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Regulus’ father was a king and the son of kings. He was of average height, with thin limbs from a lack of use and a round stomach from overuse. His black hair was thinning, revealing the shiny slant of his large forehead, and his features were almost always set in a scowl. Overall, Orion was not a pleasant person to look at. Regulus’ mother was ordinary. Dark skin, brown hair, round eyes. There was nothing that stood out about her. When she was fourteen, she married Orion, who had been promised by the priest that she was blessed to carry good children. Regulus thought Orion had only gone through with the marriage for his mother’s fortune, which would be passed to her husband. His mother’s father had insisted that she be veiled until the ceremony. Orion, desperate to please and keep the fortune, had agreed. That was how he discovered she was a simple woman. When the veil had been pulled from her head, she had smiled. Brides did not smile. Regulus’ mother bore two children, himself and Sirius, who was a year older. When both children were born, Orion had taken them from their mother’s arms and given them to a midwife. Regulus’ mother had been given a pillow in exchange and they say she never noticed the difference. Orion’s expectations for his children had been high, especially when they were young. He wanted a son who would bring honour to the kingdom of Opus, when he could not. Sirius was already a strong child, but at three years of age, he was too much trouble for Orion to deal with. Regulus however, was quickly proven to be a disappointment. He was smaller than his brother, and weaker. He was not fast. He could not fight. He did not sing. And despite the many lessons, tutors and instructors, he never improved. The only good thing about Regulus’ physical form was that he rarely got sick. While his peers were suffering from the common cold - or worse - Regulus did not fall ill, despite his exposure. This did not please Orion, who seemed to think Regulus was inhuman in some way. Regulus’ cause was not aided by his mother dribbling wine on herself every time she took a sip.
When Regulus was five years old, his father and their kingdom hosted the games. Men from as far as Thessaly and Sparta travelled to take part. Regulus watched the preparations with curiosity. At five years old, it was the most interesting event he had seen. Regulus had sat and watched every day for twenty days as the servants beat out the race track, clearing it of stones. Orion had forbidden Regulus from going any closer than the edge of the newly constructed arena. He was determined to have the best games yet and Regulus wasn’t going to disrupt him. That duty fell to Sirius. The other boy was determined to make Orion mad, and he succeeded a week before the games when one of the wilder horses was set loose on the track. The stallion had refused to stop and tore up the carefully set track as it evaded the servant’s attempts to corner it. Orion had been furious, screaming at Sirius while the other boy tried to contain his laughter. It was the first time Orion had hit either of them. It was the last time Regulus had seen his brother. He missed him, of course; the other boy had been a constant presence in the palace, even if Orion barely allowed them to greet each other at the table for meals and their alone time together was sparse. The servants wouldn’t tell Regulus where he’d gone when asked, so all the five-year-old could do was move on. The games were fast approaching and Regulus’ mind was quickly taken off his older brother’s disappearance. Orion’s fury evaporated the day of the games and he greeted the coming contestants as if the last week’s events were nothing. The bull that was killed had gone quietly, a good omen, and was currently bleeding out into the bowls and dirt. The smell of the beast reached Regulus’ nose in wafts and made him nauseous; he soon found it incredibly difficult to focus on the events around him. When the games began, Regulus and his father sat on a dias overlooking the arena, surrounded by prizes for the winners. In Regulus’ hands was the ultimate prize, a wreath of freshly clipped and polished leaves. Orion had been reluctant to hand it over, but he gave Regulus a speech on how to hold it and what not to do and seemed to assure himself that it would be fine. The chariot races had been interesting, with only one crash. Regulus was grateful for the minimum collisions, as it had been brutal. The pained squeal of the horse had pierced his ears as the beast was crushed by the second chariot. He never wished to hear it again. The event that had Regulus’ complete attention was the foot races. Men of all ages lined the starting area where the first to run were the youngest boys. They waited impatiently for the nod from the priest, tanned skin stretching as the runners warmed up in preparation. Amongst the dozens of dark-haired heads, Regulus’ eyes caught on a golden flash. He leant closer for a better look. Long hair like dark honey, the boy was easily the youngest, limbs and face plump with youth in a way the other contestants were not. Despite his age, when the boy stepped up to the line, his face was as serious as the men behind him. The priest struck the ground and the runners took off. For several moments, it was a mess of bodies and flying sand before the young boy slipped out from the horde and pulled away, flying across the ground towards the finish line with ease. The boy crossed, slowing to a stop. Regulus noted that he wasn’t even out of breath as he smiled widely and watched the other racers cross the line. The boy moved towards the dias for his prize. Orion had to lift the garland from Regulus’ lap as he was still staring at the boy in awe. He grinned at Regulus, cheeks flushed with pride. The leaves looked black against his golden hair as Orion set the garland securely on the boy’s head. Fleamont, the boy’s father, claimed him, smiling and laughing at his son’s successes. Regulus had heard rumours of Fleamont’s son. His mother was supposedly a goddess, and Fleamont’s kingdom, despite being smaller than Opus, was full of loyal citizens who loved their king. Jealousy reared its ugly head as Regulus caught Orion watching the two with envy. He knows why. The boy is exactly the son Orion wanted, who he wanted Regulus to be. As Fleamont and his son stepped away, Orion turned. “That is what a son should be.” The words hit Regulus harder than he expected. Fleamont’s son tossed the garland in the air, catching it with ease. The two were laughing and the boy threw it once more before his father embraced him. Regulus wondered whether, if his father had been Fleamont, things would have turned out differently. If he’d be as strong and fast as that golden boy instead of his skinny self. Probably not; Regulus would be just as scrawny and stupid, but it was enough to entertain his five-year-old self until the next time he failed. Regulus didn’t remember much else from his time in Opus, only scattered memories, some of which he wasn’t sure even happened. He remembered how his father’s face looked when he was informed of another of Regulus’ shortcomings. He remembered long hours with the training masters, trying to learn to fight or running laps around the palace in the hot summer sun. He remembered the sharp sting of the ring on his father’s left hand cutting into his cheek. He remembered one time, with Walburga, on the beach before the Aegean. His mother had been standing in the shallows, staring out at the horizon while Regulus skipped stones, managing five bounces before the stone sank below the waves. Regulus wasn’t sure if that last memory was real, he didn’t recognise where they were and it would have been unlikely for Orion to leave them alone together, but it was the nicest memory he had. When Regulus was nine years of age, his father had informed him the king of Sparta’s daughter, Pandora, was ready for marriage. Everyone who knew of Regulus understood there were no chances of the slim boy winning her hand in marriage; however, Orion seemed to think otherwise, and Regulus had been dragged on the long journey to Sparta. The citadel had been busy, horses, mules and donkeys crowding the streets while the stable servants rushed around to tend to them all. Their party had waited for days while preparations continued. Regulus had been bored out of his mind, having only been able to bring a small toy horse. On the third day, one of the soldiers took pity on the prince and gave him two dice, which he rolled until both showed sixes. When it was time, hundreds of heroes, princes and kings gathered in the great hall of the palace to present their gifts. It had been a tense affair, with so many men trying for the same prize, but instead of the usual proceedings, a hero named Minerva had convinced them all to let Pandora choose her husband and the rest to swear an oath to protect them from harm. It had been a reluctant agreement between the gathered suitors, but after the goat was sacrificed and the oath made, Pandora’s voice had rung clear and beautiful, holding enough power to completely capture her audience. “Barty.” The man, brother to the silent Dumebldore, had gotten up, grinning widely. Despite the displeasure at the choice, no one in the room drew their swords. The blood from the oath had dried on each of their wrists, thick and