Chapter Text
The window pushed open with the same gentle creak that it always had. The soft call of the wind whistled through Nathaniel’s room, beckoning him to his perch. Tugging his nightshirt closer around his body, he stepped up onto the stone windowsill. He wasn’t really sure why he had bothered to put it on when he returned to his room, the rays of morning light had already begun to show through the tall peaks of the Palmyr Mountains north of the castle. It had been a long night and he desired nothing more than to fall into the abyss of sleep.
Behind him, the room was still. Jean hadn’t stirred yet, but it was only a matter of time before he did. Nathaniel didn’t look back, but he was aware of him all the same- the steady rise and fall of his breathing from the bed they shared, the quiet presence that had become as necessary as air over the years. He was the only reason the room ever felt like anything other than a cage.
Nathaniel trailed his fingers over the rough stone beside him, aware that there was still blood caked into his cracked fingernails. A choking sound came from his throat before he was able to suffocate the sob behind his hand. He hated giving in to the tears, but he couldn’t help it as they slid down his face. The soft dawn breeze caused several curls of auburn hair to stick in their cool trails and his body began to tremble.
Every inch of his body ached.
Without looking down, he lifted one foot up slightly, dangling it precariously over the edge of his chamber window.
It would be just one step.
Just one.
Out in front of him, the kingdom of Exyria had not quite yet begun to rise, sprawling quietly in front of him. It was deceptive, really. One would hardly know that the lands were being ravaged mercilessly by civil war. Tensions between the Druids of Palmyr and the humans of Charlestonne had only grown more violent in the last few decades.
Since the rise of the Druid’s lost king.
Nathaniel leaned forward to look down at the town below him, still sleeping soundly. Safely. Here and there he could just make out the faint shape of a merchant or a farmer wheeling their carts through the streets of the otherwise barren castle town. Soon the streets would be crawling with people from all over the country as they prepared for this year’s Raven Festival.
He hated this time of year.
Holding out his arms in front of him, Nathaniel could see the deep violet and blue bruises had already begun to show under his pale skin. Three days had passed since he had last entered his prince’s workshop. The young Moriyama heir had been far more rigorous than usual in his work as of late and Nathaniel knew that the oncoming celebrations were to blame. Any time there was a public event that the prince was expected to appear at, Nathaniel was forced to endure longer periods of time in the Nest to make up for the time that would be missed while attending to the royal duties.
The capital was also seeing a great influx of human immigrants from the four other provinces. The war had left much of the country in ruin. The Moriyama’s bloodlust for destroying the Druids and general hatred for the other races meant that much of the country was left in great neglect. Nathaniel had heard rumors that the far eastern lands of Balemore had especially fallen into chaos and violence because of their lack of support from the monarchy.
Nathaniel leaned forward, his head and chest now hanging dangerously over the tower ledge. The selfish part of him screamed to continue.
Perhaps he would find peace.
The bed shifted behind him, quiet but enough to carry in the silence of the room and a moment later, arms slipped around his middle from behind. They were gentle despite the strength in them, mindful of new bruises and old ones that never had the chance to fully fade.
Jean was always careful like that, like he had memorized every place Nathaniel could be hurt and carried the map with him.
Nathaniel went still at the contact, breath catching somewhere low in his chest. He didn’t bother to hide his tears, they had both seen enough and shed enough to no longer feel any shame in it.
Jean simply pressed in close, his forehead settling between Nathaniel’s shoulder blades, anchoring himself there. The warmth of him seeped through the thin fabric of Nathaniel’s nightshirt, grounding in a way nothing else ever managed to be. For a second, Nathaniel let himself feel the steady weight of him, to feel the comfort of knowing that he wasn’t alone.
“Is today the day?” Jean asked, voice rough with sleep and likely strain from screaming but there was something quieter underneath it for him.
Always gentle for Nathaniel.
The question settled heavy between them, so familiar in a way that made Nathaniel’s chest ache more than his bruised body.
They had made the agreement years ago, somewhere in the middle of the blood and the pain and the horrifying stillness that came after. If one of them decided they could no longer take it- could no longer bear the weight of the pain, the other would follow.
