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On this morning despite the cold, Damon is desperate to leave the keep and see Sanvicta for himself.
Lyr fetches blankets from the unused bedchamber upstairs and they fashion cloaks from them before they set out.
Sanvicta is familiar. His memories prickle. The first time he’d been here at nineteen overwhelmed by this gift. His own island. Back then he was as amazed as Lyr had been when he had first told him about it. His own land. He couldn’t believe he could ever deserve it.
He hadn’t known then how high he’d climb, or how far he’d fall. Back here.
Because he has come to understand that he never deserved any of it. A sly worthless bastard, the son of a dead whore. He never should have had anything as fine as Sanglora, a wife like Inez, the Order of Azuria, Vashti and Felgrace.
He knows, in his heart, it should be no surprise it was all taken from him.
But the greatest treasure of all is still his.
Does he deserve Lyr? He cannot say.
Damon looks around the ruined garden. Lyr delightedly shows him that he thinks the olive tree has survived.
They walk up the hill on the western edge to the shepherd's hut and discover three animals have been left behind. Two sheep and a goat.
The sheep seem happy grazing. Both female so there will not be lambs. Damon pets them, delighted. When winter really bites them he will have to butcher these sheep, he thinks, but for now, he is contented by each sign of life on the island.
The goat is sickly. When they find it, it is lying beside the hut, bleating mournfully. They examine closer to find it has an injury on its side.
Damon doesn’t know what caused it. Perhaps it fell. The goat is old and its milk is long dried up.
Lyr passes Damon a knife. The knife Lyr used to break out of a barrel moons ago. Damon butchers the goat, thanking it for its gift to them.
Back in the keep, Lyr makes a stew, the first meat they’ve eaten here.
Damon worries for the people they left behind. What happened to Trysta and Lyr’s friends from the harem after they escaped the Pleasure Night? Did Trysta witness his whipping in the square?
He shudders to think it. And how will Trysta, a Plumian slave, fare without his protection? Will she still have a place in the Imperial Army? If they are really going to invade Ismagaar they will need every experienced soldier they can get. But he does not know if the Rose Court will have the wisdom to see that. Atticul is General Paramount, he will want rid of anyone he sees as loyal to Damon.
Trysta can take care of herself, he thinks. He hopes he is right.
He worries for Inez too. He prays she will be safe in her parents' manor in Swen. With the marriage dissolved her father will struggle to make a new match for her. He wishes he could get news of what is happening back home. What is happening to the people he cares about?
But, at least he has Lyr. Lyr, who saved him. Lyr, who loves him.
Every night he explores Lyr’s body. Learns every inch of skin. Touches every mark. The swirls on his arms and shoulders. The thin lines on his thighs. Despite the traumatic horrors that put them there, Damon finds them beautiful.
He examines the tiny intricate runes that cover Lyr’s back and the top of his ass. He runs his fingers over the four big symbols on Lyr’s chest.
One night he asks, “These look like letters. I cannot read them. Is it Old Magaar?”
Lyr shakes his head. “I do not know.”
Damon leans down and kisses each one. As he does so they start to glow. “Is it me that makes them glow or sex?”
“I think it’s you,” Lyr says quietly, leaning up to kiss Damon’s mouth.
They kiss for a long time. Damon thinks he will never grow tired of it. He lets his hands stray where they want over Lyr’s naked body. Some nights he feels like he’ll die if he isn’t touching Lyr’s skin. He slides his oiled fingers into Lyr’s hole and makes him gasp.
Damon works one finger in and out, drinking down each sound Lyr makes as he writhes. “Beautiful,” Damon says, voice rough-edged.
Lyr looks up at him, pupils blown out black with lust. “Damon,” he whimpers, “please.”
He doesn’t ask for anything specific, so Damon keeps working his finger in and out, experimenting lazily, faster and slower, sometimes going deeper, sometimes just teasing the rim of his hole. Lyr makes a long, low keening noise.
