Osmund’s eyelids fluttered. His body felt light and comfortable, like he was back in the bath. He didn’t want to return to the waking world yet. There was a strange, warm presence around his hand, like the touch of another’s skin.
But he was a grown man, and besides, his mother had died when he was six. Who would be holding his hand like this?
And wait a moment – whose bed was he in?!
Curiosity swayed him to open his eyes, although the lids felt like lead. The handsome man from his impossible dream sat before him, in fresh, rich clothes unmarked by bloodstains, pleasing features illuminated by candlelight.
“You’re awake,” he said simply, in Tolmish.
Osmund’s body jolted upright just from shock. (Distantly, he lamented how greatly he would have preferred to continue lying there.) “U-uhm—” he stammered. “S… Shehzahdey… Jemy?”
His attempt was, apparently, amusing. “My name is Cemil,” the man – Cemil — said. Then he repeated his own name, slower. Osmund heard there was in fact an “L” sound at the end.
Osmund’s mind was buzzing with questions, and unfortunately, the memory of Cemil cutting a man down right there on the front lawn had also returned to him in vivid color. With a rush of frightened animal instinct, he yanked his hand back.
Cemil’s eyes widened a bit, and he made an abrupt sound from his throat, like the beginnings of an uncomfortable laugh. “I’m sorry to startle you. You needed help to recover.”
This was a strange thing to say, but Osmund didn’t stop and examine it. “Who was that man?!” he demanded, and no, what was he doing, what was he saying?! In 22 years, hadn’t he learned that he’d be wise to keep his mouth shut?!
Cemil darkened. But then he simply heaved a heavy sigh and stood from the chair which he’d, evidently, brought over to Osmund’s bedside. He started to pace. Osmund finally spared a glance around the room – it wasn’t much besides said chair, a small table with a candelabra, and a single solitary cot, without even a window. “An assassin,” Cemil said at last, staring into a wall. “He was here for me.”
“Assassin?!” Osmund’s voice was even more shrill than before, caution again forgotten in his shock. “You get assassins?!”
“Sent from one of my brothers, is most likely,” Cemil added, as if that resolved anything.
What kind of country had he ended up in!? Even his elder sister Evanor, who he was pretty sure had never loved him very much on account of his being a male (and thus, legitimate) heir to the throne, never once (to his knowledge) tried to assassinate him. And Cemil was only a provincial governor!
Or… was he?
“What does your title mean?” Osmund asked weakly. “’Shehzahdeh’.”
Cemil turned to face him, obviously skeptical. “So you truly know nothing of our empire?” he asked, as if such ignorance were impossible, and really, Osmund could have gone back in time and apologized to his tutor for being the densest, most airheaded princeling he’d ever had to teach.
Osmund squeezed his eyes shut and wished he could disappear. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
He heard steps coming closer, then a squeak like wood bending as Cemil re-took his seat beside him. “No, I apologize.” The words were said with surprising patience. “It’s no fault of yours, just like it was not your choice to come here. You were forced from your home, I assume. By the…” Cemil paused, apparently grasping around for words, “…death… magic… queen?”
“Lady Renova, the necromancer,” Osmund agreed in a small voice.
“Necromancer.” Cemil repeated the Tolmish word slowly, as if committing it to memory. “Bad neighbor for us Meskato to have.”
Osmund choked on an unexpected laugh. He was pretty sure Cemil had just made a joke.
It was a nice bit of levity. It only lasted a moment. “’Şehzade’ means prince of the blood,” Cemil explained. “My father is the Meskato Emperor.”
Prince. “…The…emperor?”
Prince. “Yes.”
Prince! “And you’re… you’re a…”
Osmund could have screamed.
Of course he was a prince, a real prince. He was everything Osmund wasn’t: strong, handsome, charmingly polite, feared, competent. Probably heterosexual too, just to rub salt in the wound. Of course, even if he wasn’t, he would have his pick of strapping young warriors to entertain him when he wasn’t doing his royal duties with some perfect wife.
“Oh,” was all Osmund said. And then, as the reality sunk even deeper: “You’re the prince – the future emperor – and you’re all the way out here?!” He at least knew that the imperial seat lay further in the northern territories, not in a midsize coastal town like Shebyan.
Cemil shook his head. “I am fourth of many brothers,” he explained. “Any of my father’s sons could rise to the throne. Each of us has our own place until that time comes, and mine is here.”