Neither left behind. Neither left alone in it.
It had been meant as comfort and Nathaniel resented the way it sometimes felt like a chain.
He closed his eyes and let himself be held in Jean’s arms. Just enough to feel the solid line of him at his back, just enough to remind himself why he was still here. Jean was the only thing in this place that had ever felt like safety, the only person who had ever looked at him and seen something worth keeping.
“No,” he whispered, exhaling slowly, forcing the air out of aching lungs, and let his foot slide back onto the stone. “Not today.”
Jean pulled back first, tilting his head as he took a good look at Nathaniel’s face. His hand lingered at Nathaniel’s side for a second longer before dropping away.
“You’re bleeding through again,” Jean said.
Nathaniel let out a quiet breath and stepped down from the window, careful of his footing even if he pretended not to be. “I’ll live.”
Jean made a soft, unimpressed sound and turned toward the wardrobe without answering. He pulled out the heavy gold coat Nathaniel reserved for public appearances since the high neck and long sleeves ensured that Riko’s abuse remained hidden, and laid it carefully across the back of the chair at the vanity.
Nathaniel followed, slower than he would have liked, the ache in his ribs pulling tight with each step. By the time he reached him, Jean was already waiting with the chair pulled out for him.
“I can dress myself.”
“I know,” Jean said, ignoring Nathaniel’s annoyed look.
He exhaled through his nose but didn’t argue further, letting Jean pull the nightshirt up and over his head. The movement tugged at bruised skin and open cuts, and he went still for a moment once it was off, jaw tight as the air hit skin that was still too raw.
Jean didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to. He was the only person that had ever seen the full extent of damage that Nathaniel’s body had endured, and Nathaniel was the same for Jean. Neither of them had any desire to discuss what went on behind the workshop door, and no one else ever bothered to ask.
Thought there had been someone once… someone who had tried to get close. Not to him, but to Jean.
Nathaniel didn’t let himself think about it often. About the way Jean had been dragged back after, barely alive. About how long it had taken before he could stand on his own again.
They didn’t talk about it. They didn’t talk about the fact that the boy had left, either.
Nathaniel had a hard time deciding which he hated more.
Jean reached for the comb, dipping his fingers briefly into the bowl of water on the table before working it through Nathaniel’s curls. The strands were stiff in places, dried blood catching and pulling until Jean worked it loose with slow movements. It wasn’t gentle exactly, but it wasn’t careless either. Nathaniel watched him in the mirror without really focusing, letting the rhythm of it settle him.
Once he was satisfied, Jean reached for the coat and stepped back around him.
“Arms,” he said.
Nathaniel complied, grateful to stay seated as Jean guided his arms through the sleeves. He kept one hand steady at his elbow, the other adjusting the fabric where it caught. When his fingers brushed too close to a sore spot along Nathaniel’s side, Nathaniel went rigid before he could stop himself. Jean quickly adjusted his movements, shifting slightly to avoid it a second time.
The mirror in front of him was cracked- the result of an uncontrollable rage he had several years ago after a particularly brutal session with the prince. Fortunately, the crack did little to obscure its use. He noted that his eyes were a brighter blue than usual thanks to the morning of crying, but luckily they didn’t appear to be too puffy. His skin was paler than it normally would be this time of year as he hadn’t been allowed to spend much time out on the grounds lately due to the increase in reports of rebel activity in Charlestonne.
He could just see the hint of a nasty cut at the top of his neck, but the collar Jean picked up would be able to cover it once it was locked properly.
The gold caught the light as he turned it once in his hands and Nathaniel tipped his chin forward without being asked. The metal was cool against his skin as Jean fastened it into place.
As the latch clicked shut, Jean leaned in at the same moment, pressing a brief kiss to Nathaniel’s jaw. It was soft and achingly tender. Timed so precisely it barely felt separate from the motion of the collar locking around his throat.
Nathaniel exhaled quietly and reached for the second collar, this one silver.
“Your turn.”