heavy. Binding. Regulus thought this was short of a miracle. They’d travelled home that night, Orion’s disappointment making the air around their group heavy. Regulus stayed silent throughout the trip, which they made in one shot. He didn’t complain about the uncomfortable donkey, the long ride, or when he desperately needed to wee. He was too scared of what Orion would do if Regulus was one more bother for him. When they arrived, no one mentioned the soiled clothes Regulus wore, or the thunderous expression on Orion's face. They didn’t mention the pointless expedition or the waste of a fine bowl as a gift. No one mentioned the trip again. Years later, Regulus would think it was all a dream and the oath was a figment of his own imagination. During those times, it was like he could feel the ghost of the blood on his wrist, even if it had never happened. Two dice lay in Regulus’ palm. They were made from ivory and inset with onyx, smooth to the touch. He couldn’t remember who had given them to him, but it didn’t matter. They were his now. The boy, Peter, son of a nobleman that frequented the palace had appeared in front of Regulus, hand outstretched. “Let me see them,” he said, trying to snatch the dice from Regulus’ hands. Regulus took several hurried steps away, fist tightening around the small cubes. “No.” He did not want the boy’s grubby hands on them. He could see the black smudges lining the underside of his nails and his palms were coated in flakes of dirt. Regulus was the prince and, even if this boy was twice his size, he couldn’t take them. “I want them,” Peter said, not bothering to threaten violence. If Regulus was anyone else, there would be threats shouted to crush his nose, but Peter expected him to hand over the dice, which was frankly insulting. Was he not worth the threat? “No,” Regulus repeated, stepping back again as the boy advanced. “Let me have them.” All Regulus could think of was the dirt covering the boy’s hands. “They’re mine,” he snapped, holding his hand away. Peter lunged for the dice, but Regulus shoved him. Hard. He stumbled, caught off guard. Even though Regulus looked weak, he was equal in strength to his peers and he was not going to let this boy take what wasn’t his. “Hey!” Peter was angry. Regulus was rumoured to be simple and was small enough that a shove shouldn’t have made him stumble. While Regulus hadn’t done anything to disprove these rumours, they weren’t true. Peter drew himself up to his full height. The fight had begun, Regulus realised as Peter took a step towards him. The other boy wouldn’t back down, it would be dishonour, especially to lose to Regulus. On instinct, Regulus stepped back from Peter’s advances. It only made the other boy laugh. “Coward,” he smirked. “I am not a coward!” Regulus snapped, face flushing in anger. Who was this boy thinking he could make fun of him like this? “Your father thinks you are.” His words were deliberate, hoping it would pull a rise from Regulus, but the prince was well aware of what his father thought of him and the words had little effect. “I heard him tell my father so.” “He did not,” Regulus defended in reflex, despite knowing it was exactly what his father had said. Peter stepped closer, raising his fist threateningly. “Are you calling me a liar?”
Only an idiot if you think I care.
Regulus knew Peter was going to hit him, he saw it in the way his shoulders tensed and his fingers tightened into a fist. Before Peter could, Regulus planted two hands on the boy’s chest and shoved . Peter stumbled, heel catching on a rock before he could right himself. He toppled backwards. His head hit the ground with a dull crack. Red slowly painted the stone behind him as Peter blinked, mouth gaping like a fish. Regulus had never seen a person die before, only the fish they ate and the animals they sacrificed. He had thought it would be similar. He never expected it to be this horrible. Peter’s eyes widened, his breaths stuttering and the red spreading further, turning the dust dark. He made a gurgling sound. Regulus fled. He barely remembered the following days. There was yelling and screams of anger from his father, the sting of his ring, and whenever Regulus passed the servants in the palace, they made signs against evil before hurrying away. Like his shortcomings were contagious. Regulus understood his punishment. Orion had spent years trying to keep the kingdom together, scrabbling for any shred of power he could get. And now, with a murderer as a son, the nobles would riot. So Orion sent Regulus away. Death was preferable, but the small expense of Regulus’ weight in gold, given to the king that was to foster him to adulthood, was nothing compared to that of a funeral. At ten years of age, Regulus was exiled from Opus and sent to the kingdom of Phthia, where he was to be raised an orphan with no parents, no family name, and no inheritance.
The tiny kingdom of Phthia was located between the ridges of Mount Othrys and the sea. Its king, Fleamont, was one of the few mortals loved by the gods, despite not being divine himself. He was clever, brave, handsome and excelled in piety. For this, the gods had rewarded him with the offer of a sea-nymph for a wife, their highest honour. The divine blood from the nymph would give rise to heroes from dust and clay. But not just any heroes. The nymph, Euphemia, brought a greater prize. The Fates had foretold that the son she would carry would surpass his father, a great fighter and the next hero.
Regulus was led through the palace by a servant, whose name he did not know. Or maybe he had not been told. The halls of the palace were smaller than Opus, restrained by the modesty of the kingdom. The walls and floors were local marble, whiter than that found in the south. Regulus’ feet were dark against the stone. Regulus had felt a strange panic when the gold he had brought was taken from him. It was like the last hope of returning home had evaporated along with his mother’s lyre. Now he carried nothing, his few belongings sent to his room and his hands fell empty at his side. Now, Regulus walked through the halls behind the servant, presumably to the throne room where he would be presented to the king. However, the servant veered off to a side room, informing him that king Fleamont was absent and he was to be presented to his son. Regulus’ stomach lurched at the thought of the golden boy who had been everything he was not. That is what a son should be . Regulus felt the familiar jealousy that rose every time he remembered those games. It was quickly followed by anger. How come that boy could be the perfect son Orion had always wanted, when Regulus was right there trying his hardest. It was not fair. The golden boy was lying on his back on a large bench, a lyre perched on his stomach, rising with his breathing. He was absently plucking at the strings, creating a beautiful melody that furthered Regulus' anger. He wasn’t even trying. Regulus stepped forward, but the boy did not acknowledge him. It was the first proper realisation and it made his chest tighten. Nothing. That is what he had become. He had nothing to his name and could easily be ignored. He was no longer a prince. Regulus took another step forward, scuffing his feet to announce himself. The Golden Boy’s head lolled to the side and his eyes slowly opened to regard him. Regulus’ breath caught at his beauty. In the five years since those games, the boy had discarded his youthful roundness and instead settled into older features, which were as fine as a girl’s, but still resembled that of a man. His deep brown eyes studied Regulus, slightly hidden by a lock of golden hair that had fallen over his face. This only added more fuel to Regulus’ anger. He had not grown up so much, nor so well. His face still retained much of his childish features. The boy yawned, eyes heavy lidded, as if he was fighting to stay awake. He did not look like he recognised Regulus. He’d probably seen many princes that they all blurred together, meaningless. Except, Regulus wasn’t that prince anymore. He was nobody. This boy had no reason to recognise him. “What’s your name?” he asked, his voice smooth, on the brink of beginning to deepen. So the golden boy did not recognise him. Regulus fumed at this, though he couldn’t understand why. Regulus didn’t remember anyone else from those games, they were unmemorable. He must be too. Golden Boy asked again and Regulus wished he could not answer. The first time could have been passed as not hearing, but the boy had spoken more loudly this time, deliberately. “Regulus,” he answered. The boy rolled onto his side, lyre in hand, facing Regulus. Strands of hair fell into his face, which he blew away. “My name is James.” Regulus jerked his chin in acknowledgement. They both studied each other for a long moment before James yawned again and rolled onto his back. “Welcome to Phthia,” he said. Regulus knew when he was dismissed.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
That afternoon, Regulus was introduced to the other foster children of Fleamont. Well, introduced was a strong word.
The servant left him to enter the long barrack-styled room on his own. Regulus had stood outside for several minutes before he could bring himself to open the door. Inside were rows of pallets surrounded by small possessions. Tall windows adorned the walls, but there was no other furniture. It was not needed.
