Cemil’s room was a more welcoming sight today: Afternoon was waning into evening, and the rain outside pattered on, but there was still warm light streaming through the windows down onto the floor. Osmund noticed for the first time the delicate patterns sewn into the rug beneath his feet, and painted on the tiles lining the walls. This entire room was a work of art!
Cemil settled onto a cushion beside a low table that Osmund hadn’t seen in the darkness of his first visit. “Sit,” he said evenly, indicating another seat at an adjacent edge. Osmund spotted an empty bottle, similar to the kind he’d contained his nightroot potion in. “Is that…?” Osmund began, seating himself cautiously.
“I pulled up some of the writings about Tolmish plants.” Cemil indicated a stack of books to his left. “I believe I managed to replicate your formula.”
Osmund looked on quietly. “I offered to do that for you.”
“You have enough to do. I couldn’t trouble you to brew medicine at my desire as well.”
Even if it wasn’t the intention, Osmund heard the following: that there was no further excuse for him to return to this room. (Yet, here he was anyway.) He shifted uncomfortably. “Have you already needed to take more?”
“I wasn’t planning to, but the creature left me no choice.” Cemil looked loath to continue, eyes hooded. “You’ve seen by now how my headaches are connected with the sword.”
The sword? Osmund’s face nearly betrayed the impact with which that landed. All at once, the troubling conversation he’d had with that illusionist, Emre, came flooding back. What was that he’d said? ‘Get close to him and take it?’ And something about Cemil’s doom?!
Nuray’s words returned too. He’s been different, since he got the sword.
Oh, heavens. How had he not put the pieces together before this moment? Emre had meant the sword!
Osmund faltered. Maybe it was better not to appear too interested in the subject, but he couldn’t help it. “What is that sword?” he asked desperately. “And why do you use it if it hurts you?”
“I wouldn’t if I had any other choice,” Cemil claimed. He sounded almost… resentful. “As you know, I’m a healer by nature. It’s a fine discipline, but not one that suits a prince.”
All of Osmund’s boyhood fantasies of discovering that he had been blessed with healing magic rippled to the surface; it felt like Cemil had just kicked a stone right into his memories. “W-why not?” Osmund inquired, more anxiously than he’d intended. “Healing is wonderful. It’s a gift! A good prince deserves magic like that!”
“Healing is for medics. For those in the back of the raiding caravan, and for those who stay safely behind the walls. Not for a prince or an emperor leading his soldiers into the battle.” Cemil’s speech was well-rehearsed. Except for his tone, it could have been King Valen Haldebard himself saying those things. (Obviously, that was an unhappy thought.)
A chill went through Osmund’s entire body. “And so the sword somehow lets you use fire magic…” Fire was a good, respectable combat magic that anyone could be proud of. “But… if it also gives you those headaches…”
“It’s a necessary suffering,” Cemil said firmly. “And you don’t need to be concerned; I’m fully in control of the sword’s power. Now with your medicine, even those side effects may be resolved.”
“S-So…it isn’t actually hurting you? Physically, I mean, besides the pain?”
At first, he worried that he’d pried too much after all. But then Cemil was smiling at him.
“As I sit before you now, I hope I don’t seem damaged.”
He was so beautiful. Osmund wanted to switch his brain off and just enjoy the incredible fact that such a smile was being turned on him again, but he couldn’t fight off the unease no matter how hard he tried. He’d never seen a sword do anything like what he’d seen today. Nor had he ever heard of a regular enchanted weapon being able to bestow its wielder with a different type of magic altogether. It all sounded too much like a cautionary tale, and not the kind with a good ending.
With Osmund’s hesitant silence, the atmosphere had turned awkward again. “…I wish to apologize for this morning,” Cemil said, changing the subject. (Osmund took that moment to notice that their shoulders were so close they nearly brushed together.) “You must have been terrified. It’s… all quite different from how I wanted it to go.”
“It was nice,” Osmund put in, sneaking a look at him. “Before the beast showed up.”
