The walk back to Godien’s chambers is quiet, bar the occasional conversation between the palace staff. 

Sir Diarmad and Dame Saibh stand either side of Godien’s door in the middle of an animated conversation—Sir Diarmad cuts himself off mid-sentence the moment he spots Godien, Iarlaith, and the two clerics turn the final corner down the hall.

The knights salute them as they come to a halt outside the ornate darkwood entrance to Godien’s rooms. Their eyes keep darting to Iarlaith before snapping back to the opposite side of the hall.

Iarlaith doesn’t look too pleased either. He’d probably lectured them half to death over the swordball incident after he was done tearing into the prince. Godien resists the urge to wince or pull a face. May the Lady ferry their souls with grace—

“We deeply apologise for the imposition, but the Holy Father has requested we accompany you until his return,” the taller of the two clerics says. Despite the dark-skinned man’s imposing height and impressive build, his eyes are gentle.

“I will mind the prince, Brother Osgar,” Iarlaith replies in a flat tone, “Though you are welcome to accompany the knights while you wait in the hall.”

“My Lord—“

“Should the Holy Father have any complaints, direct him to me,” Iarlaith states—he shoots a pointed look at Godien, “After you, your highness.”

───※ ·❆· ※───

Godien pulls a face as Iarlaith manhandles him into the middle of the sitting room, carefully unpinning his royal capelet with practiced ease. He sighs in relief—the less he has to wear that thing, the better.

He makes his way over to his favourite plush armchair and goes to sit down—

“You’ll damage it,” Iarlaith monotones, carefully laying the red and gold capelet over the back of the chaise.

Godien groans and throws himself into the less comfortable guest armchair instead. His wet jacket and trousers squelch the second he puts his full weight onto the chair.

He grimaces. Right. He’s still wet. 

Iarlaith sighs and carefully sits down on the opposite end of the chaise directly facing him. After taking a long moment to just pinch his brow in silence he finally takes a deep breath and redirects his gaze back to Godien.

The prince gulps. He’s in for it now—

“What happened, Godi?” Iarlaith asks, his tone resigned.

Godien blinks.

“What?”

Iarlaith shoots him a look, “What do you mean by ‘what’?”

“You already know what happened—“

“And you told the Holy Father everything, did you?” He shoots back while folding his arms, “I want to know what actually happened. Not as your Royal Advisor, but… you know what I mean.”

Godien groans, fully leaning into the plush back of his least favourite armchair. He thumps his head against the headrest for good measure.

“I don’t know, Iar,” he replies after a long beat, tilting his head towards the window, “The thing just started glowing of its own accord.” He sighs, “You know what Father Faolan’s like. I just wanted to…”

Godien snorts humourlessly, turning back to his cousin.

“Not that it matters,” he continues, “What’s done is done.” Godien groans, burying his face into his hands, “Augh, how was I supposed to know that stupid rock would break if you smacked it too hard? It’s the literal soul stone! Daemonkind’s first gift from the Gods! With how flimsy the blasted thing is, you’d think they picked the thing up from the ethereal bootleg market—“

“Godien.”

“I know—I know—blasphemy is bad, blah, blah, blah,” Godien snarks—he sighs and slumps in his chair, “For a rock over ten thousand years old… I don’t know, aren’t old rocks supposed to be sturdier or something?”

“I guess?” 

Godien sighs again, slumping further into his chair, “I swear, Iar, I really didn’t think it would break.”

Iarlaith stares at him for a long beat before he too sighs and relaxes a little further into the short side of the chaise.

“I believe you,” he says, turning his gaze to the room’s ornate entrance, “How are your eyes?”

“Good—better,” Godien says, sitting back up, “Saint Naomhan did his whole…” he wiggles his fingers in front of his eyes and makes an ominous noise, “thing and after suffering the wrath of the great Inferno for a few minutes, they’re as good as new.”

Iarlaith snorts, “And the bill?”

“Is the church’s problem,” Godien replies with a sharp grin, “He who calls the Saint is he who pays the tithe.”

Iarlaith hums skeptically.

“What?”

Iarlaith gets up and heads towards the door, “I’m not saving you from your sister this time.” He cracks the door open and quietly says something to the guards before closing it again. He turns back to the prince, “Is fireleaf alright?”

“Two sugars?” 

“Two sugars,” Iarlaith confirms—he returns to his seat on the short side of the chaise, “No biscuits though. You don’t deserve them.”

Godien balks, “You rude little—Naomhan didn’t say anything about charging the palace—“

“Do you really believe Father Faolan is going to pay your medical bills after you single-handedly destroyed one of the only places in the High King’s Palace that the church is solely responsible for?” Iarlaith snarks, his brows threatening to disappear into his hairline, “Are you thick? He brought up Ruairidh.”

Godien's jaw snaps open, but he… can’t think of anything to say in response. After a long moment, he snaps it shut again and looks away.

“Eilis is going to have your head on a pike for this,” Iarlaith says, pointing at him from across the dark red rug, “She already wants to kill you for the stunt you pulled earlier this afternoon.”

“It was just a few minor damages—“

Iarlaith snorts humourlessly, “Say that to her face, Godi. I dare you—“

Knock knock. 

The door creaks open to reveal a young maid pushing in a tea cart.

“Sorry to disturb you, milords,” she says, “Your tea is ready.”

Godien blinks, “That was quick—“

“Thank you,” Iarlaith says with a gentle smile—the girl’s pale face turns a startling shade of red, “Just leave the tray on the coffee table. I’ll take care of it from there.”

“O-of course, milord,” she stutters, gently doing as she’s told, “Should you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Iarlaith’s smile softens, “I will. Thank you, Miss Croia.”

She squeaks, thanks him—them both—again and politely exits the room. Godien raises his eyebrow at Iarlaith.

“Don’t—“

“Thank you, Miss Croia,” Godien teases, mockingly fluttering his eyes at his cousin—he fake-swoons, “Another fair maiden’s heart stolen by the infamous High Lord of Rosenbreck. Doth his greed know no end—?”

“I merely thanked her for bringing us tea,” Iarlaith monotones with an unimpressed look—he leans forward to pour them both a cup, “That’s hardly grounds for a romance—“

“Ah-ah-ah!” Godien interrupts with a wiggle of his fingers—he wiggles his brow, “But you remembered her name.”

“And?” Iarlaith pushes Godien’s cup towards him before pouring his own and sitting back against the chaise, “Unlike a certain someone, I make efforts to interact with the staff of the palace. Be careful with your tea, it's hot.”

Godien groans—he leans forward to grab his cup.

“You’re no fun.”

“You’re insufferable,” Iarlaith hums in reply, blowing against the top of his cup, “Did Father Faolan tell you how far those phantom lights went?”

Godien shakes his head and takes a sip of his tea— “Ow.”

“Told you.”

Godien pulls a face at him before pointedly blowing against the steam rising from his cup.

“I don’t think so,” Godien says in response to Iarlaith’s question—he looks down at the brown liquid steeping in his cup, “What took you so long, anyway? I thought you were just going to talk to Eilis about something.”

Iarlaith sighs and slumps a little in his seat, “Rebel attack.”

“Again?” Godien balks.

“Mhmm,” Iarlaith takes a sip of his tea, “Knights had the entrance to the Lord’s wing sectioned off for an hour.”

Godien blanches, “You don’t mean—?”

“You didn’t think the Holy Father left you alone for that long because he trusted you, did you?” Iarlaith scoffs, “You’ve the attention span of a lasc óir.”

“I resent that.”

“Good.”