The other boys, several who had been wrestling in the middle of the floor, all looked up when Regulus took a hesitant step into the room. They stared with mild curiosity as he quickly made his way towards the pallet closest to the door where his meager possessions lay.
It didn’t take long, barely ten seconds, for the other boys to grow bored and resume their wrestling.
Regulus quickly sorted through the small pile he owned. There were two tunics, both dirtied with travel and the toy horse, but Regulus’ dice had gone missing. He would be grateful if he were to never have to lay eyes on them ever again.
The window above Regulus bed provided a view of the rest of Phthia, the small houses beyond the palace gardens. If he leaned out far enough, he could see the ocean to his right and the mountains to his left.
After the unfamiliar view became too much to look at, Regulus settled against the wall at the head of his pallet and studied the room. There were eight boys still gathered in the centre of the room, taking turns wrestling with each other while the others cheered on. About ten lounged around on their beds or on windowsills, most asleep.
Two boys were huddled against the wall across the room, about two beds down from Regulus. Their heads were bent together and they whispered to each other, laughing quietly. They could only be a year older than him, but both held themselves in a way that made them look older.
One of the two, the boy with long black hair, was so strikingly familiar, Regulus almost got a headache trying to remember where he could have seen him. When the other boy, one with short, light brown hair and darker skin glanced up, looking directly at Regulus, he gave up trying to remember and settled on him having a generic face.
When they were called to dinner, by a bell, it was no short of a stampede of nearly fifty boys running for the door and the corridors beyond. Regulus hung behind to avoid the crush to get out of the door, but kept close on the heels of the boy in front as they navigated the rabbit-warren corridors with practiced ease Regulus wished he had.
The room the boys spilled into was a long hall near the front of the palace with windows lining the wall facing Mount Othrys.
There were several tables spread throughout the room, with enough seats to sit all the boys with many to spare. Regulus hung back, waiting for all the others to take a seat before he could find one to himself. The boys organised themselves into their groups, sitting at tables scattered throughout the hall. When it was clear that one of the tables wasn’t claimed by anyone, Regulus hurried over and took a seat facing the rest of the room.
No one invited him to join them and he was yet to determine if he was grateful for it or annoyed by it.
When the food was placed in front of Regulus, it was simple, unlike his food back home. There was salted fish and thick bread. No meat from goats or bulls which was saved for royalty or festival days.
The food just reminded Regulus of his failures. He was no longer a prince and would never again be treated as one.
He tried not to let it sting too much.
Across the room, there was a flash of golden hair in the setting sunlight.
James
.
He was sat with a group of boys, laughing at something said, face crinkled with humour.
That is what a prince should be
.
Regulus dropped his gaze to the bread in his hand, trying not to let the bitter jealousy rise. He had failed. James was succeeding. There was nothing he could do about it now. He could be killed for returning home to try.
When dinner had ended, they were free to do as they pleased and most of the boys returned to the dorm. Regulus followed and watched from afar as they settled in a corner of the room.
“Do you want to play?” one of the younger boys asked as he passed to join them, catching Regulus watching.
“Play?” Regulus echoed.
“Dice.” The boy held out two cubes settled in the palm of his hand. Carved bone with black dye. Regulus' stomach plummeted and he stumbled back with quick steps, shaking his head violently.
“
No
.”
The boy frowned, but took back the dice. “All right.” He left.
Regulus sat huddled on his pallet, trying to push away the images of the dead boy that had plagued him for days. His dull eyes, gaping mouth. Regulus hadn’t seen him dead, but had enough of an imagination to picture it.
He couldn’t escape him in his dreams either. The boy followed him, skull cracked like a dropped egg. Blood dark as spilled wine spread further and thicker than possible on the ground around him, coating Regulus’ feet to his ankles, trapping him, unable to step away.
The boy’s eyes open, staring directly at Regulus, and his mouth parts to speak. Regulus claps his hands over his ears, barring all sound. The voices of the dead have the power to turn even the strongest man insane.
Regulus gasps when he wakes, his relief running off him like the sweat from his terror. He quickly looked around, worried he had screamed aloud, but none of the other boys stirred.
Regulus tried to calm his breathing, but even after several minutes it still sounded harsh in the silent room. He stared at the stars out the window, watching them turn across the sky. It was late when his eyes finally dragged shut, but the boy was still there, coated in blood, face pale as bone.
Regulus knew he wasn’t going away anytime soon. No soul wished to be sent to the endless darkness of the underworld earlier than their time. Exile satisfies the anger of the living but it never brings peace for the dead.
Regulus woke with heavy eyes and sore limbs. The other boys were already awake, preparing for breakfast and the sun was hot outside the window. Too hot for Regulus to sleep again and he didn’t want to be left behind with no idea how to get to breakfast. He quickly changed into a clean tunic, which had appeared in place of his old ones during the night, and followed the last few boys through the halls.
Word had obviously spread of Regulus’ strangeness, as the younger boy didn’t approach Regulus again, but kept a wide distance between them. The other boys kept glancing over at him with unhidden wariness.
Regulus pushed food into his mouth and drank when it was poured, but his mind was distant, haunted by the boy.
When breakfast was over, the boys were directed into the practice yards for training. Regulus realised, as the boys all picked up spears with ease, that this was one of the true reasons behind Fleamont’s kindness. He was training an army with every boy he took in. Loyal and indebted to him, they’d make perfect soldiers, should Phthia need it.
A spear was pushed into Regulus’ hands and he was directed to the end of the line, in front of a practice target. The master corrected Regulus’ grip on the spear, then again when Regulus hefted it to throw. The spear brushed the edge of the target, clattering into the dust beyond. The master let out a long breath before handing Regulus another spear and ordering him to throw again. Regulus aimed at the battered target and threw.
He missed.
The master moved on, leaving Regulus to his practice. Regulus took the time before he was called to retrieve his spears to search the others for the Golden Boy, but the prince was nowhere in the yard.
Regulus scoffed. Low enough to dine with the boys, but too high to train with them.
As the sun rose higher and the temperatures soared, Regulus' throat grew drier and his arms ached, first from the spears and then from the swords. The dust, stirred by moving feet, coated the back of his throat, making it drier still. It was nearing noon when the masters finally released the boys.
Most ran straight for the beach, discarding tunics and diving into the waves, relishing in the small breezes that still stirred. Some played games on the beach or raced each other across the sand. Regulus did not join them, and instead found a spot in the shade of an olive tree to stare out at the waves. Even the waves were different to home, small laps at the sand.
No one spoke to Regulus, and now he was grateful. His arms were tired, his feet were sore, and there was the beginning of a headache behind his eyes.
This moment was no different from the times he spent away from the masters at home. He was ignored and tired. He felt strangely comforted by the familiarity.
The next day passed the same. Regulus woke to the sound of the other boys getting ready, he ignored the nagging familiar face of the black-haired boy, spent the morning trying - and failing - to be adequate at weapons, and spent the long hours of the afternoon by himself, watching the waves or exploring the gardens.
The nights were long and terror-filled. Regulus took to staying awake after the other boys had fallen asleep, staring as the silver moon crossed the sky. His eyes would map the constellations, watching the familiar patterns of his family rise and fall.
Sleep rarely came, only claiming him when his body was too tired to fight it any longer. The boy was always waiting. Always there with his dying eyes and bloodied lips. Sometimes he spoke, sometimes he turned to show the broken mess of the back of his head. Skull caved in, the gleam of white bone, and clumps of brain slightly falling out.
The goddess of the moon was said to have power over the dead. To rid dreams if she wished.