Jean huffed under his breath but stepped closer, already dipping his head. Nathaniel positioned the collar carefully before fastening it, and as the latch clicked, he leaned in too, brushing his lips once against Jean’s cheek.
Jean moved away to dress himself, quicker about it, shrugging his black coat on with far less care. With a few last adjustments they were both ready and presentable. Nathaniel sighed quietly, already dreading the moment he would have to leave the relative comfort of their room and face the public.
Although the Ravens Festival offered a temporary reprieve from Riko’s work, Nathaniel truly detested everything it stood for- though perhaps not as much as Jean did.
Jean moved toward the door, pausing to wait for him. “His Highness has asked that we are not late for the gifting ceremony this afternoon.”
Nathaniel’s jaw tightened. “Of course he has.”
The Ravens Festival was a five day long event every summer, celebrating the humans usurping the Druids’ rule of Exyria. For millennia, the Druids had ruled from the Foxhole Court in Palmyra, their magic maintaining their hold over the realm. Two centuries ago, a human king by the name of Kengo led armies from Charlestonne in rebellion, marching through the mountains to the gates of the Foxhole Court without hindrance.
It was during the ceremony that would crown a new Druid as king that the humans invaded.
Kengo’s men slaughtered the Druid Elders, severing their connection to their ancestral magic before cutting out the heart of the would-be king.
Most of the Druid commoners had fled during the raid, their magic not as strong as the Elders to withstand such a vicious attack. Those that were not so lucky were slaughtered in their homes and streets. When the halls of Foxhole ran red, Kengo declared himself the new king of Exyria and moved the capital to Charlestonne, where it has remained ever since.
The first day of the festival was one of the most tedious of the celebrations. Humans from all over Charlestonne, as well as those that had travelled from the other provinces would come to bring offerings to the crown. What it really meant, though, was that Nathaniel and Jean were forced to endure hours of self aggrandizing men parading around their wealth, seeking to impress the royal family. Or worse, presenting daughters like bargaining pieces to the two former lords in the hopes of securing favor.
As if Riko would ever allow his possessions to belong to anyone else.
With one final look in the mirror, Nathaniel knew that he could not hide away in this tower any longer. Plastering on a painfully false smile, he stood and made his way to the door and followed Jean out.
His coat was unbearably stifling in the heat that radiated through Castle Evermore’s halls. The Charlestonne summer was as long as the year, and there was often little relief from it, especially when forced to wear such extravagant clothing. The gold collar at his throat felt heavier with every step, the metal warm against his skin.
Like the coat, it was stifling- but in an entirely different way.
Nathaniel bore it anyway, chin tipped up as he walked toward the grand hall. Jean kept pace at his side, close enough that their hands occasionally brushed, a gentle reassurance that grounded him in a way nothing else in this place ever could.
The country was suffering in nearly every way imaginable. The provinces were starving, their lands ravaged by war and overfarming, not to mention the rumors of orc raiding parties running rampant in the eastern lands. The people were overworked and the races were even warring amongst themselves as they struggled to survive and fight for scraps. All the while, the humans in the capital indulged in everything imaginable to celebrate the subjugation of such others.
Nathaniel’s jaw tightened.
Truthfully, he didn’t care about the people. He couldn’t help them and they sure as Hells couldn’t help him. He cared that they celebrated it. That they praised the Moriyamas like gods while the rest of the realm burned for it. That they looked at cruelty and chose it anyway. That they bent the knee and called it honor.
Let the Druids tear it all down.
Let them win this damned war.
Let them burn this entire kingdom to the ground if it meant the end of the Moriyamas.
“My Lords.”
“Lord Moreau, Lord Wesninski.”
Highborn lords and ladies, servants and knights bowed as they passed, voices dipped just low enough to feign respect. Nathaniel inclined his head in return, the motion automatic, practiced to the point of numbness.
Jean didn’t react at all beside him.
Nathaniel tried not to listen, but it took most of his effort not to haul off and punch them when he heard the inevitable whispers that began as soon as they were out of eye line.
“That’s them. Riko’s favorites.”
A quiet scoff followed, and then, “Favorites,” repeated like the word itself was a joke. “I heard Moreau was lent out again last month. Some lord from the eastern provinces- stayed the better part of a week.”
