thing that matters. The only thing, in fact, that you should be worried about it protecting.” His smile turns sharper. “Because if anything ever happens to Jason, you had better pray that I am already dead. Or the next time you see this blade, it will be buried in your guts.”

“Alright!” Venndred says cheerfully, startling Daimion. “I think that’s enough, don’t you?”

“A salzon shouldn’t be sworn –” Pyrrhine breaks off, and takes a deep breath. “That is not what a salzon is intended for, and you know it.”

Samiel leans forward a little. This close, he towers over her. “Very well,” he says sweetly. “If you think I’m wrong, then you go right ahead and try to take it from me.”

Just as Daimion is about to step in, help comes from an unexpected quarter.

“Wait!” Kate hisses, and when they all look at her, she places a hand on Samiel’s shoulder. “Don’t do something I’ll regret.” She leans over to pluck the glass of wine from the hand he isn’t gripping his salzon with.

He lets her, which is possibly the more surprising thing, and they all watch – Daimion despairing, Venndred amused – as she downs the whole thing in three large gulps.

“Alright,” she says when she’s finished. “Now you can kick her fucking arse.”

Daimion looks at Jason, curious. “Are you going to stop this?”

“No,” Jason says. He doesn’t seem particularly worried, watching the unfolding scene with a look of mild interest. “The Decime started it.”

“And Samiel may well finish it.”

Jason shrugs. “Perhaps you need to rein in your heir then, Most Exalted.”

He has a point. And in spite of the strong temptation to let Pyrrhine dash herself into oblivion on the rocks of Samiel’s defiance, Daimion knows that ultimately, it’s going to end up in more of a political headache than he would like.

“This event is meant to be a celebration of peace,” he says mildly. “So, I think you are right.”

“He often is,” Samiel says absently, from where he is still staring Pyrrhine down.

“Only ‘often’? I’m wounded, dearest.”

“You’ve been known to commit one or two errors, mio ades. Even you can’t be perfect.”

Kate rolls her eyes. “Oh please. Like you think he’s anything else.”

“No.” Samiel’s grin is wide, feral, and an utter breach of protocol. “You’re right: I don’t.”

“Pyrrhine,” Daimion says, and she looks at him.

Her face is impassive; her expression a mask. But she is a student, in comparison to the masterclass that was once Deneira. Daimion can see the anger in her eyes; the vengeance she has never quite managed to let go of. Samiel and Jason robbed her of her total victory, he knows. And although she is patient, she is having to wait longer than she anticipated to take formal command of Lenia.

He trusts that she wouldn’t ruin peace for the sake of her revenge. But she’s clearly hoping to at least humiliate his son.

“Severne Athannus is still sworn to the service of the throne,” Daimion says, which is, strictly speaking, true. “Asking him to relinquish his salzon when on active duty could be considered direct breach of an order from the crown.” He makes sure his expression is bland; his tone mild.

“He hasn’t been a Severne for a long time,” Pyrrhine says quietly. “You and I both know that.”

“Not even when he’s guarding the Songbird Pact?” Daimion asks. “When he’s ensuring continuation of the goodwill between humans and Lenians?”

“That’s not what he’s doing.”

“Isn’t it?” Daimion turns to his son, who is watching the conversation. Next to him, Jason is carefully neutral, but Kate is practically vibrating out of her skin with glee.

The crowd around them is also watching now, openly fascinated by the unfolding drama.

“Severne Athannus,” Daimion says, and sees Samiel flinch. “Your blade is your life. Your oath.”

“Yes, Most Exalted.”

“What is it sworn to?”

Daimion’s eyes meet his son’s. It is a moment of perfect understanding, and it makes the warmth in his chest burn a little brighter, when he sees the mischievous slant to Samiel’s smile.

I know what you are doing, it says. Thank you.

Slowly, Samiel draws his salzon.

The he turns his back on Pyrrhine and on Daimion. He ignores the horrified gasps of the courtiers around them, and drops to one knee, his robes pooling around him. Across his upturned palms, his blade is perfectly balanced; his head is bowed in picture-perfect obeisance.

“You are what I am sworn to,” he says clearly, for all to hear. “You are what I would die to protect. My life is yours; my blade is yours. Only you can choose to wield me, mio ades.”

If Jason were any other man, Daimion suspects he would probably be trying to wring his beloved’s neck right now.

As it is, he lets out a barely perceptible sigh and – ignoring the way Kate is smirking at his elbow – reaches out to rest a hand over Samiel’s. The blade is pressed between their palms, a sharp ribbon of steel, binding them together.

“And in return, I am yours,” he says calmly, loud enough for all to hear.

Daimion chances a look at Pyrrhine.

Her expression is still impassive, but the taut line of her spine says enough on its own. Resignation and irritation ooze from her, as she watches the scene.

“There,” Daimion says. “I think that should allay your concerns, Decime.”

“Quite,” she says, and the frozen chime of her voice has Daimion stifling a smile. “We are most reassured.”

Daimion takes a moment to savour the small, petty victory. Then, he brings his hands together sharply. The crack startles onlookers, making people turn to him, as Samiel discreetly climbs to his feet.

“Then I think we should proceed with dinner.”

“What an excellent idea,” Pyrrhine says. And, when Daimion offers her his arm to escort her, she rests her fingers lightly.

“I know what you are doing,” she adds, too low for anyone else to hear.

“Oh?”

“You cannot protect him forever, Daimion.”

Behind him, Daimion knows his son has wrapped an arm around his beloved’s waist. Knows too, that the pair of them will likely not be seen at dinner. He can hear Kate, cheerful and obnoxious, and Venndred’s quieter, clever voice; they blend together, those two, far better than he would have thought.

His family. His friends.

Daimion pats Pyrrhine’s hand, where it is resting on his forearm.

“Oh, my dear,” he says, and he is just as quiet as her. “They have never needed my protection.”

When she turns her head a little to look at him, he acknowledges her with one raised eyebrow.

“And certainly not from you.”

#Ficlet Fridays #Samiel Tremark #Jason Lane #Icarus Burning #queue be or not queue be

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