Regulus prayed, but she didn’t hear. The dreams persisted. He slept even less.
The only relief from the exhaustion slowly creeping into Regulus’ bones were meals in the dining hall. Here, the vaulted ceiling and many windows meant the walls didn’t feel so crowded, the air less heavy. Regulus could breathe.
It was also usually the only time he saw James. The Golden Boy moved around the room, sitting with different people at different tables. There was a group of about six boys who followed him wherever he sat, each trying for his attention, but James made sure to speak directly with the people at the table he had chosen at least once.
Regulus scoffed at the dog-like manners of the boys. Each begging for a scrap of the attention James provided them. Leaning closer, laughing too loud.
All but the two boys he’d seen on his first day were affected by James’ presence. When James joined them one morning, they both greeted him like old friends, talking normally. They didn’t lean closer. They laughed the same as the Golden Boy.
It took Regulus a week to figure out where he knew the black-haired boy from.
He was following behind the two on the way to breakfast one morning, when the brown haired boy had laughed at something the other had said, shoving him roughly.
“Stop being an idiot, Sirius,” he’d said.
Regulus had stopped walking.
Sirius
.
He hadn’t heard that name in years. The servants had stopped whispering about the missing prince and his name had died like ash of a fire. Slowly, but gone for good, blown away by the wind.
Sirius looked older than Regulus remembered. Of course he did, it was five years ago. He was eleven now, hair long and wavy, only occasionally tied back with leather. His jaw was more pronounced and he looked nearly thirteen.
He must have been exiled too, or ran away. The latter was more probable, Sirius had usually talked about leaving when they’d been allowed to spend time together. He had ended up here, in Phthia.
Surely if he recognised Regulus, he would say something. Approach him. But he hadn’t. The times Regulus had met his eyes across a room, there hadn’t been even a hint of recognition. Nothing to say Sirius remembered Regulus.
Just another thing that stung.
Regulus missed breakfast that morning, lost in the labyrinth of the palace and instead wandered until he found his way outside. He hid in a corner of the palace grounds, refusing to leave for the training yards when the bells told him to.
The next morning, Regulus walked into the dining hall to find James sitting at the table next to his. The boys were loud as he sat down, all talking over each other, half-yelling to be heard.
Regulus quietly picked at his food. The lack of sleep was also stealing his appetite, so most of the food in front of him went untouched. He listened to the laughter and chatter going on at the table over and he began to notice how little James actually contributed to the conversations. The boys would ask his opinion of something, then speak over him without waiting for a reply. This annoyed Regulus even more and he couldn’t stop the slight roll in his eye each time it happened.
Once, James caught him and gave a roll of his own eyes, sharing a small smile.
Regulus looked away.
He’d begun seeing Sirius around the palace even more than before. It seemed like wherever Regulus went, Sirius either followed or was there already. He was almost always attached to the brown-haired boy at the hip or looking bored out of his mind waiting for his return.
Regulus was getting better at navigating the palace halls, and when Sirius was around, he’d take to exploring further. He didn’t need to wait for the other boys to be up before heading to breakfast, he knew that as soon as the sun rose, food would be laid out on the table. So on the nights he was woken early, he’d usually be in the dining hall at first light.
James would arrive not long after, choosing his table of the day and waiting for the other boys to arrive. Occasionally, James would pass Regulus’ table and murmur a slow greeting. Regulus never returned it and looked away from the golden hair who so easily captured his attention.
One evening, James had chosen the table in front of Regulus and his feet were tucked under the bench, exposing the pink, soft-looking undersides.
Prince
, Regulus had scoffed, stabbing at the potato on his plate but not making any move to eat it.
Four weeks into Regulus’ exile, James chose his table. Regulus had slept in longer than usual. After weeks of little to no sleep, he’d been knocked into a dreamless slumber. Nearly half of the boys were already at breakfast by the time Regulus dragged himself from his bed.
He’d noticed a weakness slowly taking over his limbs. He was thinner, his ribs sticking out more sharply, and the spears had become heavy in his hands.
Maybe this would get rid of him. If his father couldn’t, then the boy haunting him would. At least the dreams would stop, Regulus reasoned. Souls in the underworld didn’t dream.
When Regulus stumbled into the hall, James was at his table with his usual group of six. All but one of the seats were occupied, leaving Regulus a choice.
He could leave and let the Golden Boy win, or sit down and keep the claim on the table.
There was a stirring of anger in Regulus’ stomach as he watched the boys so easily call
his
table home. They were making a mess of the wood, food spilled and water droplets staining. He knew it would be cleaned by lunch, but it was still there. He would know it had been there.
James looked up, catching Regulus’ eye. The Golden Boy smiled, before turning to one of the boys to add a comment they all laughed too loudly at. The anger coiled tighter. That was
his
table. No prince could just wander over and take it at his leisure.
Regulus stomped over to his table, squeezing into the last spot on the bench. His shoulders were tense, pressed against the boy to his right, but he didn’t get up. He’d claimed this table and he was going to stay here.
He ate quietly, ignoring the looks from the other boys and the not-so-hidden whispers to James asking why they were here.
The same happened at dinner. James and the six boys were at Regulus’ table, only there was slightly more space for Regulus to sit this time. James’ presence was like a stone in his shoe. Impossible to ignore. It was in the louder-than-necessary laughter of the others and the way the golden light spilling in through the windows made his hair positively glow.
Dinner finished and the plates were cleared, Regulus’ having been used only to catch the crumbs of the bread he had eaten.
The other tables slowly emptied, but James’ group lingered and Regulus felt inclined to do the same. He wasn’t going to be the first to leave
his
table. It felt like giving in, in some way.
James ran a hand through his hair, messing it up so that it stood unruly, yet neat at the same time. He reached for the bowl of figs, plucking several into his hands.
Seeming without concentration, James flicked the figs into the air one at a time and began juggling. His touch was feather-light, ensuring the skin would not bruise. A fourth and fifth were added until the figs and his hands were a blur of motion. The other boys cheered James on, who was grinning, and Regulus couldn’t tear his eyes from the ease with which James handled the fruit.
Juggling was a trick of mummers and beggars, not that of a prince. But James made it so casual to know, to perform, that it seemed like it should belong only to him.
His gaze, which had been following the fruit with an almost bored expression, flickered to Regulus. If he hadn’t already been watching, he would have missed the small twist of his mouth as he said, “catch.”
A fig leaped from the pattern without breaking the rhythm, sailing through the air towards Regulus. He caught it gently in his cupped hands to more cheers.
One by one, the remaining figs were caught and returned to the bowl, except for the last, which he bit into, eyes fluttering shut at the taste.
Without thinking, Regulus followed the movement, biting into the fig in his own hand. It was perfectly ripe, the juice overflowing in its sweetness. There was a slight difference in the figs grown in Phthia to the ones in Opus. They were sweeter here. Regulus had once loved figs. He loved them again now.
James stood and his group chorused their farewells, climbing to their feet too. Regulus thought James would look at him again, but the prince only turned and left for his room at the far side of the palace.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Fleamont had returned to the palace, and not long after, a servant was sent to collect Regulus. He was brought before the king in the throne room, where he dutifully knelt. Fleamont studied Regulus for a long moment, his silence wearing on Regulus’ already thin nerves.
“What is your name?” Fleamont asked, his voice not weary, but not holding the same energy as his youth would.
“Regulus,” he answered. There was a bare feeling accompanying his name. He had rarely given it over the last weeks, so he was still unused to the emptiness it seemed to contain without his father’s name behind it.
Regulus took the next silence Fleamont offered to study the old man. He could be older than Orion, with the way his thin hair fell about his face. Fifty or more, Regulus guessed. He did not think this man was capable of producing such a son as James.