Cemil offered him the smallest quirk of his lips again. “It was.”
Where did they stand now? Osmund wasn’t sure. His thoughts were still heavy, but he was grateful that Cemil was letting him unload them. It was so much better than having to bear it all alone. “S-so… it seems wyrms aren’t common in the Empire then?”
“Not on the surface. And besides that, they spend much of their time asleep. I’ve never heard of one so aggressive, nor even so large.” Cemil’s brows were drawn. “I wouldn’t have brought you there if I’d expected such a thing in the slightest. But I’m grateful we were there to kill it.”
Osmund laughed nervously. “You mean that you were there to kill it.”
“Don’t minimize your own efforts,” Cemil insisted, being rather charitable. “That was quite a rescue on Anaya. I admit, I didn’t know you had such foolhardy courage in you.”
“I wasn’t courageous at all! I thought I was being stupid and getting you killed! I just… didn’t know what else to do.”
Cemil just gave him that look again, raising a different cup of – something. It smelled like alcohol of some kind. “Nice to know I have such a champion.” Then – incredibly – he winked as he threw back the liquor.
Osmund thought back to Nuray’s words. A distraction. That’s what he was meant to be. Was that why Cemil was being so… well… flirtatious?
“Osmund?” Cemil cut in, noticing no doubt how Osmund’s rigid posture and taut grimace were laying absolute ruin to the companionable atmosphere he was trying to cultivate. “Is there still something troubling you?”
“I know they’re just horses. I know,” Osmund said suddenly. “But Banou was your horse.”
He hadn’t known what he was going to say before he’d opened his mouth, but he found he wasn’t inclined to take back the words once they were out.
“The best of all horses,” Cemil agreed, with equal seriousness. Osmund turned on him.
“You didn’t want to let me go back for her.”
“But we did go back for her. Thanks to you.”
Osmund came out with it. “Don’t use the sword anymore, not unless you’d die otherwise,” he pleaded. “I… I don’t like the change that comes over you.”
There was a dangerous pause. “I can’t agree to that,” Cemil said. There was a hard edge in his voice. Osmund, having long decided that this tone was his cue to leave, rose at once.
“Thank you for this morning,” he rattled off by the door.
“Osmund, wait!”
He was halfway down the hall before Cemil caught up with him. Osmund was grateful to see that they were truly alone this time, with no lurking mothers skulking about. “You know I have no choice,” Cemil protested, sounding as if he truly cared about convincing him. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my people safe. And that includes you. I don’t intend to apologize for that.”
“…I know,” Osmund acknowledged after an agonizing pause, inspecting the carpet beneath their feet instead of Cemil’s face. “I’m… I’m glad you weren’t hurt. And, that you kept us safe. I know you did what you had to. I have absolutely no right to judge.”
“I’m only happy to hear you speak your mind,” Cemil asserted. And it sounded like he meant it. Osmund couldn’t help raising his eyes to meet his. “It was very recently that you were afraid to say anything that might upset me. I prefer things this way.”
Osmund blinked at him. He hadn’t thought of it like that, but, he had stood up to Cemil. “I don’t want to upset you,” he said, as if that needed clarifying.
“Of course. It just felt as if I’d earned your trust.” Cemil looked almost shy as he crossed his arms, which was so odd. “And I admit, I’ve come to trust you as well. It’s refreshing to speak to an outsider, someone not involved in Meskato politics. And you have a good heart. To think I ever believed you might’ve been an assassin!”
Osmund bit his lip. “I’m glad I’ve been able to, um, distract you.” The word choice hadn’t been deliberate.
“Come to me when the work tires you. Perhaps I can offer you a distraction or two as well.” To the end of this provocative statement, Cemil added, more sincerely, “And, I have to thank you. Again.”
“F-For what?”
“For going back for her,” Cemil said gently. “Somehow, I feel that if you’re there, no matter how much I lose myself, you won’t let me slip too far away.”
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