“Lent,” another voice echoed, amused. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”
A low ripple of laughter carried after them, and Nathaniel felt his hands curl at his sides as the voices continued, careless in their cruelty.
“Pretty thing like that, it’d be a waste not to.”
“Shame the other one hasn’t been touched yet.”
“Give it time.”
“Or maybe he just prefers watching.”
That earned a sharper laugh and Nathaniel forced his expression to remain unchanged even as something hot and ugly twisted in his chest. He didn’t need to look to know Jean had heard every word. He always did. He just never reacted to it, never gave them the satisfaction, carrying on as if it meant nothing at all. Nathaniel had learned to do the same, but that didn’t mean it didn’t settle under his skin, crawling there like an infection.
He kept his stride even, his shoulders squared, because anything less would be noticed, and being noticed never ended well- not for him, and certainly not for Jean.
He’d seen the aftermath too many times to pretend otherwise. It was bruises on his hips in the form of finger prints, dark marks pressed into Jean’s skin in places no one else would ever see, the bite marks along his neck that were savage instead of affectionate. There had been nights where Jean came back with blood still on his thighs, dried and flaking.
Nathaniel had learned quickly not to react, not to let anything show beyond what Jean would allow.
Sometimes his eyes wouldn’t focus afterward, not for hours, not for days, once for long enough that Nathaniel had started to think something in him had broken for good. Those were the worst of it, the stretches where Jean was there but not really, where he moved when he had to and said what was expected of him but nothing more.
When all Nathaniel could do was stay.
He would sit with him in the silence or lie beside him in the dark, curling around him despite the difference in their size like he could make himself into a shield that could block the rest of the world out.
It was foolish, he knew. There was no shielding Jean from any of it, no undoing what had already been done.
Riko had never needed to lay a hand on Nathaniel to keep him in line.
He only ever had to look at Jean.
Nathaniel swallowed, forcing the thought down before it could take hold. He’d learned where his limits were, learned them well enough that he never tested them. He didn’t fight. He didn’t push. He didn’t give Riko a reason to look their way any more than necessary
The grand hall was already filled with various lords and their ladies, awaiting their turn to grovel at the feet of their precious king. Nathaniel wanted to roll his eyes, but he refrained and made his way forward with Jean at his side, the two of them moving through the crowd until they reached the raised stone platform at the front of the room.
King Ichirou was already seated, his gaze sweeping over the hall with quiet, measured indifference. He was a large man, both in stature and presence, his crimson robes spilling around him as he leaned back into his throne, dark eyes flicking briefly toward them before moving on just as quickly. Nathaniel dipped into a shallow bow, Jean mirroring the motion beside him.
Prince Riko sat at Ichirou’s right, draped in black and red, his posture loose in a way that felt deliberate. He looked much like his brother- same dark hair, same defined features, but where Ichirou was controlled, Riko was something else entirely. There was a restless glint in his eyes and the curl of his smile carried a cruelty that twisted his features.
“There you are,” Riko said, voice deceptively light. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten your place.”
They both bowed again, lower this time, voices in sync. “My prince.”
Riko’s gaze lingered on them for a moment longer before he gestured lazily to the cushions set at either side of his throne. “Kneel.”
They obeyed without hesitation. Nathaniel lowered himself onto the pillow at Riko’s left, Jean taking the place at his right.
“Good,” Riko murmured, satisfied, before turning his attention back to the hall as if they had already ceased to be worth it.
Nathaniel kept his head angled just right, gaze lowered enough to appear deferential while still allowing him to look out across the room. His eyes had settled on the massive portrait just on the far wall of the room. He remembered the day it had been painted, it’d been only a few years after he’d been sold to the Moriyamas.
It showed the three of them- well, the four of them, but Nathaniel refused to let his gaze linger on the figure placed between Riko and Jean. He could not risk losing his temper that moment. Instead he looked at the younger versions of themselves.