“You are here because you killed a boy. You understand this?”
As such is the cruelty of adults.
Do you understand
? Regulus was very aware of his predicament. It had taken everything he owned from him and thrown him to Phthia, where everything was small and sparse. Where the leaves dried in the summer and froze in the mountains in winter.
“Yes,” Regulus answered, keeping his head lowered. He could have spoken more. Of how the dreams that plagued him kept him up during the long nights. Or how food rarely tasted of anything. Of how the training masters yelled when a spear fell short. But he didn’t. He stayed silent, head lowered.
“You are welcome here. You may still make a good man.” Regulus tried not to flinch. The words were said in comfort, but there was an underlying message Regulus had yet to decipher. He was too tired to dwell on it, so instead he stood, bowed, and returned to his room.
It wasn’t long before the other boys learnt the reason for Regulus' exile, from eavesdropping boys or gossiping servants, it didn’t matter. There had been rumours, of course, mostly attributed to his thin build or uselessness in the training yard. However, the change in the boys when they learnt the truth was enough for Regulus to distance himself further from them. Instead of a mild curiosity or wariness, the boys looked to him with fear and uncertainty. Even the bravest, boldest boys would whisper a prayer when they bumped against Regulus in the narrow corridors. Bad luck could be caught like a plague and the
Erinyes
, spirits of vengeance, were not always particular.
This new turn in attitudes encouraged the nightmares, where he was now joined by the faceless voices of the other boys whispering prayers, laughing, taunting him. The clattering of the dice on stone, on rocks.
Regulus slept less, ate little. The tasteless food he had begun to tolerate turned to ash and choked him. Pushing away his plate, Regulus sought bare corners and alcoves of the palace to hide from their whispers and stares. The occasional passing servant rarely knew who Regulus was, rarely whispered, rarely talked.
He was safe. He was alone.
This continued for weeks before: “I heard you were here.”
Regulus’ head jerked, knocking against the stone behind him. He winced, rubbing the back of his head and clearing the remnants of his daydream. He was in a storeroom in a far corner of the palace, knees tucked to his chest, surrounded by jars of olive oil.
It was James who had spoken. He stood over Regulus, watching with serious concern, brown eyes scrunched slightly. Regulus shifted, guilt pricking at his skin. He was supposed to be with the masters in the training yard, not cowering in a corner of a storeroom.
“I have been looking for you,” James continued at his silence. “You have not been going to morning drills.”
I do not have the energy
.
Regulus' face burnt red, more of anger than embarrassment. James had the right to chastise him for his disobedience, but he was still angry about it.
“How do you know?” Regulus tried to keep from snapping. His voice was a croak from disuse, quite frankly more embarrassing than being caught. “You aren’t there.”
“The master noticed and spoke to my father.”
“And he sent you.”
Messenger
, Regulus tried to make him think.
You are a lowly messenger
.
“No, I came on my own.” His voice was cool, answering Regulus’ taunt. “I overheard them speaking. I have come to see if you are ill.”
Regulus did not answer. He was not ill. He had no excuse for missing drills in the dusty yard other than his own dislike for it.
“My father is considering punishment.”
Punishments were corporal and public. Princes were never whipped, but Regulus was no longer a prince. He would have to face the consequences. The thought made him shiver, the phantom touch of the whip’s teeth across his back.
“You are not ill,” James stated.
“No,” Regulus answered, despite the lack of a question.
“Then that will not serve as your excuse.”
“What?” Regulus frowned, feeling quite stupid.
“Your excuse for where you have been.” James’ voice was patient, waiting for Regulus to catch up. “What will you say?”
“I don’t know.” It was almost like James was helping him. Telling him what he needed - as if Regulus did not already know.
“You must say something,” James prodded.
This sparked anger within Regulus. He did not need the Golden Boy to tell him he was in trouble. He had no reason to be here. “You are the prince,” Regulus snapped.
James leant against the wall, shoulder pressed to the stone. He tilted his head in question. “So?”
“Tell them I was with you.” The words spilled from Regulus with confidence he did not feel. If Regulus were to have spoken to his father about another boy, the boy would have been whipped out of spite. But he was not James and his father was not Fleamont. Regulus would be granted mercy if James were to speak for him.
A slight crease appeared between James’ eyes as he thought about the offer. “I do not like to lie,” he said.
It was the sort of thing boys were taunted for. The innocence that followed the dislike of lying. Surrounded by a group of boys all speaking at once, it would be hard not to spot someone lying through their teeth, it was a common enough occurrence, one mostly used to survive. But James seemed not to care. It was the truth, his truth, and the other boys wouldn’t dare tease him about it like they would others.
“So take me with you to your lessons,” Regulus shrugged, channelling more of the confidence he did not feel. “It would not be a lie.”
James stilled, eyebrows lifted with surprise. He regarded Regulus, with that strange, inhuman, stillness and Regulus found himself holding his breath. It felt like the world had stopped turning, a huge monumental moment, caught in the way James’ chest had stilled its rising, the way his eyes did not flicker, his limbs did not shake.
As quickly as the stillness had come, James moved again, pushing off the wall in a fluid motion. Regulus caught himself taking a deep inhale, as if he had not for several moments,
“Come,” he said, starting towards the door of the storeroom.
“Where?” Regulus frowned, stumbling to his feet to keep up, barely missing a jar of oil that seemed to teeter too close to the edge of the shelf.
“To my lyre lesson,” James said as he pushed open the door, holding it open for Regulus to follow.
He didn’t immediately, lingering in the shadow of the storeroom. There was a slight hesitation nagging the back of his mind. James had no reason to help him, for all Regulus knew, he was taking him to the whipping post. But there was a genuine kindness of sorts, in his expression that made Regulus take a step to follow. Then another.
“After,” James continued, “we will speak to my father.”
As Regulus followed James through the corridors, his chest held a rising feeling, almost bright with its intensity. Freedom, maybe? Hope? He was safe from the dusty training yards, however short the reprieve may be.
They walked in silence through the halls and, at length, arrived at a small room. This was a section of the palace Regulus had yet to explore. The hallways were more decorated here, less frequented by commoners or the boys.
James entered the room and made directly for a chest sitting against the far wall. He pulled a lyre from it, gesturing Regulus over, then held it out for him.
“I don’t play,” Regulus told him, hands firmly at his side.
James’ forehead creased. “Never?”
Regulus felt a demanding rise to not disappoint the prince. Instead of explaining his own incompetence, he said: “my father didn’t like music.”
“So? Your father is not here.” James offered the lyre once more and Regulus reluctantly took it, holding it delicately in his hands. It was cool to touch, the wood smooth. It was the same lyre James had been playing when Regulus arrived in Phthia.
James pulled out a second lyre and gestured for Regulus to take a seat on one of the stools that were the room’s only other occupants.
It took a minute for Regulus to recognise the second instrument and his stomach tensed when at the familiar the golden wood frame and delicate, yet firm, strings.
It was his mother’s lyre. Used to pay Regulus’ price.
James plucked at one of the strings, the note warm, filling the room. Regulus could not remember his mother ever playing it, but he could picture her thin hands on the strings, the melodies she must have once performed.
James played another note, turning the peg, and it took much of Regulus self-control to not speak.
This is my mother’s lyre,
he wished to say.
That is
my
lyre
. He did not. The lyre was James’ now, Regulus had no right to it.
He swallowed, his throat dry with dying words. “It is beautiful,” he said, gesturing to the instrument.
“My father gave it to me,” James said absently, turning another peg to tune the instrument. His hands were gentle, not gripping the wood roughly as any other musician might have. That was the only thing stopping Regulus from pulling it from his hands.