Osmund took a moment to imagine how different his life would be with three – no, more?! – brothers. He had no doubt Father would’ve gladly picked any other son to succeed him. Maybe he wouldn’t have needed to notice Osmund at all.
Cemil cleared his throat. “But, never mind. You aren’t here to learn about me.”
Truth be told, Osmund wasn’t sure why he was here. He’d calmed one horse, made an idiot of himself, fainted, and now the emperor’s son was here opening up to him. Ridiculous. It reminded him of the unlikely setups found in those tawdry romance novels he used to sneak from town, the kind with lots of passionate coupling and not much else.
“Thank you for–” Osmund began, head hanging, but nothing he could say would really encompass it. For letting him sleep in an actual bed? For giving him fresh clothing? (He wondered if Cemil had re-dressed him while he slept, and burned, although it was an unlikely scenario.) For speaking in Tolmish to him and listening to what he had to say? “For, all this,” he finished, meekly. “But… I’m not sure someone like me can be of any use to you.”
“Your accent,” Cemil said, unexpectedly. “You were a nobleman’s servant in your home country.”
Osmund’s head snapped up. It took him a moment to latch onto the convenient story. “Y-yes,” he said. “I… was.”
“Where is your master?”
Osmund thought of his father, King Valen Haldebard, dead on the floor of a palatial estate, poisoned wine pooled around his open mouth, his unseeing eyes wide in disbelief. “Dead,” Osmund said in a hollowed-out voice.
“Have you any family?”
“I’m the only one left.”
“I’m sorry,” Cemil said earnestly. There was another wooden groan as he shifted his weight in the little chair. “Your body was at its limit. You are… not enough fed. There are free kitchens and free baths in town, open to all. Have you not used them?”
“A little,” Osmund said, the shame burning. How could he admit that, as low as he was, he was still too proud to line up with the poorest and most destitute of the city?
No… proud wasn’t the right word. He’d imagined Father looming over his shoulder. Mocking him for his weakness, his dependence. And so Osmund had worked. Maybe the citizens of the empire deserved free services, but he was Tolmish, and the Tolmish believed in working for your bread. Or being born into the nobility, if you could manage it.
“If you don’t want a place with me,” Cemil began, “there is another Tolm man in town. He is very rich. I can send you to him. He might help you. His name is Pravin.”
“No!” Osmund cried.
He hadn’t meant to protest like that – loud, desperate, pleading. Cemil’s expression at once changed. “You know him.”
“I—” Oh, how could he explain?! “I went to him once before,” Osmund said in a small voice. “I… I don’t wish to go back. Please.”
Cemil nodded. His gaze was fixed directly on Osmund, and try as he might, the former prince of Valcrest couldn’t look away.
“If you take a position in my house,” Cemil began, stressing each word, “I promise none, including myself, shall lay a hand on you. Do your work, and you will always have food to eat and a place to sleep, and an income to live on and to spend as you wish. I swear it.”
Osmund’s every sense screamed at him to look away. That in spite of Cemil’s kind words, Osmund would bleed if he were foolish enough to believe him. That had been the way of things all his life: Kind words were a weapon meant to inflict greater suffering on him later.
Yet, to his own surprise, something deep within himself fought back. He studied Şehzade Cemil, his steady gaze, his serious expression, and made his decision.
“I want to stay here with you,” Osmund professed. Any other option had vanished from his mind. Cemil nodded curtly, and stood. It felt like a spell being lifted, and Osmund was dizzy with it.
“I accept your decision,” Cemil said. “Welcome. Eat, and rest for the night. Tomorrow, when you’re ready, you may begin caring for Anaya and the other horses.” He paused at the door. “Shall I send someone to fetch the rest of your belongings?”
Osmund felt a dazed laugh emerge from his throat as he shook his head. “I have nothing to bring,” he said honestly. But before Cemil could go, he added in haste, “Th-thank you again for your… for your kindness. I… I hope not to disappoint you.”
Even if he were to somehow die tomorrow, Osmund decided it would be worth it, just for how good it felt to believe that such a man could look at him that way and mean it. Better than spending the rest of his life being raided by cats, anyway.
Cemil waved away his sentiments. “Look healthy next time I see you,” he said. Then, he was gone.
The silence that followed the closed door felt enormous as the weight of all that had happened settled in. Osmund supposed this humble room was meant for him. He sat on his bed and stared at his wall. This was a broom closet compared to his old room in the castle, but somehow he liked it better all the same.
Cemil had promised never to lay a hand on him.
I’d like it very much if he did, Osmund thought.
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