Riko looked much the same. Strikingly Moriyama even then, intense in a way that set him apart from everyone else in the room, though the hatred wasn’t as obvious yet. The mania hadn’t quite curdled his gaze, not in the way Nathaniel knew it would in just a few years.
Jean stood at his side, taller than all of them even at twelve, all long limbs and ethereal in the way he carried himself. He was beautiful then just as he was now, his black waves shorter and porcelain skin still untouched, not yet ravaged by what the years would bring. There had been something lighter in him then, something that hadn’t yet been worn down.
Nathaniel, on the other hand, always stuck out among them.
Where they were all pale and dark-haired, cut from the same sharp mold, Nathaniel’s coloring had always set him outside of it- warmer skin, deep auburn hair, a stature that would never match theirs, his growth spurt stopping at 13. He was so starkly the son of the eastern lands.
It was almost hard to look at.
Not because of what the painting showed, but because of everything it didn’t. That boy wasn’t him anymore. Jean wasn’t that boy either. Others might not have been able to see the scars that now marked them from ankle to clavicle, might have missed the ways their bodies had been shaped and reshaped into something else entirely, but there was one thing that could not be ignored.
Proof of Riko’s torturous experiments that anyone could see if they cared enough to.
Their eyes.
Jean’s had changed first, the soft cool shade he’d once had burned away into bright silver and became iridescent in a way that caught the light and shifted hues. Nathaniel’s had followed only a week later. His own blue turned into something too alarmingly vivid to be natural and his irises appeared fractured in a way that made them look almost like cracked topaz.
“Ah, Lord Johnson! Welcome!” Riko’s voice broke Nathaniel from his musings and he looked down at who the prince was greeting.
It was an older gentleman with sagging cheeks and greying hair. Dressed in a fine green jacket that was decorated heavily with silver buttons and chains, he bowed deeply to the king and then to Riko. The prince returned the gesture with a small nod while Nathaniel tried to mentally place the man. He didn’t think that he had ever seen him at the court before.
“A most humble thank you, Your Grace, for the invitation. The sight of the capital is quite the welcome change of scenery.” The old man held out his arm, giving way for an attractive younger man to step forward. “May I introduce my son and heir, Grayson.”
Grayson had dull brown hair, combed carefully back from his face. The torches in the room accented the gaunt hollows of his face eerily. He wore a similar green jacket as his father’s, equally adorned with silver chains and buttons. Catching Nathaniel’s gaze, the young man sneered at him, his blue eyes sharp.
“And how is life with the Selkies, Lord Johnson?”
Nathaniel’s head snapped back to the King at this statement.
“Ah, the leechy bastards are a bunch of heathens and wretches, the whole lot of them. But we’ve got them back in the fold now. You should be expecting nearly double the exports from the lake within the cycle, Your Grace.”
“Excellent news, I know that the House Johnson will continue to serve the Crown faithfully as we continue to secure our hold from the more… uncivilized citizens of this beautiful country.”
The two bowed again, placing their gifts onto the steps. It looked to be baskets of assorted fish.
“So we’re occupying even the merpeople’s lands now, my prince,” Nathaniel asked, the contempt slipping into his voice before he could quite stop it. “How does that work? Does House Johnson somehow have a castle under the waters of the Great Lake?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jean go rigid and his eyes had gone wide, fixed on him in warning to shut his mouth while he still could.
Riko didn’t bother looking at him. “We cannot occupy what is already our own, my dear pet.”
Nathaniel tried.
But the words slipped loose anyways and once they did, they were impossible to drag back.
“And how on earth do you enforce such a thing?” Nathaniel immediately regretted the question when the prince looked to him with a too pleased smile.
“Hang enough of their dead bodies upon their shores and even the most despicable beasts will fall into line.”
Nathaniel nearly choked on the bile that rose into his throat hot and fast. He forced it down, jaw tightening as his gaze flicked out across the hall- the men and women who lavished in their own superiority and fell over each other to present more and more gifts to the bastards they called royalty.
On the other side, Jean had gone quiet again, head bowed now, shoulders set in defeated acceptance. He knew what would follow and who would pay for it.
Nathaniel knew it too.
And the festivities had only just begun.