James did not notice Regulus' inner conflict and continued. “You can hold it if you like.”
Regulus did not need to touch the lyre to know how the wood felt. He had many a time picked it from the cart to hold on his journey over land. “No,” Regulus murmured. He was worried if he got to hold it again, he would not let go. That lyre was the last piece of home he had. The rest hidden away in a Pthian store somewhere in the palace.
James started to say something, but the door interrupted him, a man - the teacher, presumably - entered, stopping when he noticed Regulus. He was of middle age, with the calloused hands of a musician. He carried his own lyre, one of dark walnut, similar to his furious expression.
“Who is this?” he asked, directing his anger towards Regulus rather than the prince. Regulus noted the harshness in his voice. A musician, maybe, but not a singer by any means.
“This is Regulus,” James said, continuing to tune the lyre in his hands as if he did not notice the teacher’s anger. “He does not play, but he will learn.”
“Not on that instrument.” The man’s hand reached down to pluck the instrument from Regulus’ hands. His grip tightened on the wood instinctively, but unnecessarily. With almost lightning-like reflexes, James had caught the man’s hand by the wrist.
“Yes, on that instrument if he likes.”
The man was angry, but he could not say more without risking his position. He took a reluctant seat, his anger visible in the stiffness of his shoulders and spine. “Begin,” he said.
James nodded and settled onto his stool, bent over the lyre with an ease that only came from years of repitition. Regulus had no time to wonder about James' intervention, as soon as the other boy’s fingers touched the strings, he was lost in the music that flowed. The sound was light and pure, cool like water, sweet like honey.
If Regulus were to listen to this music for the rest of eternity, he would not be mad. There were stories that could be told in the notes. Stories of conquests and of beauty. Of love, and - as the music changed - of death.
A lock of hair fell into James’ face as he played. The strands were as fine as lyre strings themselves and shone in the light from the window behind Regulus.
James straightened, pushing the hair from his face. It took Regulus a moment to come from the spell that had been created and when he did, James smirked.
“Now you,” he said, still wearing that smirk.
Regulus shook his head, a strange bubbling fear. If he were to play now, he’d make a fool of himself more than if he had gone first. And besides, Regulus would never if he was able to listen to James play instead. “You play.”
So James returned to the strings and Regulus fell back into the melodies. The rising build of the notes before they were carefully released again. This time, James sang as well, his voice soft and quiet, words indistinguishable. A soft smile played on his lips and Regulus found himself fighting his own.
When at last James ceased to play, Regulus’ chest felt strangely hollowed, as if he had just experienced every emotion and they had left him, leaving behind nothing. James stood and replaced both lyres, closing the chest. The teacher left and it took Regulus a moment to realise James was waiting for him.
“We will go and see my father now,” James said, again with that almost knowing smirk as he opened the door for Regulus.
James entered the audience chamber of the king without knocking and instructed Regulus to stop just inside the bronze-studded doors. “Wait here,” he said.
Fleamont was seated at the far end of the room on a high-backed chair. He straightened, leaning away from an older man who was standing close, as if they had just been in conference.
There was a fire to one side, smoking thickly and heating the room to an oppressive measure. The walls of the audience chamber were the most decorated Regulus had seen. Dyed tapestries lined most of the surfaces, depicting stories of many heroes, including Fleamont’s own victories. Old weapons hung on much of the remaining space, kept clean by servants.
James passed all this without a glance and knelt at the king’s feet. “Father, I come to ask for your pardon.”
“Oh?” Fleamont raised an eyebrow. “Speak then.” From where Regulus stood, the king’s face was cold and displeased, which made Regulus fearful. They had interrupted what looked like an important discussion; James had not knocked.
“I have taken Regulus from his drills.” Regulus would have been startled if he wasn’t frozen with fear. His name sounded strange on James’ tongue. Not unpleasant, but spoken differently from everyone else.
“Who?”
“Orion’s son.”
“Ah.” Fleamont’s gaze followed the carpet back to Regulus, studying him for a long moment. Regulus tried hard not to fidget. “Yes, the boy the arm’s master wants to whip.”
“Yes,” James nodded. “But it is not his fault,” he continued, startling Regulus. “I forgot to say I wished him for a companion.”
Therapon
was the word spoken. A brother-in-arms. Sworn to the prince by blood oaths and love, these men were his honour guard in war, his closest advisors in peace. It was one of the reasons, Regulus realised, the other boys swarmed James, showing off; they hoped to be chosen.
Fleamont’s gaze snapped to Regulus, his eyes narrowed. “Come down here, Regulus.”
The carpet was thick as Regulus walked. He didn’t know if he was walking too fast, or too slow, but he ended up kneeling just slightly behind James. He could feel Fleamont still watching him.
“For many years, James, I have urged companions on you and you have turned them away. Why this boy?”
Why me?
Regulus asked. He had asked James to provide him with an excuse for the afternoon, he did not expect to be made his companion. He had nothing to offer the prince, only the murder on his hands. Why had he been made a charity case by both father and son?
“He is surprising,” James said at length.
Regulus couldn’t stop himself from looking up in confusion. He was the only one to think so, if it was the truth.
“Surprising?” Fleamont echoed.
“Yes.” James did not explain anything more, despite the hope clearly written on both Fleamont and Regulus’ faces.
After a long moment, Fleamont sighed. “The boy is an exile with a stain upon him. He will add no lustre to your reputation.”
“I do not need him to.” Regulus blinked, startled at this statement. It was not spoken proud or boastfully. It was honest, as if James was well aware of what his reputation would become. As if it was not up to the Fates.
“Yet other boys will be envious,” the conversation continued, leaving Regulus feeling more left behind and confused. “What will you tell them?”
“I will tell them nothing,” James shrugged, no hesitation. “It is not for them to say what I will do.”
Regulus expected Fleamont’s anger at his son’s attitude, but it did not come. When father and son met gazes, the faintest hint of humor touched the old king’s face.
“Stand up, both of you.”
Regulus complied, trying not to stumble.
“I pronounce your sentence. James, you will provide an apology to Flitwick, and Regulus will give his as well.” That was all. Regulus felt weak with relief. The looming prospect of the whip had weighed on him. It was like the sky had been lifted from his shoulders.
“Yes, Father,” James said. Regulus mumbled his own agreement.
“That is all.” Fleamont turned from us, back to the elderly man who had been waiting patiently, dismissing the boys.
Outside once more, James was brisk. “I will see you at dinner,” he said, turning to go.
An hour before, Regulus would have let him go, would have been glad to have quiet, but strangely, he felt stung and brushed off by James’ tone.
“Where are you going?”
James stopped. “Drills.”
“Alone?” Regulus frowned.
“Yes. No one sees me fight.” Regulus’ frown deepened. How would he learn to fight if no one ever saw him?
“Why?” he asked, voicing his thoughts.
James weighed something over in his mind, watching Regulus for a long moment. “My mother has forbidden it,” he said. “Because of the prophecy.”
“What prophecy?” Regulus had never heard of a prophecy. Prophecies were for great heroes, not Golden Boys.
“That I will be the greatest warrior of my generation.” Ah.
It sounded like something a young child would claim, running to their mother to show her their tricks. But James did not intend it this way. He truly believed it.
Regulus wanted to ask:
And are you the best?
But instead he managed: “When was the prophecy given?”
“Just before I was born. Eleithya came and told it to my mother.” The goddess of childbirth, rumoured to preside in person over the birth of half-gods. Those whose stories were too important to be left to chance.
Like James.
Regulus had almost forgotten his mother was a goddess. Almost. It was impossible to completely forget, he never truly looked human, but sometimes he looked normal enough. Then his hair would catch the light again and Regulus would remember.
“Is it known?” Regulus asked carefully, not wanting to press too far. After all, he was now James’ companion. He didn’t want to mess up in the first ten minutes.
“Some do, some do not. That is why I go alone.”
But James did not go. He stayed, waiting.
“Then I will see you at dinner,” Regulus said, after a long moment.
James nodded and left.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
When he arrived at dinner that night, James was already seated at Regulus’ table, surrounded by the usual six boys.
Regulus had been half-expecting James to be sitting somewhere else, ignoring him, or that he’d imagined the morning’s events. But he wasn’t and they had.
Regulus sat, thankful that the boy next to him moved over enough so that they weren’t touching, even if the reason wasn’t pleasant. If he hadn’t looked up, he would have missed the glare James was sending and when Golden Boy’s eyes landed on him, Regulus looked down at his plate, face flushing. Had he been defending him? That was the last thing Regulus needed with the other boys, more attention. Of course, the Golden Boy wouldn’t know that.
His hands felt heavy and uncoordinated as he reached for food, piling more than usual onto his plate. It was still less than the boy next to him, but Regulus felt full to bursting when he finished, sitting quietly and listening to the conversation around him.
By the end of the meal, Regulus was certain James was regretting the decision to choose Regulus as his companion. He hadn’t spoken to him throughout dinner, the other boys following his lead to ignore his presence.
James could have any one of the boys at this table. In the hall. He would come to regret choosing Regulus very quickly.
“Regulus?” James said, pulling him back to the present.
He finally realised why James saying his name sounded so strange. He did not slur the syllables, as many did, as if to be rid of it quickly. No. James spoke clearly, with three defined syllables.
Re-gu-lus
.
The other boys were all looking at him curiously, quieting their chatter to distracted whispers. James did not usually call them by name, so it was strange for him to call Regulus by his.
“Tonight you’re to sleep in my room,” James said, ignoring the surprised looks from the other boys.
If Regulus wasn’t raised with a prince’s pride, his mouth would hang open. James still chose him over them.
“All right,” Regulus said with a confidence not his own.
“A servant will bring your things.”
It was almost like Regulus could hear the thoughts of the other boys.
Why him? The murderer?
It was true that Fleamont had encouraged James to choose one of the boys for many years, however, despite being polite to all, James had never shown a special interest to any individual, despite their boasting. Now, he had bestowed the honour upon the small, and probably cursed, stranger.
The boys watched on with hungry eyes, ready to take the gossip back to the others as Regulus stood and followed James from the dining hall. They passed several familiar rooms, the dorm, the audience chamber, but most of the doors they passed were unknown to Regulus. James continued through the halls, confidently choosing the right turns.
Part of Regulus was annoyed at James for making him learn a whole new path.
The room James finally entered was close enough to the sea, the air tasted of salt. The walls were bare and the only furniture was a bed, an unused desk and a rug that was soft under Regulus’ feet. In the corner of the room, there was a pallet, presumably for him, with the toy horse at its head.
It felt strange, seeing how his whole life could be moved with that tiny horse.
James gestured to the pallet. “That is for you.”
“Oh.” ‘Thank you’ did not seem like the right response. Regulus wasn’t sure what was.
“Are you tired?” James asked, taking a seat on his bed, his legs tucked underneath him. Regulus sat on his own, feeling strange being the only one standing.
“No.”
James nodded as if he had said something wise. “Me too.”
Regulus nodded in turn. They were both so strangely polite it made Regulus uncomfortable as they fell into silence. He wished he could return to the dorm and face the ridicule of being kicked out on his first day, but he also didn’t want to leave. The peace in this room was so different to the constant chaos of the dorm, it was too much of a relief to turn down.
“Do you want to help me juggle?”
“I don’t know how,” Regulus admitted.
“You don’t have to know. I’ll show you.” James jumped up, eager for the lapse in tension.
Regulus regretted not saying he was tired, he did not want to make a fool of himself in front of the Golden Boy. But the hope on his face made Regulus feel like too much of a miser to refuse.
“All right.”
James held up a bowl of leather balls. “How many can you hold?”
“I don’t know.”
“Show me your hand.”
Regulus obliged, palm out. James rested his own palm against it. His skin was soft, slightly sticky from dinner and his plump fingertips brushing against his own were warm.
“About the same,” James concluded. “It will be better to start with two then. Take these.”
Obediently, Regulus took the two leather balls he offered. He tossed them experimentally. They were the type mummers used when performing.
“When I say, throw one to me.”
Normally, Regulus would be annoyed at being bossed this way, but James did not seem to mean them as commands, rather requests.
He began to juggle the remaining balls, four blurring dots. “Now,” he said, eyes focused on the flying balls.
Regulus let the ball fly towards him and watched as it was pulled seamlessly into the circle. “Again.”
The second ball joined the others too. “You do that well,” James said, his eyes flicking to Regulus briefly.
Regulus frowned. Was he mocking him?
“Catch.” A ball arched towards him like the fig at dinner. Regulus snatched it from the air with ease.
They continued like this for some time. Regulus’ part did not require much skill, but it was still enjoyable. Each smooth catch and throw brought a smile of satisfaction to each of their faces.
After some time, James caught all the balls, dropping them back into the bowl. He yawned. “It’s late.”
Regulus glanced out the window, surprised to find the moon already halfway up the sky. He settled back onto his pallet as James went through the motions of getting ready for bed. He washed his face in the basin by the door, untying the leather that bound his hair. The silence as James worked brought back Regulus’ unease.
Why am I here?
James snuffed out the torch and climbed onto his bed. “Goodnight,” he whispered.
“Goodnight.” The word felt strange in his mouth, almost like another language.
Time passed.
Regulus did not sleep, afraid he’d wake up screaming. In the moonlight, he could just make out the features of James’ face, sculptor-perfect. His lips were parted slightly, an arm thrown carelessly above his head.
He looked different in his sleep. Still beautiful, but in a cold way, like the moon. During the day, he was the sun, bright and radiant.
The next morning, Regulus left for breakfast before James was awake. It was far earlier than he was usually up, but he couldn’t bear to be in the room when James woke. What if the new day made him regret his choices? Regulus would rather hear it from a servant than James.
After breakfast, he ignored the curious and envious looks of the other boys, and the stares James kept sending his way and left when he couldn’t stomach any more of the food.
The first thing he did was follow the familiar path back to the dorm to check if his things had been returned.
They hadn’t. His pallet was empty, the horse missing.
He made his way into the training yards and as soon as spear-drills were over, he checked the dorm. The pallet was bare. He checked again after lunch, to find the same, and when he left dinner, which James had not shown up to, his pallet was bare.
He had to ask several servants for directions as he struggled his way to James’ room, and he hesitated outside of the door, weighing the options of just sleeping on the bare reeds. But when he pushed the door open, James was waiting, lounging on his bed like he had the bench the first time Regulus had met him in Phthia, one leg dangling over the side, and arm tucked under his head.
“Hello,” he said.
If there had been any hesitation in the greeting, Regulus would have left the room faster than pegasus could fly. But there had been none. His easy tone let Regulus enter the room, taking a seat on his pallet.
“Hello.”
Slowly, Regulus got used to the new arrangement. It took two weeks for him to stop startling every time James said his name, and even longer for him to stop expecting to be sent away. After dinner, his feet returned to James’ room out of habit and the pallet in the corner became
his
.
At night, when he slept, he still dreamed of the dead boy. But when he woke, sweaty, and terror-stricken, the moon would be bright on the water and James’ even, albeit loud, breathing would ease his own. The drowsy tangle of limbs and relaxed expression of his face was enough to slow Regulus’ pulse. After a while, Regulus grew used to sleeping again, after the dreams and not a long while later, they stopped.
Regulus grew to learn, as he spent more time with James, that he was not as dignified as he would like to appear. Beneath his poise and unnatural stillness, was a face full of mischief. He liked to play games against his own skill, catching things with his eyes closed, achieving the impossible, like making jumps from beds to chairs. He also liked to play games on other, unsuspecting, players.
Once, he had placed olive oil on his father’s shoes, leading the old king to topple over each time he tried to stand. James and Regulus had been hiding behind a shield in the throne room, Regulus horrified at what the prince had done, James hiding his laughter behind a hand.
Regulus learnt one evening, the reason his feet looked so pink, despite him walking everywhere barefoot, was that his father insisted he rub the soles with oils that smelt like sandalwood and pomegranate. James had complained about it, wrinkling his nose at the smell but Regulus didn’t mind. He had grown used to it and now associated it with james. It wasn’t a bad smell either. James, he had begun to learn, was just dramatic.
James told Regulus stories about his day as they got ready for bed in the evenings. How he complained about the music teacher - who was yet to teach him something he had not heard - or the hare he saw skipping across the courtyard.
Over time, Regulus began to tell his own stories, mostly of the palace and the other boys, but then of
before
. Skipping stones, the wooden horse, the lyre. And Sirius.
Weeks had passed before he brought up his brother, but as soon as he said Sirius’ name, James had perked up.
“I know him,” James had said.
“I know.” Regulus had seen them talking more than once.
“Would you like me to ask if he remembers you?”
“No!” James had been confused at this, stating Sirius was his brother, but Regulus insisted he wasn’t to tell. “I just want to forget like he has.”
James had slowly nodded his head, agreeing, despite reluctantly.
Soon, the conversations spilled out of their nighttime routines and Regulus was surprised with how much there was to say. He could talk at length about what he had seen or done that day. About something the boys had said or done. James always listened with his whole attention when Regulus spoke. He guessed this was because regulus rarely opened a conversation without James speaking first.
It wasn’t like he didn’t have things to say. It felt like all of a sudden there was too much to say and he didn’t want to be annoying by constantly talking. By restricting himself, it meant he wasn’t talking as much. He was safe.
Eventually, Regulus stopped waiting for the ridicule that never came. A scorpion tail hidden in words. James said what he meant and was confused if you didn’t. One could confuse this for simplicity, but is it not a sort of genius to always cut to the heart?
One afternoon, Regulus was about to leave James to his private drills when he said: “Why don’t you come with me?” His voice was strained; if Regulus didn’t think it impossible, he could have sworn James was nervous. The air, which had recently grown comfortable between them, suddenly felt taut, as if this choice mattered.
“All right,” Regulus said, hoping the tension would leave with his words.
James seemed to brighten and led Regulus through the palace. They took a longer route than necessary, through the olive grove, where James plucked one and flicked it at Regulus, catching him in the ear. Regulus pelted it back at him, James laughing and sprinting towards the store where the arms were kept, Regulus chasing after him.
He stood in the doorway as James chose his weapon. One practice spear and sword, both with slightly blunted tips. Although, in James’ hands they looked like they could kill anyway. Regulus reached for his own weapon, hesitating.
“Should I-?” James shook his head.
No.
“I do not fight with others.”
Regulus followed him outside into the practice yard. “Never?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know that…” Regulus trailed off, standing far back from James as he took his stance, spear in hand, sword by sheathed his waist.
“That I am the best? That the prophecy is true?” He considered it for a beat. “I guess I don’t.”
Divine blood from the gods flows differently in each half-blood. Orpheus’ voice made the trees weep. Heracles could kill a man by clapping him on the back. James’ miracle skill was his speed. As Regulus watched, his spear moved faster than his eye could follow, a blur of motions, one flowing into the next. It whirled, flashing forward, reversed, behind. The shaft seemed to flow in his hands, feet constantly in motion, like those of a dancer.
Regulus was struck dumb, watching. He could not move and it was almost like he could not breathe. James’ face was almost blank, calm with no hint of tensed effort. His movements were so precise, Regulus began to picture the men he fought. Ten. Twenty. All cut down by the singular spear tip.
James leaped, spear still moving as his other hand reached for his sword. He drew, both blades twirling in his hands, moving through the air like liquid, cutting down his invisible foe.
James stopped suddenly, his breathing only slightly heavier than usual. The weapons - no longer practice toys in his hands - hung loose by his sides. He gave Regulus a pleased grin.
“Who trained you,” Regulus asked, trying for something to say.
“My father, a little.”
A little. Regulus was almost frightened. Almost all of what he had just seen was James’ natural talent.
“No one else?”
“No.”
Regulus stepped forward, feet moving without orders. “Fight me.”
James gave a half-laugh. As if it were absurd. “No. Of course not.”
“Fight me,” Regulus repeated. If James had only been trained a little by his father, the rest was his own skill? Divine intervention? This was more of the gods that Regulus had ever seen in his life, turning the sweating, brutal art of killing into something beautiful. Graceful, even.
“I don’t want to,” James sighed.
“I dare you.”
“You don’t have any weapons.”
“I’ll get them,” Regulus countered. It was strange, he couldn’t stop.
James knelt and placed the weapons in the dirt. He looked up, met Regulus’ stare. “I will not.” He straightened. “Do not ask me again.”
“I will ask you again. You cannot forbid me.” Regulus took a step forward. Something was burning hot inside him. Impatience? Certainty? He would have this.
The Golden Boy’s face twisted, almost in anger. This pleased Regulus. He could goad him into fighting, if nothing else. Regulus’ nerves sang with the danger of what he was doing. It was certain that James would beat him, but still he pressed.
James walked away, his weapons left in the dust.
“Come back,” he said. “Come back! Scared, Potter?”
James gave that half-laugh again, but turned around. “No, I am not afraid.”
“You should be.” Regulus meant it as a joke, teasing. But as it hung in the air between them, it did not sound that way. It sounded taunting. James turned away again.
Regulus’ feet stumbled forward, before he knew what was happening, and they swallowed the five steps between them and he crashed into James’ back. He stumbled, falling, and Regulus clung to him. They crashed to the ground, a huff of breath knocked from James’ lungs.
Before he could speak, James twisted underneath him, seizing Regulus’ wrists in his hands. He struggled, not quite sure what he was aiming to do, but there was resistance, and resistance meant he could fight.
“Let me go!”
Regulus yanked his wrists against James’ grip. Pointless.
“No.”
In a swift motion, James rolled them, rising to his knees, one on Regulus’ belly, pinning him beneath him. Regulus was panting, angry, but oddly satisfied. He stopped resisting and James dropped his wrists.
“I have never seen anyone fight the way you do,” he told him. Regulus wasn’t sure if it was confession or accusation. It could have been both.
“You have not seen much then,” James said, a smile in his tone.
Regulus rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
His eyes were unreadable. Above him, the unripe olives on the trees swayed in the breeze. “Maybe. What do you mean?”
Regulus twisted his torso, shoving James’ knee off his stomach and sat up. They both dusted off their tunics.
“I mean-” There was that strange mix of anger and envy Regulus had begun to feel. It had grown worse than the envy he’d felt at the games or the anger that James got to be the prince everyone wanted. This was different and confusing, causing the bitter words to die on his tongue.
“There is no one like you,” Regulus finished.
James stared at him for a long moment. “So?”
The humor and lack of arrogance drained the last of Regulus’ anger. After all, this was the truth, wasn’t it? James was to be the greatest warrior of their generation. If Regulus could not be that, at least he could be his companion? He could be his friend. No one else could claim that, like no one could claim to be the best over him.
As if James heard him, he smiled, face lighting like the sun.